24th Septermber 2020

 

 “Wanted: Temporary nanny for two adorable children aged 4 and 2.  Central London; generous salary."

 

The last two words jumped off the page shouting; I’d been working in a  day nursery for a pittance which barely covered my bus fares. A live-in job with money as well sounded like a dream. And in the exciting, vibrant capital too.

My granny was not so sanguine, ‘London? That den of iniquity! They’ll sell you to white slavers.’  

 If she could have chained me to the leg of her orthopaedic chair, I’m sure she would.

‘It’s all right Gran, I’ve been to London before, it’s not that bad.’

With the extensive experience of  a day trip to the Big Smoke with my school, I was wise to it all.

 

I only got lost twice before arriving at the impressive building where, with any luck, I’d be working.  At reception,  a doorman the size of an ox barred my way but having read my  letter of introduction allowed me through to the holy of holyies.

A uniformed maid let me into the apartment itself and  showed me to a sitting room which positively glowed. 

Super-thick white carpet as far as the eye could see, leather couches the colour of double cream, rich tapestries on the walls and overhead, a sparkling chandeliers. Wow.

 French windows opened onto a garden manicured to within an inch of its life.  As was the woman who now prepared to interrogate me.

I should have realised I was on the brink of calamity the moment I sat down and the leather couch made a rude and prolonged noise.

 Lady Olivia, my potential employer had an accent so plummy  I nearly asked for an interpreter but the interview went well, apart from the fact she called me, ‘Ninny’ all the time.  I thought that a little rude until I realised she meant ‘Nanny.’

I  had a great CV and anyway she was  desperate, so I got the job.

 

My employers left for a wine tour of France the next day and I got to know the children.  

Horatio and Eugenia were indeed adorable and we played hide and seek, shrieking up and down the corridors of the enormous apartment, causing Angel the maid some alarm but before long, she was joining in.

 Buttered toast and honey for nursery tea and some hilarious bath time play before  I read the children a story and tucked them into bed.

Time to get on with their laundry.

 The gigantic kitchen was next to the dining and sitting rooms, so staff had easy access when serving.  

 In one corner stood the unfamiliar washing machine but just how complicated were these things?  I loaded the clothes, added a scoop of Daz, pressed the buttons and, as it was summer time and still brilliantly sunny,  sat in the garden.  In minutes I was dozing.

Joyful screams and a splashing sound woke me.   Horatio and his little sister had left their beds and were clearly having a lovely time with water. Water?

In the sitting room my two little charges were jumping about in an ever spreading lake.  Gallons and gallons of sudsy water,  spreading from the kitchen like lava across acres of white Axminster.

 In a panic I ran to fetch towels but could find only those in the nearest bathroom. I had no idea where others were kept.  Desperately I lay these down, to the great delight of both children who stomped on them with gusto. 

 The Bendix was still pumping out bubbles and frantically I examined the evil thing to see how it could be stopped.  At the back, wound around metal pegs, was the pipe I should have hooked over the edge of the adjacent sink, if only I’d known.

 

Having switched it off but still with a brain unable to focus for sheer terror, I tried to fathom how to mop up and permanently dry the carpet before my employers came back a few days later.

First the easy bit - get the children out of wet pyjamas and back to bed. They cried.

 ‘Want to squelch,’ complained Eugenia but both were pacified with another story and were soon fast asleep.

I returned to the flood, full of sympathy for Noah and grateful not to have the two-by-twos to clear up after.   Always look on the bright side of life.

A pile of newspapers were stacked in the pantry, so I took up the sopping towels and lay these, several inches thick on the soaking carpet. 

I did a little stomping of my own to encourage them to soak up the torrent. It was fun.

 

The children had thrown some of the towels onto the cream leather couches and they were sadly stained.  I was on the point of hysteria when Angel tiptoed in, almost died with shock and immediately poured us two glasses of M'lord's brandy.

 Calmer, I decided if we put every heater in the house on full during the night most of the water would evaporate.   Daytime, with the French windows wide open, the summer sunshine would do the rest.  I hoped.

Angel and I assembled all the heaters and after another medicinal brandy, adjourned to her quarters where she advised me that milk is the best thing for getting stains out of leather.

 

The next day dawned with torrential rain, clearly not drying weather but at least the heaters could stay on and were making a difference. The newspapers were drying nicely.

 Angel kept an eye on the children whilst I,  glass of Jersey milk in hand, set about renovating the couches.

Small flakes of plaster drifted, like snow from the ceiling.  Unusual and prolonged humidity had crackled it but I couldn’t worry about that.  The carpet was still far from dry, the heaters must stay on.

 Another night passed and another rainy day and the sitting room had a distinct pong of sour milk and soggy, mildewed carpet.  

 Half the ceiling had flaked away and the tapestries on the wall seemed to be growing some strange sort of fungus.   I wondered how easy it would be to abandon everything and apply to the Foreign Legion.

 On the day my employers were due home, I prayed for the Axminster to be dry and gingerly lifted the reams of newspaper to inspect it.

 There, imprinted quite clearly and distinctly,  on yards and yards of the once pristine white carpet were the colourful pages of the Times Literary Supplement.