a commission. After working for so many crummy organisations which have exploited me it seems a good idea to start one of my own. I don’t mean a crummy one, of course. The Dixon Night Guard Service will be above reproach and reflect all its founder’s principles and ideals. Maybe, one day, people will think of me in the same breath as Flora MacNightingale and Madame Puree.
The Wilkinsons live in a detached house a few streets from us. Mr Wilkinson works with Dad, though a few rungs higher up the management ladder and our families are not what you would call close. Whenever Mrs Wilkinson beams at me in the street I know that she is going to ask if Natalie can babysit. Otherwise, she just passes by as if she has not seen me. I ring the doorbell and listen to the chimes dying away into the far corners of the house. I can hear a child screaming which is not a good sign and when Mr Wilkinson opens the door he looks harassed. He is wearing dinner jacket trousers and is obviously having trouble tying his bow tie.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Good. It’s – er – – ’
‘Rose,’ I say. ‘I’ve come instead of Natalie. I hope that’s all right?’
Mr Wilkinson looks me up and down and strokes the front of his shirt absentmindedly. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Very definitely. Come in. My wife’s gone on because she has to be made up. She’s appearing in a play, you know.’
‘Howard’s End,’ I say. He is a good-looking man with a thin moustache and a lot of lines round his eyes. There is a little flesh under his chin but he is quite well preserved. I suppose he must be about forty.
‘That’s right. Come into the living room. Would you like a drink?’ He leads the way into a comfortable lounge with a lot of leather-backed chairs and nods towards a well-stocked bar that takes up one corner of it.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to hold you up.’
‘You won’t have to hold me up if I only have one drink,’ he says with a laugh. How refreshing to be in the company of a witty man after Dad. ‘A quick gin won’t do any harm.’ He pressed a switch and a pottery figurine of a drunk leaning against a lamp post lights up and says ‘Bar’s open’.
‘That’s clever,’ I say.
‘I’ll show you some of my other knick knacks when I know you better.’ Mr Wilkinson winks at me. ‘Ice and lemon?’
‘Er – yes,’ I say registering with some alarm that there seems to be quite a lot of gin in my glass. ‘Is it all right to let the child scream like that?’
Mr Wilkinson chinks his glass against mine. ‘Cheers! Oh yes. Exercises their lungs. Benedict always has a good bawl before he settles down.’ He listens for a moment. ‘Or maybe it’s Courtenay.’
‘Nice names,’ I say.
‘Mine’s Rex,’ he says. ‘You know, Sexy Rexy.’ He winks at me again and waggles the flapping ends of his bow tie. ‘Do you know how to tie one of these?’
‘It’s not like a bootlace, is it?’ I ask.
‘No, you have to bring the end back somehow. It’s a nuisance. I’ve got a clip-on one upstairs but it’s not velvet.’
‘Perhaps you could take that apart and see how they do it?’ I suggest.
Mr Wilkinson shakes his head admiringly. ‘You’re not just a pretty face, are you darling? Come upstairs and I’ll introduce you to the kids.’
I had formed an impression of Courtenay and Benedict as being two golden-haired little mites with their hair cut in fringes. The reality is somewhat different. A hulking twelve-year-old is emerging from the toilet as we hit the top of the stairs. ‘What has your mother told you, Benedict?’ says Mr Wilkinson wearily.
‘I haven’t done it on the floor!’ shouts the child like it has been unjustly accused of murder.
‘Pull the chain!’ bellows Mr Wilkinson.
‘I was just going to do it,’ says Benedict.
‘Don’t lie to me, boy!’
‘I was, Dad!’
‘You were walking away from the toilet, you bloody little liar! The lady saw you!’
‘Maybe he just remembered,’ I say, trying to pour oil on troubled waters.
Mr Wilkinson sticks his head inside the toilet. ‘What do you mean you didn’t do it on the floor!?’
‘That wasn’t me, that was Courtenay!’
The crying that has continued unabated from the moment I crossed the threshold ceases instantly. ‘Dad! Dad! He’s lying. I haven’t been to the toilet since I got home.’ An even less appealing version of Benedict appears at the top of the stairs. He is wearing pyjama trousers with the front gaping open.
‘You liar! Whose toy soldier is that down there, then?’
‘Dad! Dad! He put my toy soldier down the toilet!’
‘Liar! You were playing glacier skiing and he slipped.’
‘Ooooh! You rotten liar!’
There is a thunder of bare feet and two bodies lock in the middle of the stairs. ‘Go to your room, both of you!’ shouts Mr Wilkinson. ‘Your mother will have something to say about this.’
‘He’s a liar!’
‘Shut up!’
‘I hate you!’
‘Bully!’
Mr Wilkinson picks up the bundle of flailing arms and legs and throws it through the door at the top of the stairs. He closes the door firmly and dusts his hands together.
‘They won’t give you any trouble,’ he says, sounding as if he would like to believe it. ‘Just normal high-spirited kids.’ He rips open the door and I see the veins at his forehead bulge like burnished worm casts. ‘One more word and I’ll swing for you!’ In the silence that follows you could hear a nappy pin drop. Mr Wilkinson closes the door with a wry smile. ‘It’s just a question of knowing how to handle them,’ he says, flexing and unflexing his fingers. ‘Let’s have a go at that bow tie.’
But despite the fact that we undo the clip-on bow tie and lay the pieces out all over the large double bed in the Wilkinsons’ bedroom we do not make any progress. They obviously make clip-on bow ties in a different way.
‘Now we’re got a problem,’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘We’ve destroyed the clip-on bow tie and we can’t tie the velvet bow tie. What am I going to do?’
‘I feel awful about this, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘The whole thing was my idea and I’ve let you down. Let me have a go at tying the velvet bow tie. It can’t be too difficult.’
But it is difficult. Especially when I am facing Mr Wilkinson. There is something about the smell of his after-shave lotion being right under my nose and the half smile on his lips as he looks into my eyes. ‘I think it would be easier if I got behind you,’ I say. ‘Then I would feel as if I was doing it, if you know what I mean.’
‘Righty-ho!’ says Mr Wilkinson. ‘I’ll try anything once. Where do you want me?’
‘Sit at the dressing table,’ I say. Rex Wilkinson does as I suggest and I kneel down behind him and slide my arms round his neck.
‘Ooh, that’s nice,’ he says, wriggling his shoulders.
‘Please, Mr Wilkinson,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to concentrate. I can’t remember whether it goes over or under.’
‘Let’s try both,’ says my client, rubbing his hands together.
‘Dad. What you doing?’ The voice is shrill and accusing and belongs to Courtenay Wilkinson who is watching us from the door.
‘Er-hem. Rose is helping me tie my bow tie,’ says Mr Wilkinson,