Dad’s last words echo my sentiments exactly. Natalie gets away with far too much and somebody ought to make a stand with her. She uses far too much make-up for a girl of her age and is always trying to flaunt her figure in a very common fashion. Mum says it’s a phase she’s going through but I think it’s there for keeps unless somebody does something.
‘You heard what your father said, dear,’ says Mum. ‘It’s not very nice.’
‘It’s unhygienic,’ I say. ‘I don’t want them after her filthy hands have been grubbing through them.’
‘My hands aren’t filthy,’ says Natalie provocatively. ‘I wash them as often as you do,’
‘That’s true,’ I say. ‘I can tell by the marks on the towels. When are you going to learn to use your own?’
‘I didn’t think you had a towel,’ says Natalie. ‘You’re here so seldom, I don’t see the point.’
‘You use the place like a hotel,’ says Dad. I might have guessed he would team up with Natalie. She has always been his favourite. I take a mouthful of Sugar Puffs and try to look hurt. It is not easy because I spill some of them and can feel one of them sticking to the corner of my mouth.
‘Don’t be unkind to the girl, Harry,’ says Mum. ‘She only came home last night.’
‘I suppose we should be thankful for that,’ says Dad. ‘It’s usually first thing in the morning.’
Natalie sniggers and I could kill her. She has such a vulgar laugh. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I say angrily.
‘You know what I mean,’ says Dad. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, my girl. It won’t wash.’
‘Now, now,’ says Mum. ‘Let’s have no unpleasantness. I’m very happy that Rose is home again. I don’t know why she always wants to leave us.’ She sniffs and dabs her eye with her apron.
‘I don’t want to leave you, Mum,’ I say. ‘It’s everybody getting at me that I can’t stand.’
‘Nobody’s getting at you,’ says Dad. ‘I’m just commenting on a matter of fact, that’s all. You’ve always kept unreliable hours. It’s a symptom of your whole way of going on. Look at the jobs you’ve had. Not just jobs – professions most of them. Nursing, teaching. You couldn’t make a go of any of them. Then that escort business.’
‘I was never in favour of that,’ says Mum. ‘I think that’s where she made her mistake. She should have stuck at the teaching. They need teachers.’
‘I don’t think she had a chance to stick,’ says Dad, coming over all malevolent. ‘Redundant is a word you hear a lot of these days but never more so than from our little Rose. I think she gets the push for reasons that have nothing to do with the plight of this once great country of ours – well, not directly anyway.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Dad,’ I say.
‘Oh yes you do!’ says Natalie. ‘I remember when we had that coach party here. I saw what was going on in the bathroom.’
‘You nosy little slut!’ I say – what was going on in the bathroom was unpleasant as readers of Confessions of a Lady Courier will recall, but it is even worse if you have your kid sister revealing the lowdown on the distressing details. A sensitive nature can stand so much.
‘Watch your language, young lady!’ snaps Dad. ‘You may think you’re grown up, but you don’t have leave to talk like that.’
‘Don’t start snivelling!’ I say to Natalie, who is encouraging her lip to tremble. ‘You’re not really upset – and stop borrowing my bras!’ I catch a glimpse of a familiar strap as the little brat leans forward. It has Geoffrey Wilkes’s teeth marks on it. Down at the Eastwood tennis club they think of him as an old square but he can get quite frisky if someone overdoes the beer in his lemonade shandy.
‘What would I want to borrow your rotten old bras for?’ says my odious little sister. ‘They’re too small anyway.’
I nearly slap her when she says that. She is well-developed for her age – possibly too well-developed – but everybody agrees that my upper body is one of my best features.
‘Mum!’ I exclaim. ‘How can you let her talk like that?’
‘You raised the subject,’ says Dad.
‘Now, now, both of you,’ says Mum, twisting the tea towel into knots. ‘Let’s have no more of that. Rosie’s back in the bosom of the family – ’ she breaks off and smiles nervously. ‘You know what I mean?’
‘Yes, Mary,’ says Dad irritably. ‘Well, I must be on my way. Time and tide wait for no man. We can’t get Britain back on her feet if we spend all day loafing round the breakfast table.’ He looks at me pointedly when he says that. ‘Perhaps I may be permitted to ask what form of employment you are next thinking of indulging in?’
When he does his Mr Sarky-boots bit I feel like emptying the Sugar Puffs all over him. ‘I’d like to do something with kids,’ I say.
Even Mum looks surprised and Dad stares at me like I have suggested a career as a child molester. ‘Looking after them?’ he says.
‘That’s right,’ I say.
‘Good heavens,’ says Dad. ‘You can’t look after yourself. Who’s going to employ you as a nursemaid?’
‘I happen to have had a very good offer already,’ I say loftily. ‘With an Italian family on the Po.’
‘Blimey, they must need some help,’ says Dad.
I raise my eyes to the ceiling and try to indicate how he lowers himself when he makes jokes like that.
‘The Po is an Italian river, Dad,’ I say patiently.
‘Oh yes?’ Dad’s new-found perkiness tells me that another terrible funny is on the way. ‘I always thought the Po was in China!’
Creeper Natalie laughs heartily and I seek Mum’s eyes for a sympathetic exchange of glances. ‘All this reminds me, Natalie,’ she says. ‘You haven’t forgotten that you’re babysitting for the Wilkinsons tonight?’
Natalie’s face clouds over. ‘Do I have to, Mum? It’s Folk Night at the youth club.’
‘It’s what?’ Dad sounds worried.
‘Folk Night,’ says Natalie.
‘You should have thought when I asked you,’ says Mum. ‘It’s Mrs Wilkinson’s amateur dramatics tonight. She’s appearing in Howard’s End.’
‘I’m surprised it isn’t vice versa, knowing her,’ says Dad. ‘They’re very free and easy, those Wilkinsons.’
‘You can’t back out now,’ says Mum. ‘She asked me specially. It’s the first night, and her husband wants to be there.’
‘Oh, Mum,’ whines Natalie. ‘Do I have to?’
‘Why don’t I go?’ I say. ‘I’ve got nothing else to do. The Wilkinsons have got a couple of little boys, haven’t they?’
‘That’s right, dear,’ says Mum. ‘Courtenay and Benedict. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘Thanks, Rosie,’ says Natalie grudgingly. ‘I charge a quid up to midnight and 50p for every hour or part of an hour after.’
Just like when I was working for an escort agency, I think to myself. And then – BANG! – the germ of an idea hits me. Maybe this is what I should be doing. A babysitting service. I know that Natalie is always being asked if she will oblige and if people are prepared to have her dropping