The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [54]
Nanny wanted for three well-behaved boys, 7, 9 and 13. Some housework and cooking. Self-contained flat. Central London.
My own flat in London! I saw myself walking down the streets whose names I knew from Monopoly, going to bookshops and museums. Then I imagined being alone in a house, day after day, with Will and his loutish friends. I must look for a situation with only one child, I thought, a younger, smaller child.
An advertisement for a governess for a nine-year-old girl in Geneva, Switzerland, seemed promising—I pictured Heidi and her goats—until I came to the phrase “passport essential.” Cleaning the dormitories, I had several times come across a passport and studied the little booklet with fascination.
After reading the advertisements in both issues, looking for jobs in Britain that involved one younger child and no special skills, I had circled four possibilities.
Experienced, live-in au pair sought for seven-year-old girl. Must be reliable, nonsmoker, able to assist with homework and deal with occasional tantrums. References. Suffolk.
Nanny for four-year-old boy. Mother invalid. Father travels. Capable of supervising domestic staff and making decisions. Room with basin, c.h. References. Brighton.
Widower, 42, seeks companion for eleven-year-old daughter. Cosy cottage, use of car and good salary for right person prepared to make long-term commitment. References. Cornwall.
And in the last column of the second magazine:
Nanny desperately needed in north of Scotland for eight-year-old girl. No housekeeping or cooking. Must be prepared to supervise lessons, read, play, and go for walks. References. Mainland. The Orkneys.
At the sight of the address, Mrs. Marsden’s stories of soldiers and seals came flooding back. It was as if fate had tapped me on the shoulder.
I had had no occasion to write a letter since my attempt to reach Mr. Donaldson. The next day, using his stationery and borrowing fresh envelopes from Miss Seftain, I wrote to all four advertisements, saying what a good teacher I was and how fond of children. At the end of each letter I put, as Miss Seftain had instructed, “References on request.” The following afternoon I queued up behind three regular pupils outside Miss Bryant’s study. No working girl, to my knowledge, had ever visited her voluntarily, but she did not seem surprised to see me walking across the blue carpet. I described my applications and asked if she would act as a reference.
“For once, Hardy, I’m glad you’re showing initiative. I think I can truthfully say you are a conscientious worker and mature for your age.”
“And maybe,” I suggested, “you don’t need to say exactly how old I am. I’ll be eighteen in a couple of months.”
“Let’s pretend”—she made a quick note on a pad of paper—“that your birthday is next week.”
A week after I dispatched my letters a heavy cream envelope, bearing my name, lay on the hall table. The widower in Cornwall wrote that I sounded delightful and that, if I lived nearby, he would have invited me to tea. “I very much regret,” he continued, “that, while both I and my daughter would enjoy the company of a school-leaver, we really need someone older to provide stability to our household.” The fact that my letter had summoned a response, even a refusal, seemed almost miraculous. I read the half-dozen lines over and over. Miss Seftain, however, was less impressed. “ ‘Enjoy the company of a school-leaver’ indeed. You’re well out of that one.”
Another week passed and I began to worry that I had received my only reply. Even the desperate person on the Orkneys had found someone closer to home. A new copy of The Lady arrived and I sent off three more enquiries: one to Edinburgh, two to London. The next day, while I was polishing the corridor, Miss Bryant stepped out of her study