Category: Before the Rain

Margaret Thatcher famously disclaimed having an au pair,
her children’s upbringing was, she said
overseen by a nanny – “an English nanny.”
An English nanny –
sensible,
as reliable as good behavior at a funeral.
Not the risqué stories and drunkenness of a wedding.

A nanny :
skirt below the knee
top button – buttoned.
No flights of fancy,
French knickers,
flirtation …or worse.

I always said I was a probationary employee.
Probation sounded sensible –
temporary equated with finite.
Probation : expected to meet defined standards.
I could. And was.

What happens when a knot loosens?
A hard-working and reliable nanny
asked to stay in, so employees can go out – no payment –
September,
but the keeper of the house knows,
everybody knows
about the Christmas holiday to Barbados.
Dates booked – numbers yet to be confirmed.

There was no path –
people just made one to my door ….
could I help them with ???
…. hops, raspberries, asparagus…..
What might a trade unionist have said
“ NOT  YOUR  JOB.”
I said, “YES” –
I had a destination in mind – permanent staff.

Heroes,
as essential as water,
as impermanent as states of matter.
Rock dissolved by waves,
steam freed by a kettle.

Chris,
the only Ph.D. on staff –
the first met outside University.
Ph.D……
piled higher and deeper he said
flip handedly,
said he didn’t like being called Dr,
“felt embarrassed by it,”
but was expected to do so. No choice.
The star of our show – undoubtedly
would I like to help with……?
YES.

I told people he was mentoring me
even though I knew he really wasn’t –
it was the kind of thing expected from hero.
Instructions were often tinfoil
and expectations gold. Always.
Sink or swim …
I’d swum the English Channel for him.

He was 37
and twice divorced.
Scuttlebutt said, both were very young first-time
and the second
she couldn’t cope with his talent and success.

The windows are high and old-fashioned
lattice of glass and beading
spray light on his face –
red and stretched with fury.

“ Why I had done it?”
Explanation catalyzed anger
he advanced towards me ….
I was not to do anything without checking with him.
“Is that clear?”
I mumble acknowledgement. 
“IS…THAT…..CLEAR ”
the tone frightening
and frenzied –
a plantation owner toward a slave.
I continued to admired him. He ceased to be a hero.

Some stories make the rounds –
living forever,
transplanted from one era to another
finding homes in new towns and countries
reconfigured into just invented mediums
never verifiable
infinitely variable
and always the same.

Everyone has heard the one about Kentucky fried rat
the wedding morning groom waking
hung over
and underclothed in a distant city.
The brand-new patrolman
pulling over the commissioner’s wife.
Perhaps the world has so few stories
they need to be renovated and recycled.
Or stories are like food and clothing
there must be more than one life.

This one was before my time – true apparently.
The area had been popular during the 1960’s
with the counter culture –
communes had sprung up
self sufficiency the mantra …
flower power idealism and grinding manual work,
a difficult marriage, even with tradeable love thrown in.
Most co operatives had gone
some remained.
This one had an orchard – and a problem.

Two staff members were sent
on the steps of the building
a resident
skinny, long haired, barefoot, guitar jangling
they explain they have come about the apples.

Gaze distanced strumming – ding ding ding ding ding

“Apples man – I haven’t got the vibes for apples.”
ding ding ding ding

“I’ve got the vibes for the guitar”
ding ding ding ding

“You guys do the apples”
ding ding ding ding

“I’ll do the guitar.”