Read by Claire Louise Amias
If we were all being honest, none of us expected the nanny to actually stay for Christmas.
One of my bad habits (amongst a few), is letting my mouth run away with itself. James and I had got stuck into slightly more cherry brandy than was strictly necessary, as it was Christmas, although technically it was still November – the 8th. When I walked unsteadily past the nanny’s bedroom I heard a low, animalistic howl.
I could hardly ignore it, could I? What if a werewolf had broken in and was savaging the poor girl? Surely I would be failing in my duty of care?
“Darling Beatrice, whatever is the matter?” I said. It was really quite alarming to see her so upset. Beatrice hadn’t been with us for that long. Truth be told, the children were getting far too old for a nanny, and we’d been thinking of politely dismissing her in the New Year.
From what little I had observed so far, Beatrice was a quiet girl, a bit brooding. Pretty enough, she was slightly too large of the nose and shadowy of the upper lip to be a real beauty.
The children called her boring and said they hated her. This was good as we’d fallen into the trap before of hiring nannies who were magical Mary Poppinsy types, who then drove us mad with their constant singing and organising of jolly activities. They also made me feel neurotic and old in comparison.
I did so want to feel youthful and creative and Bohemian. James and I were both self-consciously aware that we were too privileged and middle class to actually be Bohemian, and that neither of us knew one end of a paint brush from another. Truthfully, our Bohemian activities extended about as far as occasionally drinking too much whilst morosely saying “We should give up all of this and travel the world.”
But that was neither here nor there. I wrapped Beatrice in my arms, dropping my silk hand dyed shawl in my haste. Between sobs, she told me that her boyfriend Bruno, back home in Italy, had dumped her.
“What just like that?” I slurred, retrieving my shawl and triggering a fresh howl.
She told me that she and Bruno had been together since they were fifteen, and that although he had cheated on her fairly often, and had once pushed her down some steps (only two, leading into a garden, mind) when confronted, she’d always thought they’d last long term.
Her parents had died in a horrible skiing accident leaving her to be raised by nuns who were probably all dead now too, and all her schoolfriends were busy being friends with more interesting glamorous people than her. (Well she didn’t say exactly that but if you’ll remember I had drunk a lot of cherry brandy so my recollections may not be totally verbatim).
Her woeful monologue ended with “And Christmas is coming and I will be all alone again. I have no one!”
To my genuine surprise, I could feel my own eyes filling with tears. I leant forward and clasped her hands, saying earnestly “If you don’t mind me saying, Bruno sounds like a bit of a brute. You’re better off without him.” Then I kept talking. “You must stay with us for Christmas. I simply won’t have it any other way.”
How could I see this poor young girl so miserable and not offer her some company in the festive season? What sort of person would that make me?
“A sensible one.” James said darkly, as he put on his pyjamas. “I can’t believe you invited Beatrice for Christmas. The nanny is staying for Christmas. Why must you always do this?”
“It won’t be so bad. She’s a poor lonely girl. How would we feel if Camilla was all alone at Christmas?”
James got into bed. “Camilla probably will be alone at Christmas because it doesn’t align with her Vegan Goth Beliefs. Or because she’s driven everyone away by being so spiteful.”
“That’s not the point James.” I said. “And our daughter is not spiteful all of the time. Anyway, I didn’t expect Beatrice to …”
“Actually say yes? Well she has. So well done.”
James turned away from me and was snoring in seconds.
The next morning, with a slightly sore head and a very dry mouth, I was hoping that somehow Beatrice might have forgotten my invite. I came downstairs and walked into the kitchen to be presented with a wonderful spread. Beatrice had made us all breakfast, the dear girl!
“Cool.” said nine year old Hugo, through a mouthful of pastries. James sipped his coffee and avoided looking at me. Beatrice fluttered about like a moth, making sure we were all topped up with juice.
“I wanted to do something nice to thank you for letting me stay,” Beatrice said.
She hadn’t forgotten my inebriated invite then. All right. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
Camilla was the last to arrive at breakfast. She had dark circles of smudged mascara beneath her eyes and wore a My Little Pony dressing gown. Taking one look at Beatrice, she said, “What the fuck is she doing here?”
“Err. Language?” Hugo said.
“Err. English?” Camilla said.
James looked as if he wanted to laugh but wisely chose to cough instead. I leapt to Beatrice’s defence. “Camilla how dare you talk about Beatrice like that! Beatrice is not just a Nanny but an honoured guest in our home!”
Beatrice’s head was down, her dark hair hiding a face that looked suspiciously red and close to tears. Oh dear God not more tears. I couldn’t handle swearing and tears at breakfast.
“You must apologise at once to Beatrice!” I said, putting my hand on Beatrice’s shoulder, which was shaking. “Beatrice will be staying with us for Christmas, and we are glad to have her. She’s far more than a nanny, she’s practically family.”
Camilla, James, Hugo and Beatrice all looked at me, wide-eyed.
I’d really done it now.
“She’s practically family” would be a phrase that I trotted out regularly for the rest of those fateful, seemingly endless weeks in the run up to Christmas.
She’s practically family, I would say to assorted friends, when Beatrice sat tight-lipped and disapproving at the edge of our cocktail party, neither topping us up, joining in, or leaving.
She’s practically family, I said apologetically to the children, when they complained bitterly about Beatrice volunteering their services at the local homeless shelter.
She’s practically family, I told James, who was livid after Beatrice gutted our fridge, cupboards and secret chocolate stash on a “pre-Christmas health drive”.
She’s practically family, I told myself with gritted teeth, when Beatrice laughed rather too long at James’ jokes and put a hand on my husband’s arm.
“I’m sure you don’t mind me donating some of your clothes to charity,” she told me, sweetly, on Christmas Eve. “You have so many and poor people have so little. The nuns always taught me that kindness is next to Godliness.”
“Did no one ever tell you that charity begins at home?” I said, then realising how nakedly hostile I sounded, I made the mistake of opening our last bottle of cherry brandy.
“Oh are you drinking again?” Beatrice said.
“Yes. James, pass your glass.”
James passed his glass at once. Beatrice had given us pamphlets for AA meetings, which we’d ignored. I hadn’t bothered to repeat my catchphrase.
We sat in comfortably tense silence together for around fifteen minutes, and then I got up. Surely even restless middle-aged sleep was better than this. “Well, I must get on and go upstairs. Christmas tomorrow and all that.”
“Great, I’ll get started with wrapping the last of the presents for the children then.” Beatrice said, getting out the scissors and tape.
“Oh don’t do that. I can do it.”
“It’s nothing, I can’t thank you enough for the kindness you’ve shown me –”
A strange, animalistic rage overtook me. “I can wrap my children’s presents myself, thank you very much.”
“But you’ve not even started to prepare tomorrow’s lunch. The nuns always marinated the meat the night before. And prepared all the vegetables. And you’ve been drinking. Again.”
“A few sips of cherry brandy is hardly going to make me too impaired to handle scissors. Please pass them to me,” I laughed. What I really wanted to say was, “Get out of my house and go to Hell you judgemental cow.”
She wouldn’t hand the scissors over. Or the tape. A strange half-scuffle broke out between us, while James looked on aghast, and I’m not sure exactly what happened next. She sort of fell, I think I must have sort of pushed her, and she sort of caught her head on the edge of the coffee table and it started bleeding – a lot.
And then, and as I said, I’m not entirely clear about this, she sort of rolled – onto the sharp scissors that she’d been holding.
“Dear God.” James said, dropping his glass. Blood and cherry brandy seeped across our antique rug like a forest fire. I looked at Beatrice in horror, then back to James.
Poor dear Beatrice, who had nobody, no friends, no family and who I had tried to bring into my own. She wasn’t moving. I checked her. She wasn’t breathing either. I licked my lips, and then I said:
“James, if you’ve ever loved me, you’re going to help me take her body outside and bury it. Now.”
James opened the back door, and we dragged her lifeless body out together. All of the commotion and his retching and my wailing woke up the children. They helped us to open the shed, and clever Hugo found both spades.
Camilla helped us to heave Beatrice’s body into the hole we’d dug, then we filled it together. We were all panting with the adrenaline and exertion, and a few snowflakes began to fall, which was good, as by the time summer came along all bodily decay would be near complete and there wouldn’t be any troubling smells.
“Let’s not forget to burn all of the evidence in the house. You know. Rugs and things.” Camilla said, wisely, and James and I nodded.
It was starting to get light on that cold Christmas morning, so I ushered everyone inside to warm up with some hot chocolate and a mince pie, our grisly task complete.
It suddenly occurred to me that aside from the horrendous circumstances, it was the first Christmas in ages that we’d all really come together as a family, so to speak. Camilla and Hugo were holding hands and for once, even James wasn’t complaining.
Apart from all the trouble with the nanny, it was really rather lovely.
(c) Rosa Muller, 2021
Rosa Muller has a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. Her greatest inspirations for writing are her two daughters, her German husband and the general absurdity of life. Her greatest claim to fame thus far is appearing on the news in China, pretending to sing in a choir.
Claire Louise Amias received an Off-West End ‘OnComm’ Award for her play Oranges & Ink which she wrote & starred in, about Aphra Behn and Nell Gwyn. Other roles include Mags in Handbagged, Sheila in Relatively Speaking, Liz in Present Laughter & Maggie in Hobson's Choice at Windsor Theatre Royal & Chesterfield Pomegranate.
Comments