Aunt Margaret, terribly sorry to trouble you, but could you possibly watch my little boy for a while? There stood a young woman on the doorstep, looking rather apologetic.
Sorry, whats that? The landlady pretended not to understand the request.
The neighbours said you sometimes help out and mind the kids for a short while when the parents need to run errands, the young woman attempted a slight smile.
Remember, love, theres no such thing as someone elses child. Theyre all our own, Aunt Margaret replied, almost ceremoniously.
The young mother immediately broke into a brighter smile. So, would you watch him, then?
And how long are you thinking of leaving him with me?
Oh, just a couple of hours.
A couple, exactly?
Well maybe three the mum replied, less confidently.
No, no, that wont do, the older woman said firmly, Ill take him only for the exact number of hours, and youll sign for it.
Sign for it? Whatever for?
Because, for every minute youre late, youll have to pay me an extra five pounds.
How much? Honestly?!
Yes, indeed. Five pounds per minute, so an extra hour will set you back three hundred quid.
Goodness! How much do you charge for three hours, then?
And is your child a boy or a girl?
Does that make a difference?
Of course it does! Looking after a girl for three hours is twenty pounds, for a boy forty.
But why is there such a gap?
Well, thats clear as day! Surely you see the difference?
No, honestly. Besides a few details, theyre the same.
Aha! But those details matter. If youve got a little boy
I do, yes.
There you go. Before he arrives, Ill have to make myself presentable.
In what sense?
Literally. Iron my dressing gown, do my nails, add a bit of eye liner and shadow, and a touch of lipstick. Make-up isnt cheap these days.
But, come now! the mum cried in surprise, My Henrys only five. Why does he care what you look like?
What do you mean, why? From a young age, boys should develop good taste.
And girls?
Girls pick it up on their own. But a boy ought to understand the difference between a well-groomed lady and a scruffy one. You dont want him to bring home a mess when hes older, do you? I trust you dont lounge about in torn tights and an unwashed robe in front of him?
Me? The mum pondered, cheeks flushing. Is that not alright?
My dear! Aunt Margaret exclaimed. Never forget, a boy chooses a wife just like his mum. If you want a slovenly daughter-in-law
Absolutely not! So can I drop him off now?
When?
Now, if possible. I just need a couple of hours to myself.
No being late?
All right Ill collect him in three hours, I promise.
Then by all means, but in fifteen minutes. By the way, what interests your lad?
What do you mean?
Well, does he natter on about cars, science, perhaps art?
But reallyhes only five!
Well, exactly, thats why Im asking!
Why so?
Because interests are shaped at his age. My George could fix up any bicycle by five, even managed a car engine after that.
At five?!
Of course! His father, my husband, was the best mechanic in town. You didnt know?
No, I didnt.
Pity. Now, my other boy, at five, was sawing away on the violin. We’d tell him to try something else, since his dad wasnt a Joseph but a Nicholas, and probably hadnt a musical bone. But he insisted and now he teaches music theory at college! Goes to show, you can do anything if you want it. My third
The thirds an athlete, I heard, the mum interrupted gently.
Right, so we still keep a climbing frame at home. And if Henry fancies dangling off it, Ill show him some cracking exercises.
You? The young mum looked astonished. Youll show him?
Why ever not? Ive even got a piano, a violin, books on cars, music, and fishing. Tell me his interests, Ill keep him more than entertained for three hours hell forget the world.
He hasnt really got any, the mother confessed sadly.
What does he dream about, then?
Doesnt seem like he dreams at all.
How can that be? Aunt Margaret was surprised. A proper five-year-old boy should dream of magic wands, flying like a bird, becoming an alien, crawling into the washing machine and having it switched on, taking the telly apart, or petting a real tiger at the zoo. Hes not keen on any of that?
He just wants a mobile like the grown-ups, sighed the young mother.
All clear then, Aunt Margaret nodded. Off you pop, bring him over in fifteen minutes. Ill only take twenty quid, same as for a girl.
But why? asked the mother, almost hurt. Hes a boy.
So what? Having the proper bits in your trousers doesnt mean much. But mark my words Ill help him become a proper lad.
You will? worried the mum. How?
Dont fret. Thats for me to worry about. But next time he begs to come back and he will Ill be charging the full boys rate. Agreed?
Agreed the mother resigned herself. No choice, really.
Good. Off you go and fetch your son. I need to sort myself out.
The next morning, as soon as Henry woke, he asked eagerly:
Mum, can I go to Auntie Margarets again today?
Why? his mum asked, a bit jealously.
Its just brilliant at hers! he cried.
As I scribbled these events into my diary, I realised something easy to overlook: in England, it truly does take a village. Every childs upbringing is my business, too, and if you want to see a child blossom, youd better be ready to give your best selfeven if it means brushing your hair, ironing your clothes, or adding a little rouge. If I want my little Henry to grow up with taste and vigour, it starts not just with me, but with my own example and the community I lend him to. Thats a lesson worth carrying every day.
