The Stretch

I flicked through the TV channels without even looking at what was on. It was approaching one in the morning and there was no sign of the parents coming back yet. I had been babysitting since six o clock. I don’t think the parents had anywhere to be that early, sometimes they just liked to get a break from giving the kids their tea and bath.
I put my head back on the navy faux-suede sofa and curled my legs under my body. The wallpaper was floral-print taupe instead of white, from cigarette smoke, and the dark carpet was subtedly stained with sporadic islands of blackcurrant juice and gravy. Despite the obvious dinginess, there was an attempt at keeping the place clean. It wasn’t too dusty and they were still intent on fighting the losing battle of keeping the kids’ stuff out of the way.
I heard a shuffling noise upstairs and listened carefully for ten seconds to make sure it wasn’t one of the boys getting out of bed. Instead, I heard a key struggling to get in the lock and swung my body round in time to see Paul, the oldest son, crash through the open door.
“Lisa! Alright, darlin’?”
He’s a year younger than me, but after eighteen months of pressure he coaxed me into a casual, physical relationship. It involved very little effort on my part and allowed me to still live in the fantasy world that this wasn’t the sort of bloke I was going to marry.
I smiled in a grim way and he climbed over the back of the sofa with no grace or agility whatsoever, stinking of brand-name whiskey. He leaned in for a kiss and wasted no time copping a feel. I was hesitant to touch him given that he was still wearing his work clothes; ripped tracky bottoms and a t-shirt that probably used to be white like the wallpaper.
“How’s your week been, babe?” he said in a sickening attempt at relationship-talk.
Luckily I was saved by the sound of a second key struggling to find the lock in the poorly lit porch. Paul backed off from kissing my neck but kept his arm hanging casually across my shoulders in a posessive manner.
The parents, my clients, Rodge and Elaine stumbled through the door with about as much ellegance as Paul had. Elaine had a duty-free fag in her hand, Rodge was still carrying the pint glass he had left the pub with.
“Anova one for collection!” he slurred, holding the glass up in triumph and cackling like a nineteen-forties cockney villain.
I smiled weakly and Paul joined his father in the cackle.
“Nice one, Dad.”
“Did the kids get off to bed alright?” Elaine sat in the chincy armchair on my left side and put out the butt of her cigarette in a thick, crystal ashtray on the coffee table.
“Yeah, yeah they were fine. Steven played up a bit at first, but I put the Simpsons on their telly and they were both out.”
“He can be a little shit sometimes.” Rodge collapsed heavily in the armchair opposite his wife.
There was a moment of silence as we all focused our attention to the news. I hadn’t been watching it, it had just got left on when I was done mindlessly flicking channels. They were covering a Middle-Eastern warzone, I wasn’t sure which one, but my eyes glazed over after a few seconds. I’m not sure whether it was the news item or the reality of my own life, but either way after a minute or so silence, I sighed, “God...”
“Fuckin’ Pakis,” Rodge who was known to be a little controversial when he was drunk (and when he wasn’t) thought my little sigh had been about the news and decided to put his two pennies worth in, “Deserve everything they get! We should just get our boys out while they’re still kickin’.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Paul, his arm still draped over me like an ape, nodding in aggressive agreement. The unecessary and random anger that was being directed at the war victims on telly filled the room, and I took it as my cue to leave. I stood up slowly, using Paul’s thick thigh to push myself up. He took this as an affectionate touch and grabbed my arse as I stretched my tired body. My ketchup-coloured vest top rose slightly as I stretched my arms towards the textured ceiling, exposing maybe an inch of my pale torso. As I returned my posture to normal I caught Rodge quickly averting his eyes from leering at my bare skin.
I had been babysitting for Rodge and Elaine for nearly three years at this point. For the first month, I didn’t meet Rodge at all. Apparently, he had a really big job down near Sittingbourne and got home late nearly every night, or stayed down there with a mate. From what I know about him now, I’d bet every dirty, limp twenty pound note they’ve ever given me that he was having an affair. There probably was a big job, I don’t believe he’s a clever enough bloke to find that sort of money elsewhere, but I don’t think it was overtime he was doing.
The first time I did meet Rodge, I had just put the boys in the bath and was making myself a cup of tea in the kitchen. I poured the hot water into the same Arsenal mug I still drink out of whenever I’m round there, and held the warm cup in my hands as I stared out the window to the back garden. I hadn’t noticed Rodge come in, and he leaned against the painted white archway between the kitchen and living room, watching me.
“I’m guessing you’re Lisa, the babysitter?” His voice was deep and quite friendly at that point, but it did catch me offguard and I jumped a little.
“Sorry, darlin’, didn’t mean to scare yuh. Is there enough water for me to have a cup, I’m dyin’ for one.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I poured him a cup of tea and we made small talk for a while as I did the washing up. The orange baked bean sauce on the kids’ plastic plates came off easily in the perfectly warm water, but I took my time wiping them down. I wanted something to do with my hands. Rodge started getting a bit too close after that. At first, he reached over me to get a glass, and I thought he’d accidentally brushed me. Then it was more frequent; I dropped the tea towel and when I tried to hang it up, he went for it at the same time so our hands touched. We locked eyes at that point and he gave me a sleezy grin, but didn’t try anything on. That’s when the texts started, every day at any hour; “IT CAN B R LITTLE SECRET,” “JUST WANT 2 TALK”, “CANT STOP THINKIN OF U”. I got the impression he had this American fantasy of cheerleader babysitters and motel rooms. Of course, I didn’t reply to any of the texts and he never acted any differently when I went round to babysit.
Then, when Paul started showing interest in me Rodge cut it out. I think he was worried I might tell Paul what had happened. Sometimes I forget it did happen, and then I catch him looking at me like that and the feeling of guilt and repulsion rolls back into my stomach like stormy waves.
“You off?” Paul stood up beside me.
For all of his repugnant qualities, he was often quite a gentleman and walked me to the front gate every time.
“Yeah.” I replied, nervously pulling at the bottom seam of my t-shirt to make sure it was covering every milimetre of flesh.
Paul put his hand on my lower back and I felt oddly safer.
“Oh,” Elaine exclaimed, muffled through another unlit fag in her mouth “Your money!”
She rooted through her handbag and stretched over to pass me a couple of folded notes. I thanked her and gave a shy wave to the room itself. Paul shut the door behind me and before the cold night air hit me I heard the depressing sound of Rodge’s transparent, insincere mumblings to his naive and jaded wife. Once that solid wooden door was shut, though, the polluted evening darkness seemed peaceful and I actually felt a relieved smile crack my usually blank face. Paul smiled back, assuming it was his presence that had made me smile (maybe it was), and pulled me closer by my shirt for a vulgar, wet kiss. For once, I was happy to oblige.