Cleo

Although Rob had been popular at his old school, its formal approach to learning had proved an uncomfortable match for him. I’d begun to dread perching on dwarf-sized chairs during parent interviews listening to twelve-year-old teachers drone on about Rob being bright but needing to work harder. Having spent most of my school career gazing out classroom windows admiring the quality of sunlight on distant trees (and once a pair of dogs demonstrating something I’d only ever seen in line drawings in a book about teenage health Mum had left on my bed), I sympathized entirely with Rob. The only difference between Rob and me was he was working hard at school. He was frustrated that his Herculean efforts at reading and arithmetic were acknowledged with Cs and Ds. Even though his teachers were barely old enough to chew solids they had power and (like most dictators and children) knew they were right. I was tired of hearing them imply Rob had “problems,” not the least of which was a dead brother and unhappily married parents. They were unable to appreciate his unconventional methods of absorbing information and were too lazy or unimaginative to go out of their way to help him.

The Auckland move gave him a chance to try a more laid-back school, though I hadn’t expected it to be quite so relaxed. Every surface, inside and out, was smothered with children’s artwork in violent primary colors. The playground equipment (concrete pipes, giant wooden cable spools) resembled leftovers from major roadworks. His new teacher, Mrs. Roberts, had a fuzz of red hair and aquamarine eyes with an otherworldly sparkle. With a tie-dye silk scarf looped over her shoulders she casually mentioned Rob’s lovely aura.

“She’s Alternative,” I explained to Rob as we scrambled through a giant pipe to get back to the car. “Everything around here is, a bit.”

“What do you mean?”

“They don’t expect you to work too hard. If you don’t like pottery classes, you get an alternative, like dance or theater. Nobody here knew Sam. You don’t have to be the boy whose brother died anymore. Just be you.”

It had yet to occur to me that dance, theater and pottery might not be a perfect match for a boy who’d built so many model airplanes his bedroom was a miniature version of the Battle of Britain. At the beach while other kids jumped mindlessly in the surf he spent hours constructing cities complete with drainage systems and overhead bridges. I should have realized such a child is unlikely to squeeze himself into tights and beg to play the prince in Swan Lake. Nevertheless, he was willing to give the new school a try.

The next challenge was finding someone trustworthy, lovable and entirely faultless to look after Lydia. Even though Jim had promised flexible hours I knew I’d have to show up at the office most days. My heart ached at the thought of leaving one-year-old Lydia with a stranger.

What I was looking for, I explained to the nanny agency, was a cross between Mary Poppins and the Virgin Mary. The nanny agent laughed, but it wasn’t the cynical snort of someone who was about to offer a child molester in nanny’s clothing. It was a crystalline laugh of recognition. “I have that exact person on my books,” she said. “Her name is Anne Marie, and I can hardly believe this, but she’s actually available. She has people lining up asking her to work for them, though. You’ll have to find out if she likes you first.”

The nanny interviews us?

Anne Marie’s credentials couldn’t have been better. Not only had she trained at the prestigious Norland nanny school in London, she’d raised four children of her own.

I was awestruck when she appeared on our doorstep wearing a combination of pastel pink and white devoid of a single stain. Her shoes glowed like a pair of snowballs. Her brown eyes were warm, though, especially when she saw Lydia (who adored Anne Marie on the spot). When the baby beamed a welcome, raised her chubby arms and wrapped them around Anne Marie’s neck I experienced the primitive stab of jealousy every working mother feels when she hands her child over to a caregiver.

After a day of anxious waiting the phone rang. Anne Marie said she was willing to take us on.

I could hardly believe my luck to be working on a newspaper again. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed the sad/funny/clever misfits who inhabit newsrooms. Like a lost wanderer returned to her tribe, I finally belonged again—alongside all the other outsiders who’d chosen journalism because no other employer would tolerate their quirky antisocial ways.

I loved Mary, the glamorous, self-doubting Irish fashion writer, and Colin, the rock reporter whose sexy melancholy had women sticking to him like plasters. Tina, the features editor, was highly strung, and could erupt into platinum rages. Yet every now and then her ice-queen mask melted to reveal a heart that was passionately pure.