Page 12 of Dr. Single Dad

The woman doesn’t hear me over the dulcet screeching. I grab the rucksack and call again, “Your rucksack!”

I run after her and tap her on the shoulder. She stops and snaps her head around, ready to rip my head off if I’m any kind of threat to her kids.

“Your rucksack.” I hold it up by the strap.

Her body slumps and her eyes fill with tears. “Thank you.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her.

“I didn’t feel it fall off.” Her voice rises at the end of the sentence, as if she’s on the brink of tears. She’s not upset about the backpack. She’s upset because she’s had a broken night’s sleep, she’s been up for four hours, cleaned a pooey nappy, negotiated with a five-year-old over breakfast cereals, socks and hairstyles, wrestled a toddler into its coat, while she’s not brushed her own hair or teeth.

“It’s okay. You’ve got a lot to do in the mornings. And you’ve got two happy kids. That’s the most important thing.”

The child in the pushchair is clapping along to, “You’ve got to move it move it,” which the older kid hasn’t stopped singing. Over. And over. And over.

“Thank you,” she says.

“You’ve got this,” I say and nod at her.

She takes a deep breath. “I got this.”

I smile and wave at the older kid as she peers at me from behind her mum as they charge toward a nursery. A warm feeling settles in my stomach at the thought I made that mother’s morning a little better.

I’ve got this, I say to myself.

I carry on toward the tube station, past a churchyard where I spot the beginnings of a crocus pushing its head out of the soil on the other side of the railings. I stop and bend over. “You’re early,” I whisper. “Keep safe under the soil for a few more weeks. That way you won’t get bitten by the frost.” I look up to the sky. “The problem is that beautiful sun is out, tricking you into thinking it’s springtime.”

There’s not too much more winter left. Soon the blossoms will be out and the playgrounds will be full again. I’ll be with a new family, helping new children to grow and bloom. In the meantime, I’ve endured much worse than a few months without a job. I’ve got options. I could get a bar job, a waitressing job, even a cleaning job in the mornings or something that wouldkeep my afternoons free for interviews. Anything will help pay the bills and ensure my savings are kept safe for Eddie and Dylan.

But I also need a room to call my own and a family I can be useful to, a child to jump in puddles with. I have to believe a nanny job is bound to come along soon. But until it does, I have to cast my net wider. I’m going to sign up with other nanny agencies and look into temporary work. I’ve heard of temp jobs that turn into something more permanent. Who’s to say it won’t happen to me?

I’ve got this. It’s the truth, sure, but it’s also a promise to myself.You have to have this, I remind myself.

You don’t have any other choice.

SIX

Eira

I turn backward and push open the heavy metal gate with its chipped green paint and pull the buggy in after me. Coram’s Fields is my favorite playground. Nestled in the center of London, in between Georgian town houses, it’s a playground you can’t enter unless you have a child with you.

“Shall we start at the swings?” I say to Elliot, who’s not quite one. It’s only my second day with him, covering for another nanny who’s off sick. Temporary work isn’t ideal, since it’s uncertain and doesn’t allow me time to get to know the children. But as my nanny Gabby would have said, needs must.

I unclip Elliot from the buggy and place him in the baby swing. “Hold on,” I say. He grins at me, his chubby cheeks a little reddened from the frosty air. He tips his head back, enjoying the motion, then lets out a squawk that sounds like a tropical bird.

There’s a bench next to the swings where an older lady in a smart black mac and sensible lace-up shoes, just like the ones we used to wear with our nanny uniform at school, sits with a pram. I glance around to see if she has an older child with heras well, or whether she’s just with the baby, but there aren’t any other children nearby. There’s a kid in the sandpit about ten meters away and another one on the zipwire at the back of the playground. It’s otherwise empty because it’s winter, not to mention the middle of a school day.

“Elliot,” I call as he swings toward me. “There you are!” I catch the swing with one hand and tap him on the nose with the other before letting him swing back, giggling.

“Excuse me, young lady?” the woman on the bench says, her hand lifted in the air to get my attention. “You don’t happen to have some paracetamol, do you?”

I walk around the swing so I’m swinging Elliot from the back, but I’m nearer the bench. “I’m sorry, I never carry them.” In my experience, little fingers always find the one thing you don’t want them to, so I try not to have things in my bag that I wouldn’t be happy for them to play with.

She winces and swallows, but tries to smile. “That’s okay. Thank you.”

“Are you okay?” I ask. “Can I call someone for you?”

She shifts so she’s sitting forward on the bench and bends her head. Her grip is white-knuckled around the buggy handle.

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