According to YES (3 page)

Rosie is first in the imposing dining room, where a large mahogany table is laid up for breakfast. It is set for six people, and she has absolutely no idea where she ought to sit. Luckily, Iva bustles into the room carrying a bowl of scrambled eggs, which she places on the side, on top of a plate warmer alongside other bowls of streaky bacon and waffles and chopped fruit and yoghurt.

Rosie feels awkward standing by and watching her, ‘Morning Iva, can I help …?'

As she exits, Iva flings over her shoulder, ‘No, that is my job. You sit.'

‘Right.'

But where? There're bound to be assigned places, surely? She certainly won't sit at the head of the table, perhaps the last chair, the one nearest her is the safest choice? Just as she is wrestling with this dilemma, the door bursts open and clattering in come the twins, in their school uniforms, boisterously
arguing about who should be first through the door. Rosie is standing on the other side of the table from them. They stop in their tracks the moment they see her. She looks at them, they look at her, and then, in one shocking sudden motion, Rosie falls to the floor like a tree felled in the middle of the forest. From their side of the table, she simply drops out of view. They are small enough to be able to crouch down and see under the table. There she is, a crumpled heap. Today Rosie has chosen a red polka-dot dress with a black cardigan and black tights with her bright red brogues, and a big red ribbon wrapped around her head. It would seem that a giant Minnie Mouse has collapsed in the corner.

The boys look at each other, very concerned. Red gasps and whispers, ‘Is she OK?'

‘Dunno … Get Granpop?' his brother suggests, sensibly.

‘Just … yeh … Maybe …?'

‘Wait, look, breathing …' Three is watching intently.

The boys tentatively walk round the end of the table and approach the pile that unbeknownst to them is to be their new nanny. Bravely, bravely, they creep up on her, Three first and Red closely behind. Their eyes are as wide as saucers and they hardly breathe while they listen carefully for any move­ment or noise. Closer, closer … They cling to each other … Closer …

Just as they approach, Rosie springs up like a jack-in-the-box and looks at them in amazement, mirroring their
gobsmacked little faces. They hastily retreat to the nearest corner, grabbing on to each other for dear life.

‘Wow!' Rosie shrieks. ‘Amaaayzing! You guys, your superpowers are SO strong – just knocked me right off my feet.'

‘Eh?'

‘What?'

‘What d'you mean?' The boys are puzzled.

‘You do know you have superpowers, don't you? You must. I felt them straight away, the second you came in that door. Overpowering. C'mon, tell me, what are they?'

Red is captivated, ‘I don't think I have any. I never felt any powers …'

‘Oh, you definitely have. I don't know for sure what they might be, but I reckon it's multiple abilities, something like infinite empathy along with the ability to influence events and maybe even some mimicry skills? Something like that?'

‘Really? Have I? How do you know?!'

Red is the eager puppy. He so wants it to be true.

‘Because mate, it radiates off you.'

‘Seriously?'

‘Seriously. Try it again now. Think hard and try to influence events in here right now …'

Three is quiet, but watching everything very closely. Who is she? Who is this odd woman with a strange accent? What is she doing in Granma and Granpop's apartment?

‘Go on …' Rosie urges him.

‘…
Uh, OK …'

Red screws up his face and tries really hard. He desperately wants to influence events. Whatever that means …

Rosie gives it a couple of seconds, then falls to the floor again.

Red is incredulous.

‘Dude,' he yells at his brother, ‘it works!'

Three is astonished, and puzzled …

At that very moment the door bursts open and Thomas and Glenn enter. They don't see Rosie at first since she is on the floor, out of vision.

Thomas is first to speak, ‘Hi there, lil' critters!'

The twins run to him, and there are cheers and hugs all round, even with Granma Glenn, who pats them both on the head and affects a smile.

‘I influenced events, Granpop!' Three exclaims.

‘Did you now?' Thomas replies.

‘Yea, coz she fell down again!'

He points towards where Rosie lies, and slowly but terribly surely, she emerges from the other side of the table like a wakening hobo, with her red bow all askew.

‘Hello there,' she attempts to normalize the situation with ‘just … checking the floor … and yes, I can confirm it is … there, and … works … so that's … good.'

Glenn allows Rosie to sink a bit, and then throws a thread of a lifeline, ‘Thomas, this is the … woman I told you about,
Miss Kitto. Miss Kitto, this is my husband, Thomas Wilder-Bingham.'

‘Please, just Thomas,' he says as he walks around the table and shakes her hand. At last, someone has touched her. ‘Rosie,' she offers. He is big, extremely twinkly and pleasant, but she can see the lemon-lipped Glenn hovering in the background, unhappy about the casual introduction and first name per­mission, so she decides not to languish in the warmth of his smile for too long. Besides, she hasn't properly met the boys yet, and that's the most pressing thing.

Thomas takes the bull by the horns: ‘Clearly you've met these two fine young fellas?'

‘Actually, no, we haven't been formally introduced …'

‘OK, well this firebrand is Red, and this fine specimen is Three. Gentlemen, this is Rosie, and she is going to be your nanny while you're here … say hello properly.'

They were just reaching their hands out to shake when the word ‘nanny' lands on them. Three immediately withdraws.

‘Why are we having a nanny? I thought Dad was going to look after us?'

Glenn intervenes, ‘He is, but Miss Kitto is going to help. Mind your manners please, Thomas.'

Three reaches out again and joins his brother in shaking Rosie's hand, albeit reluctantly.

‘Good,' says Glenn. ‘Now, please, let's have breakfast, it's nearly time for school. Take a plate and help yourself from
the side,' and she directs the seating plan around the table. As the family shuffle in an orderly fashion around the delicious breakfast treats, Iva bobs in and out, attentively making sure everyone has coffee and juice and all they need. The boys know her well and especially look forward to her delicious cooking, except when she adds cabbage or sauerkraut or weird white sausage, which no-one ever eats. Iva calls these dishes ‘extras'. They arrive on the table unheeded at mealtimes, and leave the table untouched. Glenn has asked Iva not to persist in this, but unusually, Iva has entirely ignored her and as time has slipped by, the family have grown used to it and frankly, ignore it. Rosie notices though, a large bowl of something green and stringy, and she tentatively takes a spoonful to put on her plate out of politeness. This seems to elicit some quizzical looks from the family, who are accustomed to rejecting all of these dishes. Rosie is ignorant of it, so helps herself, unawares. At which point, Iva pops in with a jug of water for the table and can barely hide how astounded she is. The new nanny appears to be about to eat the dish clearly intended for Iva's own breakfast later. This shouldn't be happening.

Just as all are taking their assigned places at the table, Kemble crashes in, pulling on his tie, hair unkempt. Three and Red are in unison, excited, ‘Hi Dad!' Thomas looks up at him. ‘Morning, son.'

‘Yep. Morning. Everyone. Hurry up guys, need to get you to school, I'm late, c'mon.'

Glenn calmly announces, ‘Miss Kitto will take the boys. She needs to learn where to go, and Iva can show her, you get off to work, Kemble.'

‘Awww,' the twins mumble.

Rosie is politely and carefully inspecting the father of the twins, whom she is seeing for the first time. What a nervous, chaotic bundle of a chap he is. Heftier than he wants to be. Darkish, reddish hair. Puffy-faced and waxy looking. A hangover in human form.

Rosie gets up, ‘Hello, I'm Rosie Kitto, I'll be taking care of the twins.'

‘Right. Yes. OK, I'd better shoot …' he can't wait to be out of the door.

Rosie quickly jumps up to stop him before he rushes out, ‘Um, perhaps we could grab five minutes to discuss the plans for the boys …?'

Glenn interrupts sharpish, ‘There's no need for that, Miss Kitto, I will outline the schedule with you. Kemble needs to be at work on time, please …'

‘OK,' concedes Rosie, and then a parting marker across his bows, ‘later then,' and with that Rosie tells mother
and
son that she intends to communicate with both. Again it seems, Rosie has, in a small but thoroughly decent way, countered Glenn's authority.

Kemble pats each of the boys on the head and bumbles out, without any breakfast. It's clear that the twins are dis­appointed,
but they know it would be rude to express it too much.

Rosie's eyes dart around the table watching how grand­father, grandmother and grandchildren all relate to each other. There are two clear levels going on. The boys are respectful and behave in their granmother's presence, but Granpop is always winking and making faces behind her back so that only the boys can see. He is prepared to risk a lot to amuse them, and they adore him for it, and make extra effort to keep straight faces so that he isn't discovered. It's a delicious collusion that Rosie is now part of, purely by dint of spectating. So far then, the font of fun for these young chaps is Thomas.

The twins check out that Rosie isn't going to ruin it, and interrupt this delicate balance. They watch her very closely when these naughty moments with Granpop are going on. Rosie, despite all her froth is an expert poker-facer, and gives zilch away. Their lovely games are safe and the twins go a little step further to installing her as a member of their trusted inner sanctum. Very few are permitted. Although Rosie hasn't been told any of this, she just knows – she wasn't voted most popular year two teacher four years in a row for nothing – and her heart responds accordingly. Rosie begins to tackle the strange green stuff on her plate. It isn't anything she's familiar with, it tastes like iron, so she politely leaves it to the side.

Eventually, after a tower of waffles has disappeared inside the twins, accompanied by a lecture about the perils of too many waffles from Glenn, it's time for all around the table to
scatter to their various places. The boys put on their school coats against the wind. It's a quick flurry of gloves and hats and bags and fuss and they are out of the door.

Thomas also puts on his good thick wool camel coat, and after a perfunctory kiss on his wife's cheek, he heads off into the biting Manhattan cold.

All of a sudden Glenn is alone in the apartment. She sits back down at the breakfast table to finish her black coffee. She exhales. The quiet is a relief, it means no-one is requiring anything of her. In fact, this is a good day because aside from an optional drop in to her favourite coffee spot, The Colony Club, she has absolutely no other call on her time. The boys will be home around four p.m., but even then the Brit will look after them so she is entirely free until dinnertime at seven thirty this evening.

How marvellous. A whole day, a day of holes, an aimless day full of holes.

How dreadful.

The independent day school where the twins go is right across the street from the apartment, housed in the beautiful vaults of a huge church. This was Natalie's choice for the boys, she wanted the kind of ‘traditional curriculum but taught in a progressive way' approach. Glenn had to bite her tongue when the decision was made. Nothing could be further from her preference for the more staid old-school prep education of other ‘better', more established boys' schools. However, this school is a three-minute walk from the Wilder-Binghams' building, so the convenient geography was definitely a persuasive factor.

This was only one of many occasions that Kemble has been trapped in between his mother and his wife concerning a big decision. Natalie dug her trotters into the mud on this one though. Not only did she genuinely believe that this enquiry-based learning would suit her babies better, but she had already made a big mistake when she conceded to Glenn's
wishes for Teddy, their oldest son. He went to the same prep school his father and grandfather had attended, and is now eighteen, and finishing his last year at a posh boarding school in Connecticut.

Natalie has always felt that his education has been too stuffy and academic, and that the artistic light that shines inside Teddy has been dimmed incrementally by neglect at every school he has attended. Teddy is a musician at heart, and although he has dabbled in various bands, mostly this has been in his vacation time and regarded as a silly hobby by Glenn. Natalie and Kemble don't object to any passions he has for music, and they would encourage him more if it weren't for all the study he has to do, especially in this last spurt of school, when his crucial exams are.

Natalie is aware that Teddy is under a lot of stress and she clings to the fact that it won't be long before school is over. Of course, the hell that can be college will start then, but at least Teddy can be part of that decision, he can choose where he wants to go and he has already eyed up the more liberal arts-loving institutions. Another thorn in Glenn's side. Teddy is supposed to follow his family to Yale. Natalie prays that he won't, and now that she is apart from the Wilder-Binghams, she can be more assertive. For now though, her two little chaps are happily enrolled at this good, kind school on 90th Street, and that is where Iva and Rosie drop them off. Iva hurries back to work, leaving Rosie with time to wander these few
blocks of the Upper East Side and acquaint herself with her new environs.

Rosie pulls her scarf up around her mouth against the bitter wind, and sets off, firstly to look inside the huge church, the entrance of which is round the corner from where the school is. The imposing grey neo-gothic limestone façade of the Church of the Heavenly Rest towers above the corner of 90th Street and Fifth Avenue and as she enters, Rosie sees that this is a church that is housing a cathedral inside. She catches her breath when she sees the height, the light, the air in it. It is vast and properly holy and reminds her instantly of Truro Cathedral. A cheerful lady is taking a group on a tour, so Rosie sits quietly in the last pew and strains to hear the odd morsel of info: ‘land sold by Carnegie's widow … art deco details … stars on the ceiling … the reredos … the empty cross with the Christ above … Gloria Swanson's ashes interred …'

As the group meander off up the nave, towards the altar, Rosie is left to her own company and her own noticings. The buildings that surround this church are low rise enough to allow the February sunlight to flood in through many stained-glass windows, including a particularly beautiful rose window high above the distant altar. The vaulted ceilings and the beautiful colourful light from the windows dancing around her root Rosie to her seat in utter awe. How wonderful to be in such a serene open shiny space right in the heart of a busy crowded city. How surreal. How wonderful. As she feels her
breathing slow down, she allows some quiet thoughts to flood in to her mind. There is a low-lying sadness nagging away at her to feel it, which she successfully ignores most of the time. Her busy arrival in New York has so far prevented it from being too persistent, but sitting here suspended in time, she can hear it rumbling. Faintly. She could mistake it for simple homesickness, but she knows that's only the top note. The more profound bass line is ache. Heartache. What exactly for? Is it a why or a who or a what question? Why is she so wanting to
ask
herself questions? Is it being inside a church that promotes so much internal enquiry? Have these walls woken up some uncertainty in her, simply because the age-old love affair that happens regularly here between God and human is synonymous with question and doubt? Strange questions with no real clinical answers. No real conclusion, save that of knowing that for sure, despite no scientific proof, love exists, and actually matters more than anything else. Love is the supreme dominion. Fact. Perhaps being in church is what irrefutably verifies this. A giant house of love, isn't it? That's what Mum and Dad always believed. They all went to church together as a family. Then, church was for saying goodbye. First to Dad. Then to Mum.

Rosie sighs, gathers herself and takes her leave before any of her thinking overwhelms her too much. She slips back out of the front door after dropping a five-dollar note into the collection box. Right opposite the huge door is the open expanse
of Central Park and she knows that in the distance, across the park, lies the notorious Dakota building. She gets a sickening lurch as she thinks of Lennon. In those moments just before he was shot, trusting his wild world, hoping he could be part of a change for the better for everyone. He was vital and creative. And alive.

Then.

He wasn't.

Rosie was only three years old at the time. She knew nothing of it til years later, but Lennon's music is the link between Rosie and her dad. Lennon and Marvin Gaye were what Rosie listened to when she was growing up. They were his passions, and then hers. And now, here she is today, a park away from where some of that vital music died. Rosie isn't ordinarily a squeamish person, but her whole body shivers momentarily at the proximity and the reality. Yes, she really is in New York, and it is just as frightening as it is wonderful …

She turns away from the park and walks back along 90th Street, past the Wilder-Binghams' building, and on to Madison Avenue. She tries to make sense of the area. What do the people who live here want to shop for? Well, there's a bookshop, a keycutter, a pharmacy and a pizza parlour, but there are also many shops that Rosie has no reference for. Nothing like this in Cornwall. Shops that offer nail/wax/mani/pedi services with big hefty leather barbers' chairs all in a row, people with their heads down, hard at work, all visible through the window,
all alarmingly unprivate. The women doing the pedicures have face-masks on. Are the feet of the Upper East Side so very toxic?! Then there are a plethora of expensive-looking maternity shops, and fur coat shops, and even a pet shop which seems to specialize in crystal-encrusted dog collars and strange humiliating dog jumpers.

The most intriguing shops are the ones selling hugely expensive crumpled yoga gear. The windows are full of what appears to be grey and black unironed laundry. For a brief moment, Rosie stands and stares at the price tags, working out if this is some kind of elaborate joke. But no, she can see that the skeletal women who work in the shop are indeed proudly sporting the gear. Presumably the idea is to appear effortlessly casual, at the same time ensuring that other people know exactly how exorbitantly dear the crumpled shabby chic is. These clothes say, ‘Yes, I'm off to the gym just as soon as I've dropped the kids at this top notch school and grabbed a skinny latte en route. Yes, these are my yoga sweats, coz I'm just about to really sweat. I'm young, I'm fit, I'm a Noo Yawk kinda busy woman …'

As Rosie looks into the shop, she catches a glimpse of her own reflection, and guffaws out loud at what a polar opposite she is, in her retro charity shop coat which was so clearly previously enjoyed. It is bright green with a wide collar and a belt and oversized tortoiseshell buttons. She found it in a hospice shop in Plymouth and she loves it. Quite a lot of change has
fallen through the hole in the pocket lining. She had considered cutting it open to retrieve the change until she noticed that the weight of the coins helps the coat to hang really well, so she has regarded this as a happy accident and left it.

Rosie notes how red and drippy her nose is in the reflection and she decides to treat herself to a cappuccino. On the opposite corner is a café called Yura, so she crosses over and goes in. It's quite big, more than a café, there's a counter for take away cakes and salads, and what appears to be a mini-deli, but mostly it's a meeting place for the thin busy-mom women. Many of them sit at tables, in groups or alone, but all are wearing furs over their yoga sweats. They are huddled over the steaming fat-free hot liquids with their chiselled over-dieted hot red faces looking for all the world like Japanese Snow Monkeys enjoying the hot springs. The devil in Rosie persuades her to order a big frothy full fat cappuccino with a jumbo meringue on the side. She sits proudly at a table in the window, and unashamedly scoffs the lot, with extra slurping. Plenty of eyes are upon her, but Rosie Kitto is Teflon when it comes to the judgement of others. Besides which, this meringue is just delish!