Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 2. EPISODE 1: PITT STREET

EPISODE 1: PITT STREET

Wealth coursed through its streets as the neighbourhood’s upmarket artery of West London life, packed with shops, eateries, and an easygoing vibe, beckoned a stream of tranquillity this damp Saturday morning.

For people-watching at its best and the luxury retail therapy that's largely unrivalled found in Kensington High Street, the more chill and composed quality settled in the neighbourhood of Pitt Street was an intimate change I welcomed with open arms.

I was in front of an old Victorian ivied mews transformed into a duplex.

The only home converted from an old stable house in the early 1900s, with attractive period detailing including sash and case windows and cornicing, amongst the rows upon rows of Poppins-esque white-washed apartments and mansions.

Covering my head from the slight drizzle, I raced up to the front door and rang the doorbell. A small screen below the buzzer with the face of a woman prompted the doorbell camera.

"I’m here for the nanny interview, ma’am," I said.

She looked surprised.

Even with a miniature camera zooming into my face and a small screen showing her expression, a man applying for a nanny was unexpected.

"6 o'clock sharp. Just in time. Alright. I'll be there in a second."

This was the smallest house I’d applied for as a nanny.

Most were large mansions up in the country or large detached homes further up in the city.

I even had an interview as far as Manchester, which cost me £50 for a return ticket I could’ve wisely spent on more important things, like Jimmy’s medicine.

The door opened, and a blonde woman with a bob and a waif-like figure greeted me.

She kept a firm eye on the mismatched pairing—my tweed jacket with dark denim. Her eyes landed on my shoes, and she motioned for me to enter. "Come in."

Rubbing down my brown, threadbare oxfords at the doormat, I entered the short hallway and gazed at the gold-ornamented spiral escalier and the repeating stucco ornaments and shield decor on the ceiling.

It looked so grand and opulent that even the Victorian tête-à-tête settee below the stairs had bespoke gold-plated ferrules, looking like it came from the maharaja or sultan of Brunei with how fancy the interior and furnishings seemed all around.

I shouldn’t have underestimated houses in Kensington, whether they are huge or small; the furniture alone probably costs hundreds of thousands of pounds.

Before turning left, I glimpsed the kitchen beside the stairs and saw two large men in black suits having tea and breakfast.

"Those are my bodyguards," she said. "Roy and Michael. They’re quiet, but they do their job very well."

She glanced at me with a smile as the lines on her face slightly creased with age, and somehow, modern medicine must have prevented her skin’s decline.

I threw a quick glance at her bodyguards and understood her rudimentary warning not to do anything inappropriate.

Despite her friendly gesture, I’m still a stranger in her home, and rightly so, she should be cautious.

But I don’t suppose she tells that to the female nannies who are up for the interview.

"But where are they staying, if you don’t mind me asking, ma’am?"

"Don’t be deceived by the width of this house," she laughed silently as she entered a dark room. "The house stretches further back, around 3,860 square feet. The property has four beds and four baths. It’s more than enough for me."

She said it dismissively, as though thirty-eight hundred square feet was the basic size of properties in England.

If I told her we were staying in a 356-square-foot rundown flat, her mind would explode from the audacity of my destituteness.

I tried gazing further back and saw little except the kitchen, so I eventually followed her.

Peering around the massive, dark library, the room was covered with bric-à-brac and mementos from a series of photos taken from a trip somewhere down in Europe, probably Switzerland, given there’s a Swiss flag behind a bar in one photo.

Antimacassars lay heavy on the sofa, replete with plush and afghans, by a large Persian rug on the marble floor, with books crammed at bursting point.

She was looking for my resume, her back turned against me, ruffling some sheets on the bureau desk, while I focused my attention on the books swimming in this room.

A special shelf with calf-bound tomes of old medical journals pilfered from the British Medical Journal lay side by side with tatty piles of paperback romance novels jammed cheek by jowl with book-club selections like Margaret Mitchell, Leo Tolstoy, Charlotte Brontë, and others, stretched across one side of the room.

I grabbed a book from the humongous collection when she said, "Please be careful."

I hastily returned the book to its place. "I'm sorry. I was just browsing."

"Some of those are first-minted copies, so you’d have to be thoroughly careful. My son likes them untouched."

"No worries ma’am."

There were thick abutments running across the high 13-foot ceiling, tables and chairs of gilded mahogany, dark Venetian plaster, and several wall-mounted candle holders.

A copper-wood gramophone that played old vinyl records appeared on an oak trestle.

It looked old, with its lacquer chipped on the edge.

"That table is an old Elizabethan oak trestle table. It's been with the family since the late 16th century. It’s an heirloom," she said, her back turning against me, still searching for my resume.

I don’t know what’s with rich people and their fascination with keeping old things filled with sentiment; this table’s rickety, and I’d probably throw this one out myself for a wood termite infestation.

Beside the gramophone was an old newspaper with its tip flapping in the wind that caught my attention.

As soon as I approached it, she gestured, "Do you mind closing the window? It’s a bit stuffy in here."

I hunched forward and pulled the latch out of the bay window. Returning to the table, my eyes were drawn to an article page:

POLICE ARREST THREE SUSPECTS IN KENSINGTON HOUSE BEFORE PLANNED ARMED ROBBERY—LONDON—On Friday, police arrested three suspects and recovered six unlicensed firearms at a Kensington manor before the suspects carried out a planned armed robbery. London police spokesperson Captain Ronald DeMarco said the suspects were arrested with the help of a masked vigilante who called the cops and found the three suspects tied to a tree.

The unnamed homeowner, for reasons of privacy, told police, "I was asleep when I heard noises downstairs. I woke up when the police rang up my door and was surprised that I was about to be robbed."

Captain DeMarco said, "We would like to thank the actions of the vigilante(s) who have safeguarded this house from a possible robbery. This robbery was curtailed thanks to the brave actions of the civilian..."

I turned over the page and saw the front of this house plastered in the newspaper article; it’s probably the reason why she had bodyguards due to the recent incident of a failed home robbery and possibly why she seemed weary.

I thought this area was safe.

That’s the problem with being wealthy—trouble seems to find you wherever you go.

She sat on a couch and hinted for me to take a seat.

Lifting the rim of her spectacles, her eyes leafed through my resume and said, "I will not ask for your schedule, since applying for this job means knowing that you’d have to live wherever you’re supposed to. Also, I won’t be asking about your aspirations. Taking care of the child should be the sole responsibility of a nanny. If you have expectations apart from that, then you’re free to leave." She waited for a couple of seconds. "Now that we have that out of the way..." She again browsed through my resume and pointed at a part of it. "Yes. Right here—I’m not sure what you’re going for, but you were a police sergeant?"

I clenched my hands as I sat on the edge of the couch. "Yes, former sergeant, ma’am."

"Ten years," she said, incredulously amazed at my tenure with the force. "Born in Sheffield, you then moved to London when you were ten. You took up criminology at Loughborough University, and soon after, you joined the London police force. It says here that you had your postgraduate degree in Bioarchaeological and Forensic Anthropology from the University College of London. Where did you get the time to be a cop while studying?"

"I took night classes ma’am. And on the times where I was on night shift, I took the morning classes." One eyebrow lifted indubitably; she seemed unresolved with my answer. "I’m a very good multi-tasker. I was also raising my child when I took the courses and had that job—if that concerns you."

"You sound more than qualified for this post—"

I interjected, "I’d like to think I’m just qualified, ma’am."

"Very well. So you became an acting sergeant at 23." Her eyes foraged my resume for any inconsistencies. "...and received the Queen’s Police Medal for saving an inbound train from carrying a bomb. It says in your reference that you had saved 380 lives from a possible derailment. How riveting. You’re a hero." She looked unimpressed. Botox may have stranded her facial muscles in a scowl.

I tipped my head forward, focusing on the floor. "No, ma’am. I was just doing my duty."

"After that, you became a part of the Safeguarding Team—"her eyes riffled on my CV"—whose role is to look after vulnerable children and adults, and was promoted to sergeant at age 26—one of the youngest sargents in the UK." She tilted her head with a speck of doubt. "So why did you leave after being a highly decorated cop?"

"The pay wasn’t great," I said, lying right away.

"I would prefer it if you were honest, Mr. Danvers."

Leaving my mouth hanging for a second, I was about to say something different when I blurted a partial untruth: "I was burned out, ma’am."

"How?"

I looked her straight in the eye and cleared my throat. "The kids from abused families, er, they got to me."

"Oh," she said, taking my answer at face value and noting, "very well." She then chartered on to a different topic. "So you worked at a daycare for a year? What happened there?"

I swallowed the grit in my throat. "I had some personal issues with the schedule. My father was injured, so I needed better scheduling hours ma’am."

Yeah, he had been injured over fifteen years ago. All I knew was that my father needed some caring, and caring was all he’d ever gotten from me and a lot more.

"Didn’t they adjust your schedule to go about your father’s situation?"

"We settled it. But I was still let go," I said, adding another lie to my sins of omission.

I couldn’t tell her the truth—that I had stolen hundreds of pounds from the till to pay for Brady’s school supplies and my dad’s medicine.

Ryan, the one who manages the daycare and is also my furtive partner between the sheets, had covered for me.

But he and I knew I had to start somewhere else where I wouldn’t be tempted to venture forward and be stuck in a life of crime.

"So you’re a 30-year-old former police sergeant who’s now become a male nanny?"

"Yes."

"I knew you were coming but still...it surprised me. A man for a nanny—how modern. As you may not know, I’m not a sexist but the concept is very queer to me." She quickly covered her lips and said, "Oops. Sorry for the word. I didn’t mean to use that word in case it offended you or anyone imaginary in this room."

I wanted to chuckle, but I sat erect and held my chin up like a gentleman. "No harm done, ma’am."

She adjusted the rim of her spectacles. "What happened with your last job?"

"They returned to Sweden, and my contract ended. It was only for a year," I said, as another lie that Ryan and I had concocted so I’d have working experience as a male nanny.

Paying twenty quid to this bloke from Nottingham who had been a male nanny for this Swedish family was guaranteed for us not to be caught.

He and I have practically the same names, except for our middle initials.

"Well, I called the family for your references, and they seem happy with your service. It’s just very odd for you to be a former police sergeant and then shift into a career caring for children."

"I’ve always loved children, ma'am," I said, telling the truth for a change. "They help me get through the day, even if it was cleaning up after them or helping them do their homework." She sought my eyes genuinely to see if I was being honest. The narrowing in her eyes, as she squinted, was very telling, and she was processing her first impression of me. "How old is the child I’m supposed to take care of, ma’am?"

"She’s my oldest son’s daughter, Isobel. She’s eight years old and is a precocious little darling."

"I see."

"If you do get hired, you’ll be residing in Chelsea, where my son lives. He’s recently widowed, so I suppose Isobel will be staying with him five times a week with the weekends off to her grandparent’s place in Scotland, or whenever she’s up for it. The travel is very consuming for the poor child, so sometimes she’s not in the mood for long drives. But that is something you’d have to consider if you do get hired." She looked at me with a dubious eye while I thought, great, another spoiled little twat. "Have you ever done any commercial modelling of that sort, or any modelling for that matter?"

"No ma’am. I’ve not."

"Really," she said, squinting further, leaning her head forward to look at me. "I was sure I’d seen you somewhere on the telly or from some magazine. I find it a bit concerning to have a good-looking nanny. I don’t want it to be a distraction when the child grows up. This is for a long-term position, you do know that?"

"Yes ma’am."

"Once that child turns 18, you’ll be compensated for the years you’ve worked for the household together with a good separation pay. You do understand why I’m concerned that your looks might be a distraction for the child? Once she enters her teenage years, we wouldn’t want her crushing on the male nanny."

I bit my lips from sniggering; clenching one’s arse helps everything tighten up. "Don’t worry ma’am," I said with much-needed seriousness, "I’ll instil the child with the compassion and grace that you’d see her grow up into an elegant young woman."

She settled on one breathy sigh and a slight grin, noting that the interview had ended without discussing as much as the pay.

"Very well then, my secretary will keep you posted if in case you get the job. It’ll probably take a month or two, for I still have several of you to go through today—around eighteen. I do want the very best for my Isobel, so it would take time to sort out every applicant in the whole of London. There are even some who are coming from the North. Would you believe that? But I’m very open-minded. I’d like to give everyone a chance."

Her mouth turned into a rictus of repulsion as a hint of distaste.

I’m from the North, so she might as well spit on a country bumpkin like me.

"But I do like your punctuality, Mr. Danvers. You are very early, and it shows commitment."

I was at the door when another interviewee was waiting on the steps.

She was squat and menacing, with a frown that would scare any child, and she wore a dress resembling a burial gown you’d only see at a funeral.

But she’ll probably get hired; if not, it would be the next one looking the complete opposite of her.

Families usually go for the very strict faces or the charming, amiable ones who fart taffy and wouldn’t dare break or spill anything.

I was certain that I wouldn’t get this job.

Fuck.

This was my last chance.