One Of Our Dinosaurs Is Missing (5 page)

The telephone clicked into silence. Emily dangled it by its cord for a few moments, then lowered it to the ground. The small dinosaur butted her again, and wriggled its tail in reptilian ecstasy. She scratched its scaly stomach. She suddenly felt very sleepy.

“She’s gone off,” said Carl to his sister. “I told you she would. I’m going to slip out now.”

Dagmar looked worried. “What about her teeth?” she asked. “Nanny always takes them out when she goes to bed. Shouldn’t we get them out for her? Maybe she’ll choke.”

Una viewed television every night of the week, except on her night off. Then she went to the cinema. Tonight she sat in her armchair and watched Marlon Brando kissing his screen mistress. She sighed, and wondered for the millionth time what it felt like to be kissed by a man. The thought made her sneeze. She sighed again. A lot of people were allergic to something--cat’s fur, pollen, paint, alcohol. Una was allergic to males. Any sort of males, human or animal. And so, as Nanny Nesbitt, her work was restricted to female children only.

Una was thirty-eight--age and bust. Fate made her attractive to men. But, sadly, made men unattractive to Una. She experienced all the normal feelings, but could never follow them through. A man had only to move in on her and she would sneeze violently. If touched, she came out in a rash. Once, when she was eighteen, a boy had started to kiss her. Regretfully, she’d fainted. She’d tried romances by telephone, even pen pals. They only made her more frustrated.

Brando kissed the girl again. Una watched, her lips slightly apart, as his hands pummelled the girl’s body.

Una thought of men. She thought of the 25th Earl. She hadn’t met him, but she remembered Melissa’s description. He sounded handsome. Such a pity he should have died so young. She tried to imagine herself in Hettie’s place and wondered how she’d have felt if it had happened to her. Just terrible. Now there was the problem of the message. She wondered why it was so important.

“I’ll love you ... forever ... maybe,” mumbled Brando. He swung his leg over his motorcycle and roared away. Una sighed again, then sneezed.

“Stand up,” said twenty-two-year-old Nanny Melissa, severely. “How do you expect me to soap you while you’re playing with that boat?”

Randall Andrew Jerome the Fourth splashed noisily. He submerged himself until his eye was at bathwater level, then he sighted along his navel, through the steam, at the destroyer, which was just visible against the green marble end of the sunken bath. He torpedoed the warship with his big toe.

A hard, sharp-nailed finger poked his stomach.

“Master Randall,” threatened Melissa St. Clair.

Randall stood. His red-haired nanny sponged him. She had gentle fingers, most of the time. He held his arms up. She soaped his armpits, then his chest and back.

She splashed water on his thighs. He heard her sudsing the sponge. He looked up at the ceiling and whistled. It was hard to stay in tune while she lathered his thighs, but concentration on the music helped. As usual, he went off key at the critical moment.

“Wash off the soap,” ordered Melissa. Her green eyes were determined.

Randall sat down. She swilled hot water over him.

“Now, out you get and dry yourself while I have a quick shower. Okay, darling?”

He nodded.

Randall Andrew Jerome the Fourth climbed out of the bath. He was tall, good-looking, and only twenty- six years old--the playboy heir to a multi-million dollar fortune. His father, always traveling, always busy extending his financial empire, relied on him to control the East Coast section.

Randy’d had British nannies ever since he was a baby. His father had placed a standing order with a domestic employment agency, and another with his bank, to meet the nannies’ salaries. The orders had never been rescinded. Jerome Senior had forgotten them, and Jerome Junior preferred not to remind him. For, as Randy grew older, his nannies became younger and prettier. Melissa, he decided, was perfect.

“Bedtime,” said Melissa, sharply, when she returned from the shower. “At once, Master Randall.”

Randy grinned, and continued pouring himself a drink.

“Now,” insisted Melissa. “Or I shall be very angry.”

Randy poured another glass and handed it to her. She smiled at him, and put the glass on the bedside table.

“Bed,” she said, again.

“Okay,” said Randy. “Okay, you win.”

“You know the rules,” said Melissa.

Randy unbelted his robe and hung it over the foot of the bed. Melissa tutted and carried it to the hook behind the door. Randy climbed into the bed and pulled the sheets up under his chin, Melissa tucked them firmly around him. Then she kissed him quickly on the forehead.

“Goodnight, Master Randall,” she said.

“Goodnight, nanny,” replied Randy. He waited until she stood back from the bed, then he sat upright. “Thank God for that,” he said, reaching for his drink. “Don’t you think we could do away with all this nonsense now, this ... charade? I mean, we’ve been sleeping together for months.”

“An agreement’s an agreement,” said Melissa, picking up her drink and taking a sip. “I’m a nanny until I’m off duty--and that’s after I’ve put you to bed and kissed you goodnight. Then, I’m Melissa.”

“But we’re getting married soon,” persisted Randy.

“And that’s when I’ll stop being a nanny,” smiled Melissa.

Randy climbed out of bed and pulled her toward him. He unbuttoned the front of her housecoat, and held the two sides apart. He looked at her flat stomach, and small, firm breasts.

“You’re a very beautiful nanny,” he said.

Melissa pouted. “I’m not,” she replied. “I’m not a nanny now. I’m just Melissa.”

Randy slid the coat off her shoulders. He kissed her. He ran his hands down her back until they rested on the curve of her buttocks. Her thigh pressed against him.

“Take those nasty pyjama things off now, darling,” whispered Melissa.

“You only just made me put them on,” said Randy.

”Not me. It was Nanny.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot.” Randy let her undress him. “You know, I guess I like you better as Melissa. Your hands are gentler and more interesting.” He pulled her down on to the bed. “Oh, and I’ve got a complaint”

Melissa’s brow furrowed.

“Only a small one,” added Randy, quickly. “The talcum powder. Couldn’t we make it some male powder instead of that baby stuff?”

Melissa’s fingers moved through the hair on Randy’s chest until they reached his navel. She stirred it gently, then slid her hand further downwards.

“Make me a tiger. Make me a tiger and be fierce,” she whispered.

“Too hot,” replied Randy.

Melissa drew her fingers up the inside of his thigh. Randy felt hotter.

“Make me a tiger, darling. Please.”

Randy rolled off the bed and grabbed the skin rug on the floor. He wrapped it over his back, the snarling head resting on his shoulder. He crouched and growled.

Melissa cringed. “More, more,” she said, softly.

Randy’s tiger prowled on its hands and knees a little nearer.

“Frighten me some more.”

He roared and leapt. Melissa screamed as the rug- covered Randy landed on top of her. He bit her, wildly. His hands grasped and clawed her breasts, stomach and back. He kissed her wetly. His teeth nipped her. She writhed and shuddered with excitement.

“Now,” whispered Melissa.

“You’re doing it again, honey.”

“What?” breathed Melissa.

“You’re burping me,” belched Randy.

Putney Willett lolled against the imitation white marble fireplace. The electric glow of the plastic coal reflected gold on his tuxedo. He stretched an arm along the mantelpiece, just as he’d seen in the Bourbon advertisements in
Esquire
... it was elegant. He was an expert, he knew, in posing. He ought to be, he told himself. He spent far more time practicing in front of a mirror than any film or stage actor. He was a diplomat.

“We’re going out in a minute, nanny,” said Putney Willett, gaily. “Off on the town again. Got to keep up with the social engagements, you know. Yugoslavs tonight.” He smoothed his moustache with a long forefinger. “Hey ... hey, now. How’s that little dolly of mine been today? A big handful, just like her mommy, I’ll bet.”

Susanne nodded. “She’s just gone off to thleep.”

“Sleep, eh? Tired out, I guess. Mind if I go have a look at her, nanny? Mind if I go look at my little darling?”

“By all means, sir.” She tried to remember when he had last seen baby Charlotte awake. It certainly wasn’t during the past two months.

“Ready, Putney?” demanded a sharp voice.

Mrs. Willett swung into the lounge, a white mink stole over the shoulders of her silk evening gown. “Hell . . . where’s that darned man gone now? Oh, nanny, where’s Mister Willett hidden himself?”

“The nursery, madam,” said Susanne.

“Oh, God, that man!” scowled Mrs. Willett. “He will go and play whenever we have something important to do. Really, nanny ... you shouldn’t have let him. We’re always late for everything.” She turned to the mirror over the fireplace and checked her makeup. She watched her husband walk back into the room. “Ah! There you are. Let me have a look at you. Thought so,” she said, triumphantly. “Bow’s crooked. God, you men! Why don’t you get yourself ready, instead of wasting time in the nursery. Turn round, let me see your back.” She dusted off imaginary specks. “Come along, we’ll be late as usual.” She led the way out of the room.

Putney Willett turned back at the door. “Fix yourself a gin-sling, nanny. Get high or something. G’night.”

“Put. . . ney ...” called Mrs. Willett.

“Nanny . . . Nanny . . . Nanny.” Susanne mimicked her employers’ voices, as she heard the front door slam behind them. Why did they have to keep calling her that? It made her feel so old, like Emily and Hettie. And she was only seventeen. Sometimes she wished she worked in a boutique or something. Nannying seemed to be something for older people. She pulled the white starched band off her head, tugging out the pins and shaking her hair down on to her shoulders. She scratched her scalp where the band had made it itch. She walked into her room and pulled off her uniform.

It was still light outside. She walked to the window, opened it and leaned out to watch the city below. It was a warm evening. A light flickered on her face. She looked up. A boy, in an apartment across the street, flashed a mirror in the last of the evening sunlight. He disappeared, and returned a few moments later with a large board. It said “Saturday?”

Susanne found the lid of a shoebox and scrawled a reply with her lipstick. “Yes,” she held up. The boy waved and vanished into his room. Susanne smiled. She spent most of her off-duty evening with the boy across the road. And when she was lonely and the sun was in the right direction, she could flash a mirror at him, too. Or, if it was dark, they waved flashlights at each other. They’d even considered learning morse code. It seemed a lot more romantic than telephone calls. He was eighteen, and wanted to be an artist. She knew the other nannies wouldn’t approve. Hettie thought that artists were just parasites--that was, unless they were successful. Susanne wondered how an artist could be successful, if he didn’t start somewhere?

Maybe his father being a Wall Street stockbroker was the right start.

Hettie’s white cap bobbed gently in time to the joggling of her foot on the axle of the baby carriage. She folded her arms and watched a cluster of squirrels scatter away from a small black spaniel that lolloped after them. The nannies were sitting on their usual bench in Central Park.

Emily’s knitting needles clattered. She finished an uneven row, and scratched her head with the point of the empty needle. She must have been very tired the previous night, she thought. She couldn’t even remember going to bed. And this morning the bright colours of her knitting jarred her eyes.

Hettie stopped her carriage-joggling and leaned toward the old nanny. “That idea of yours about the dinosaur,” she whispered. “Do you really think we could do it?”

“What idea of mine?” asked Emily, starting the next line of Tarzan’s newest waistcoat.

“You remember, last night... on the telephone. You suggested we should steal it.”

“STEAL it?” shrieked Emily, scrutinizing her from over the top of her pince-nez. The three nannies sitting on her far side looked round, startled.

“Shhhhhh,” whispered Hettie. “We thought about it afterwards ... All night. Do you think we could?”

Emily tried to recall the conversation. She couldn’t. But she remembered finding the receiver lying on the rug beside her bed this morning. She decided she must have answered the phone while half asleep.

Hettie gave her no time to consider a suitable reply. “We ken there are a lot of problems,” she continued. ”But then we thought of people like Clive, in India, and Mungo Park, in Africa. They faced immense problems, but they succeeded. Nothing’s impossible, and we’re doing it for our country. We have to get that message to the queen. If we sent her all the bones, she’d know where to look. She receives secret messages all the time.”

“But usually by radio, or in documents,” said Emily. “I doubt if she’s ever had one yet in a dinosaur. Anyway, how do we get the bones to her, even if we do manage to steal them?”

“Post them in parcels marked ‘unsolicited gifts,’ of course. Take it from us, the Customs wouldn’t dare to tamper with a present for Her Majesty.”

“It’ll cost hundreds of pounds,” said Emily. “Hundreds and hundreds of pounds.”

“It’ll cost about three hundred, providing we dinnae send it by airmail. We’ve got a bit of money put by and we can use some of that. It’s the least we can do for Maister Quincey.”

“The late 25th Earl,” corrected Emily. Hettie nodded.

William floated an empty ice cream carton on the water of the fountain. The light breeze caught it and blew it out towards the centre. He climbed on to the low wall and reached outwards.

“Don’t . . .” came Nanny Hettie’s voice from the Central Park restaurant behind him. William lowered himself down to the path again and searched for a stone to throw at the carton.