Madame Doubtfire Read online

  ‘A little light cooking…’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  There was a silence, during which Miranda could hear her heart pounding. Then down the line came the anxious explanation.

  ‘I really should warn you now, dear, I’ll only feed them good, proper food. Snacks or meals, I don’t mind. I do both. But it has to be nourishment I’m giving them, not rubbish. I don’t hold with all these unwholesome new things in packets. And I won’t budge on that, dear, however loud and long the little poppets squawk at me. Mind you, I’ve had very little trouble up till now, once they took on it was to be good food or empty little tummies.’

  Miranda’s eyes widened. Could this treasure be real?

  ‘No smoking…’ she murmured hesitantly.

  ‘A nasty habit. Makes the curtains smell.’

  ‘Reliable…’

  ‘Not missed a day in years, pet,’ the voice claimed proudly.

  Miranda stretched out a hand to steady herself against the kitchen wall.

  ‘An interview, perhaps?’

  ‘Certainly, dear. But I’m sure you’re very busy all day at the office. How about tomorrow evening at seven thirty? Would that suit? Name, dear? Address?’

  ‘Hilliard,’ Miranda said faintly. ‘Ten, Springer Avenue.’

  ‘Right on my bus route.’

  Miranda tried pinching herself, to see if she were dreaming. The last two babysitters came, or regularly failed to come, in undependable old cars.

  ‘That’s perfect,’ she said. ‘We’ll all look forward to meeting you tomorrow.’ She hesitated. ‘Mrs…? Ms…?’

  ‘Madame, dear. Madame Doubtfire.’

  Miranda could not disguise her astonishment.

  ‘Madame Doubtfire?’

  ‘That’s right, dear. Madame Doubtfire. You’ve got it.’

  ‘Madame Doubtfire,’ repeated Miranda. But the line had gone dead.

  Miranda seemed reluctant to place the receiver back on the cradle in case the miracle should end with the call.

  ‘Tomorrow at seven thirty,’ she repeated softly. ‘Madame Doubtfire. Perfect!’

  And perfect she did seem to be. Natalie met her first. Hearing a soft knock as she was padding past the front door in her candy-striped pyjamas on the way up to bed, she raised herself on tiptoes and lifted the latch.

  A vast apparition towered over her on the doorstep. It wore a loose salmon-pink coat, beneath which hung boldly patterned skirts that hid all but a few inches of dark green wellingtons. Its head was swathed in a bulging turban held together with numerous safety pins and a glittery turquoise brooch. Coils of feathery scarf floated around its neck, and tucked under its arm was an enormous imitation crocodile skin handbag.

  ‘You must be little Natalie.’

  Natalie nodded, and stared at the apparition.

  ‘I’m Madame Doubtfire, dear.’

  Natalie nodded again, wide-eyed. Underneath the great flowery turban, the eyelids were larded with mauve, the cheeks unnaturally pink, the lips bright scarlet.

  ‘Going up to bed, are we?’

  Natalie nodded a third time, still speechless.

  A huge hand appeared from between the loose folds of coat, and took her own. The apparition stepped forward into the house. Natalie stepped back. One large green wellington boot heel was raised sufficiently to push the front door back gently till it clicked shut.

  ‘Come on, then. Up we go.’

  At the narrow turn in the staircase, Natalie was forced to drop the apparition’s hand, and move in front. Reaching the top step, she felt a familiar tap on her bottom.

  ‘Brushed your teeth, poppet?’

  Natalie shook her head.

  ‘The bathroom first, then.’

  Natalie padded obediently along to the bathroom. While she took her brush from its hedgehog holder and squeezed on toothpaste and brushed her teeth, avoiding all the wobbly ones, the apparition sat on the edge of the bath tub and fretted about the plants on the window ledge.

  ‘Don’t like the look of those pinks. They’ve been drenched. I must talk to your mother about that tomorrow. Now don’t let me forget, young Natalie. Pinks simply hate to get their feet wet.’

  Over her frenzied brushing, Natalie scrutinized the pinks for signs of misery, while the apparition focused attention on the climbers.

  ‘That philodendron needs a thorough good feed. Look at it, pasty little runt. Oh, I can see I’ll have my work cut out for me in this house.’

  Natalie confided through a mouthful of pink froth:

  ‘There’s plants in the kitchen with all dead leaves. Mum’s very cross. She can’t work out what’s wrong with them.’

  ‘Perhaps they don’t like the atmosphere…’

  Natalie took longer than usual to rinse her toothbrush and shake it dry. In the mirror over the basin she was watching the reflection of the face behind her. The gaudily lidded eyes met hers in the glass.

  ‘Ready for bed?’

  Natalie nodded.

  ‘Two minutes, then.’

  The door was shut, leaving her alone. Natalie tugged down her pyjama bottoms and sat on the lavatory seat, thinking. Then she reached out an experimental finger to prod the pinks’ plant pot. The soil was sodden.

  ‘Poor pinks,’ she said. ‘Hate getting their feet wet.’

  And, rinsing her hands, she took the greatest care not to splash any more water over the plants on the window ledge.

  When she came in her bedroom, her bedcovers had been turned back, and her library books laid out invitingly on her pillow. Ignoring them, Natalie knelt by the bookcase and slid out from the bottom shelf a battered picture book she hadn’t touched for over two years.

  ‘The Looking Glass River.’

  The book was read from first page to last, not one sentence skipped, not one silly question or interruption. Just the same old magical pictures, and the words exactly as she remembered.

  Then the bedside lamp was switched off, and the room was in darkness. One slim bar of light flooded through the slightly open door, and lit a strip of the far wall.

  ‘Good night. Sleep tight.’

  Natalie stretched out her arms and circled them round the apparition’s neck, pulling it closer.

  ‘Good night, Daddy.’

  The apparition took a moment to recover its composure. Then it said sternly:

  ‘You won’t say a word tomorrow, will you, Natty?’

  But Natalie was already yawning hugely, half asleep.

  ‘No, Daddy.’

  The apparition tore distractedly at its slipping turban.

  ‘And don’t you call me that! I’m Madame Doubtfire!’

  ‘All right, Daddy.’

  ‘Madame Doubtfire!’

  ‘All right, Madame Doubtfire.’

  ‘That’s better.’

  He leaned down once again, to kiss her. She was already deeply asleep.

  ‘Asleep?’ Miranda was astonished. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Madame Doubtfire. ‘Fast asleep.’

  ‘Extraordinary!’ said Miranda.

  She looked at the very strange woman trying to sit with elegantly crossed wellington boots at her kitchen table, and thought she ought to check – just in case. It wasn’t as if Madame Doubtfire looked like a murderess, or a maniac, or a child molester, or anything like that. It was just that Natalie was not in the habit of letting perfect strangers into the house without a word, or allowing herself to be put to bed by someone she’d never even met before. It was not that Miranda was worried exactly, just that Madame Doubtfire was as yet a total stranger, and so very – well – large. And Natalie was Miranda’s youngest, and so very – well – small.

  ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ asked Miranda. ‘I’ll just pop up for a second. I usually do.’

  ‘Do, please,’ said comforting and comfortable Madame Doubtfire. ‘I never could settle either, till I was sure mine were tucked in well, and off with the sandman.’

  Miranda fled upstairs, a
nd Daniel took the opportunity to say a quick hello to Hetty, scratching about contentedly in the freshly spring-cleaned confines of her cage, and to have a good look around the kitchen.

  It was, in many ways, exactly as he remembered. The same old floor tiles they’d chosen and laid together – if a bit more scuffed, and with a few lifting corners; the same window blind above the sink – though the flowers in the pattern had faded noticeably; the same grey kitchen cabinets. Miranda, he saw, still kept most of her foodstuffs in tall glass jars, a habit that used to drive him crazy. He recalled with striking intensity the waves of irritation he used to feel on shopping mornings, faced with the endless clearing up of spills, the time-consuming wiping of sticky fingerprints off clear glass, the insoluble problem of where to put the packet containing the last two ounces of sugar, or flour, or rice, or beans, that never quite fitted inside the jar. Most infuriating of all, he remembered, was being forever unable to judge how much of anything was left. Half a kilo bag of brown sugar is, after all, plainly about half a kilo. Two inches of caked demerara beached up the sides of a glass jar is a mystery.

  But there were changes, too. The walls had been freshly painted in paler blue. The tea towels were different. The back door had a stronger lock. There were far fewer plants now, Daniel noticed, and several of these appeared at death’s door. She’d shifted the toaster off the fridge to make room for a large framed photograph of herself beside the fence at Greenham Common. The police horse standing behind her appeared to be munching her trailing scarf ends; but Daniel supposed this was some photographic trompe l’oeil, rather than an ill-trained Thames Valley police horse.

  And Miranda had, he noticed with some irritation, lashed out on a new automatic dishwasher. He found it a shade galling that she should have had the nerve to scold him, the until-recently unemployed, for being a few days behind with his payments, when clearly all this time she’d been sufficiently well-heeled herself to stroll out and purchase the most luxurious of kitchen aids. His own flat could not even boast a washing machine, and Daniel was often to be found down at the launderette on the corner, sunk in self-pity, watching the dye seep from his swirling socks, and mystified by all the notices pinned on the wall in Gujerati.

  He was still in a sulk when she came back. It took some effort to wipe the scowl off his face, and swing round to greet her.

  ‘The little poppet sleeping nicely?’

  ‘Out like a light,’ Miranda conceded.

  She took a sideways look at this most unusual job applicant as she poured out the coffee. The woman was huge, even taller than Miranda herself, and large boned with it. Her features were heavy, and scarcely improved by the layer of pancake make-up and streaks of colouring. Miranda could not see her hair, apart from a few dark wisps creeping out from beneath the extraordinary turban. Though her fingernails were beautifully lacquered, her hands were rough, and a little horny. Her feet were enormous. Miranda gauged the wellingtons at size eleven at the very smallest.

  You’d think the very sight of the woman would terrify the average child.

  And yet… and yet…

  There was something terribly reassuring about her. She sat like a fortress at the table, reeking of lavender water, solid and steady and imperturbable.

  ‘Such an attractive way of storing food,’ she was saying in her reverberant, soothing manner. ‘In those tall glass jars. Worth all the extra trouble, I always think.’

  ‘My husband didn’t,’ Miranda recalled. ‘He hated those jars with a passion. Called them a stupid, fiddly waste of time.’

  ‘Kept spilling, did he? Making his little messes all over the table? Not sure how many beans he could tip in? Not knowing where to store the leftovers?’

  Miranda smiled, and felt herself relax. It had been a long day at the Lighting Emporium, and she had been more than a little taken aback to bump into this giantess sailing down her own stairs. But Madame Doubtfire seemed such a nice and understanding lady. And Natalie had slipped off like a sleepy angel, with none of the customary bedtime battles about not wanting to brush her teeth because of the wobbly ones, no pleas for another story, no stalling, no fuss. If only every evening could be as easy. But Natalie was only one of the three. What would the others make of Madame Doubtfire?

  ‘Separated, are you, dear? You and your husband?’

  ‘Divorced.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Marriage can be a great blessing.’

  ‘Divorce can be even more of one,’ answered Miranda.

  Madame Doubtfire looked shocked. In order to defend herself, Miranda added:

  ‘My husband was a very difficult man.’

  ‘Beat you, did he?’ suggested Madame Doubtfire. ‘Knocked you about a bit, kept you short of housekeeping, frightened the little ones, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Miranda. ‘Nothing like that. He’s not a violent man. Far from it. The children adore him. And insofar as he ever earns any money at all, which isn’t very often, he isn’t mean.’

  There was a silence. Then Madame Doubtfire said:

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, dear, your ex-husband sounds like quite a bit of a catch.’

  Miranda laughed shortly.

  ‘Dead right,’ she agreed. ‘A real catch. Like the measles.’

  At this, Madame Doubtfire began to gather the folds of her salmon-pink coat more closely around her.

  ‘Well, dear,’ she said regretfully. ‘It’s getting on, and I must really think of –’

  On an impulse, Miranda reached out and laid a hand on the bulky sleeve, in order to prevent her from rising.

  ‘Oh, please don’t go. Please stay and meet the other two children. And then, if you like them…’

  Madame Doubtfire was staring at the hand on her arm as if it came from outer space. Miranda was about to withdraw when the great bear fingers came down on hers, and patted them gently.

  ‘You’d like me to consider the job?’

  ‘I would. I really would. You seem quite perfect.’

  Their eyes met for the briefest moment. Miranda looked away, disturbed. To her relief, from outside the back door came sounds of laughter, and a rustling and scuffling, and shadows leaned against the frosted glass. She seized the opportunity to rise from the table and make for the fridge.

  ‘Here they are, back from swimming. And they’ll be hungry.’

  As the door opened, Madame Doubtfire tucked both legs away primly under the table, and swivelled round to greet the newcomers.

  Lydia came in first. Madame Doubtfire reached up nervously and patted her turban.

  ‘Hello, dear. I’m Madame Doubtfire. I’ve come to keep the house for your mother. I hope we’ll be friends.’

  Staring, Lydia moved aside to make way for her brother, who stared in turn while Madame Doubtfire repeated her brief announcement, and Miranda delved, ill at ease, in the fridge.

  There was a silence. Then, suddenly, Christopher scowled horribly and flung his bathing things in a wet lump on the floor.

  ‘Oh, no! Mum! It’s not fair!’

  Miranda’s back stiffened. In his temper, Christopher kicked the damp ball of towelling across the kitchen. It fell in a sodden heap behind her heels.

  ‘Why do we have to have a housekeeper anyway, Mum? The house is all right, and so are we! And if you need us to be looked after, why can’t Dad do it?’

  ‘Your father?’ she shouted. ‘Don’t bring that up again about your father looking after you! Your father is –’

  That was as far as she managed to get. For the majestically-turbanned Madame Doubtfire had risen to her feet, and raised an imposingly large hand for silence. Turning to Christopher, she asked him gravely, ‘Young man, is that the way that you usually speak to your mother?’

  Christopher flushed scarlet. Lydia’s mouth dropped open. Miranda was so startled she almost dropped the eggs in her hand.

  Madame Doubtfire continued sorrowfully:

  ‘It isn’t what I would have expected at all. Here’s your poor mo
ther, strained from a long, hard day’s work earning the wherewithal to pay for that swimming session you’ve just enjoyed, and tiring herself even more preparing your supper. And just because she’s made a responsible arrangement to keep this lovely, lovely home in good order, and you and your sisters well fed and cared for in the early evenings, you lose your temper with her in front of a perfect stranger.’

  The turban wobbled dangerously as the head was shaken sadly.

  ‘Oh, no. Not what I would have expected at all. How old are you, my dear?’

  Unwillingly, and barely audibly, Christopher told her.

  Madame Doubtfire’s painted eyebrows shot up in horror.

  ‘Mercy!’ she gasped. ‘Quite old enough to know better, I’m sure!’

  Christopher scuffed one shoe against the other. He was determined not to surrender.

  ‘But it isn’t fair,’ he persisted. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, and I’m sorry if I was. But I still don’t see why Lydia and Natty and I can’t spend the extra time with Dad.’

  ‘I’m sure your mother has her reasons…’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miranda with feeling. ‘I certainly do. I’ll tell you what they are, too, if you want.’ She raised her hand, ready to tick reasons off, one by one, on her beautifully manicured fingers. ‘For one thing, would you believe it, their father –’

  Madame Doubtfire coughed sharply.

  ‘Forgive me, dear. But surely you’re in the habit of encouraging the children to step out of the room before you indulge in abusing their father?’

  Miranda laughed out loud, and not very nicely.

  ‘If I did that, I’d never see them!’

  ‘I see.’

  The voice was strained, and slightly clipped.

  It suddenly occurred to Miranda that, through her outspokenness, she might rashly be spoiling her one and only chance to employ this perfect, if slightly old-fashioned, treasure.

  Hastily, she beat an apologetic retreat.

  ‘You’re absolutely right, and I’m terribly sorry. I should never have brought their father into this conversation.’

  ‘You didn’t.’ Christopher was surly. ‘You tried to keep him right out, as usual.’ He turned to his sister for support. ‘Didn’t she, Lydia?’

  But Lydia didn’t reply. She was staring at Madame Doubtfire with a strange, almost elated, look on her face. Her eyes shone and her feet broke out in little scuffle steps on the floor tiles, as if she were on the verge of dancing.