Baby-sitting Isn't Merely Child's Play
THE SUNDAY AGE
Saturday May 1, 1993
After a fruitless mission to eliminate public despair, detective Phil Tap's next task was the riddle of two-income parents.
IN 20 years with the force, Phil Tap had seen some pretty grisly sights. But nothing like this. He looked through the house. The rooms had been junked. Drawers pulled out, the contents trailed through the house. Pots and pans covered the kitchen floor. Crude scribblings filled the walls.
Tap shook off a wave of nausea. It shocked the hell out of him to look at it all, but this was now his job. Ever since he'd become a freelance child-care consultant.
The family in this household had two paid jobs, two kids and big mortgage. No wonder the house was a mess. Tap's job: to search out a solution. Work-based childcare? Nanny-share? Part-time work for both parents. The thing was a minefield.
Tap had left the force a year before, after a nasty run-in with Despair, and drifted into the childcare consultancy scene. It seemed an obvious choice for a man with a strong stomach and quick reflexes.
He'd need them today. Something wasn't quite right in this house. It was quiet, too quiet.
It had been 20 minutes since the parents departed for work, leaving Tap in sole charge. Suddenly, he realised he hadn't heard a peep out of the kids. Tap grabbed his set of Gifted Child Activity Toys, and ran for the family room. The door was locked.
All he could hear from inside was the sound of two pre-schoolers humming `Whistle While You Work', and the odd thwack of paint brushes and rollers against the walls and ceiling.
Tap knew the score: if he didn't get in there soon, he could have a death on his hands. His own.
It wasn't that the mother would instantly kill him. Once she'd seen the state of her couch, she'd do it slowly.
In the child-care racket, there's Dereliction of Duty, there's Serious Dereliction of Duty, and then there's Letting the Kids Get Their Hands on Some Paint.
Tap put his ear to the door. Nathan, the four-year-old, was shouting out some pretty wild color choices for the upright piano.
Tap swallowed hard. He felt about as useful as a used Wet One; as strained as a plateful of baby food. This Nathan was one tough hombre.
It would take more to tempt him out than the usual handful of Pushpops.
Tap scowled at the lock. He didn't even know why he'd taken the case.
He'd been sitting in his office, packing some more dirt under his fingernails, when the mother had arrived _ a blonde-haired honey with circles under her eyes so dark you could have thought she was a Panda.
Tap guessed he was just a sucker for a dame with a double load.
He went round the side of the house and checked the windows. The kid had them locked and the blinds drawn. He could hear Nathan telling the two-year-old to handpaint the curtains.
Tap knew he had to get out of this business, before it killed him. How did the parents cope: stress, strain and shift-work?
An image kept flashing in his head of being back in detective work, up some Kings Cross ally, being beaten to a pulp by Thumper McGuire.
But at least when Thumper and the lads had finished with you, they let you get some sleep.
Tap went back to the door, and hammered hard. It was time to bring out the heavy ammunition. ``Let me in and you can have a dozen Pushpops, watch a video, buy some Rollerblades, and then we'll get a roll of 20 cents pieces and bleed the gum machine dry. What do you say?" The sound of painting stopped. Then there was Nathan's voice: ``You promise. Whatever it's like in here, in the room." Tap promised. There was no alternative. At least he could try to fix the room.
The door clicked open, and Tap steeled himself against the horror.
He could see Nathan was standing, with his two-year-old sister by his side. They were both spotlessly clean. Tap's eyes lifted and he took in the room. There was not a mark on anything. The room looked great.
The talk about painting, the shouted instructions, the sound of brush- work it had all been a set-up. Tap realised he'd been had.
And now, on his word, he had to take the perpetrators to the shops and spend up big. The classic heist.
Nathan smiled. ``Hey, Mr Tap, don't feel bad. We try it on every babysitter we get and it works every time. It's not like you're especially dumb, or anything." Tap grunted. It was hard to dislike the kid. He made Thumper McGuire look like an innocent.
Tap let loose a slow smile. Maybe he could sign this kid on for the consultancy. In this racket, even a tough guy needs some sort of edge.
© 1993 THE SUNDAY AGE