Baby Sitter

She peers round the door
Uncertain who calls,
Elvish delight beckoning enter the space
Where all is tidily out of place,
Apologetic chatter climbs the stairs
Then we settle as delicious familiars
Her delightful crooning washing my sleepy eyes
With uncertain stability
As she returns through the past refusing futures
That hold unseen promises she will not dream.
She is the teacher who knows best.
There is talent aplenty under that vest
As around her fools buzz, invariably stinging
With unimagined pain biting deep.
Repeating, reminding, remaining, repeating,
Pain taking life so many hoped to enjoy
As she coquettes her reality

She was a police officer, she worked at the Cally, and on occasions would baby-sit for us. Her life had been traumatic. Her first husband turned out to be homosexual, her second was burnt to death in a car accident and she formed a relationship with a Home Beat Officer. John was a canny old bird, rarely to be found, but he had his ear to the ground and looked after his patch very well.

One day we were all rushed over to Islington, there had been a car chase, following a burglary (as I recall). The suspect was a local man, Ginger Beauman (I think). He’d gone to ground along Camden Passage, a warren of pedestrian passages. John had jumped into a Panda car, and was on the scene. He knew Ginger, knew where he lived. Ginger had a flat above the shops, a series of three rooms linked together. Ginger arrived back at the flat. He was seen by an officer, who was on the stairway of a building opposite to enter the first room, then move to the second and on to the third.

Here Ginger took a shotgun from a cupboard, broke it open and could be seen placing cartridges into the breech. At the same time John entered the flat. The officer shouted a warning over the radio, but John rarely carried one, and if he did it was not switched on. Like a bizarre drama the officer on the stairway had to watch John move from the first room to the second and to open the door of the third, just as Ginger finished loading the gun.

John lunged at Ginger, who hit him hard over the head with the barrel of the shotgun, knocking him unconscious.

With that Ginger realised he was now in serious trouble, and could hear other officers entering the flat. He put down the gun and gave himself up.

At court he was sentenced to eight years by which time John was happily back at work. Two years later he collapsed and died with a brain haemorrhage. Too late for Ginger to be charged with his murder, but we all believed he died from that blow on the head. Our lovely baby-sitter was devastated.

Slowly she recovered, Pentonville Prison was on her beat, an ancient building dating back two centuries, which housed an ever-changing collection of male prisoners. As part of her job she often went to the prison, and to the Prison Officers Club.

There she met a strange man, a prison officer, much younger than her. He was an upside down man, with a bald head and full beard. Not well liked by his colleagues he somehow caught our Baby-sitter's imagination. She fell in love. He proposed. They married. Some time later he left, without warning, telling his colleagues that he’d only married her for a £50 bet. Once again, our poor sweet Baby-sitter was devastated.

Life can be cruel. This lovely sweet lady had once lost a child. She’s been a teacher, in a primary school, lavishing love and attention upon other people’s children. Joining the police, to make a new start, her life continued to bump and grind along pain.

If there’s a grand plan – what had our Baby-sitter done wrong? What purpose was served for all that deprivation? Here is just one example, the world is full of people starving, being tortured and abused.

Does your God have a malevolent streak?