Daniel believed that freedom and responsibility worked well together. He encouraged the older pupils to take part time jobs, to have a little ‘soupçon’, he preached, of what it was like ‘to live in the real world and earn one’s way’. Otherwise the only work we’d know as privileged adolescents would be internships with financial enterprises or political organs, publishers or advertising monoliths; the tasks menial, the job titles glamorous. Albeit there might be a stint as a waiter or waitress at the hamburger bar near the summer house but this was purely for the sport of novelty.

My parents, well known liberal academics, feted the school’s principles and policies. In ecstasy, bordering the peculiar, they shooed me off each morning on the subway to Styron’s court.

We lived in a brownstone – a terraced edifice with a stoop leading to the front door, recessed at the front to allow for a bright lower ground floor, with wrought iron railings guarding the windows. Our house was near Washington Square, in lower Manhattan; so I didn’t know the school’s neighbourhood very well. It was called Brooklyn Heights, a very acceptable enclave for aspiring professional couples. There one could afford to buy a brownstone in good condition, which would never be shadowed by a high-rise building.

There were few cars honking and few taxi drivers and workmen shouting in Brooklyn Heights. There were hardly ever any road works, so no deafening pneumatic drills; large lorries rarely blocked the streets. The shops were practical, family owned and firmly rooted. There was a wide promenade where one could walk along the East River and gaze at Manhattan’s skyscrapers and the Brooklyn Bridge. Even in winter my best friend Priscilla and I would camp on a wooden bench by the water gossiping and reading until we could no longer see the print. We might buy an ice cream bar or Popsicle from Mr. Agnelli’s van, which was always parked near the playground except at Christmas and Easter.

During the week I sometimes stayed overnight at Priscilla’s house, which was eight doors away from the school. Priscilla’s father had remarried. His new wife, Nancy, was a very kind, pretty, thirty-something-year-old woman who raised money for good causes. (Priscilla’s mother was an anthropologist; motherhood interfered with fieldwork.) By the time I was 16, Nancy had given birth to twins, two girls. A German nurse, Ulla, who was short like me, but plump, unlike me – her middle bulged through her white uniform – helped to look after the babies, Priscilla and her ten year old brother, Matthew. Ulla’s facial features were bunched up and she had blond curled hair, stiff with hairspray. She was brusque, but this did not make her menacing. She was actually very gentle and had a lovely sense of humour; and she was never bothered by the Harris household mayhem.

I idolised the easygoing chaos of Priscilla’s home, which my parents would have found irritating. Their lives were well ordered. They found spontaneity distasteful. I was wary of interrupting them; I was an only child.

Looking back it seems natural that every now and then Priscilla craved escape from all the topsy-turvy. She liked staying at my house on Friday nights when my parents would play Scrabble with us after dinner, or on Saturday nights as in the morning she could read The New York Times at brunch without anyone thinking she was being aloof.

Towards the end of my penultimate year at school I decided to take a job – make Daniel happy. There was a notice board in the school entrance hall with local jobs advertised. I did not want to work in an office; I could not type and did not enjoy filing. I spotted a thick cream coloured card with the details of Mrs. Alberto Roselli embossed in black at the top. The position, described in black ink, was for a babysitter, for a six-month-old baby, Thursday afternoons, 1 – 5 pm, with excellent character references, 16 years old or older – experience not necessary, five dollars per hour. I don’t think Mrs. Roselli could have conceived of a male applicant.

The advertisement made me think of how I loved holding Priscilla’s half sisters, their warmth pressing against my chest, mistresses of little exploring fingers. Sometimes I almost couldn’t stop myself from kissing their chubby cheeks and wispy haired heads. I breathed their smells – talcum powder, freshly washed cotton sheets and towels, mimosa and lavender and hyacinths. It was the physicalness of babies I liked, and I had an overwhelming urge to shield them from the pain of everyday living.

But yet I dreaded babies a little because I feared they were like teensy glass figures that could easily be fractured accidentally. I might break their bones or sprain their ligaments when I dressed them. The little I knew about baby care, having helped Ulla and Nancy, didn’t strengthen my confidence in baby business. The diaper pins might separate; pierce the baby’s fleshy skin. I might scald the baby’s mouth if the formula milk was too hot.

I telephoned Mrs. Roselli from Priscilla’s house. Personal computers and mobile phones were not the stuff of the Seventies. Priscilla’s stepmother and Ulla watched me, bobbing their heads up and down, smiling encouragement. Mrs. Roselli invited me for an interview the next day during the school lunch hour. Before I telephoned, I wondered if Mrs. Roselli would have an accent. She did, but it was a very crisp English accent, which reminded me of the way some of the ravishing heroines sound in vintage British movies, the films where everyone smoked cigarettes in cigarette holders and the smoke invaded the frame.

Apartment 6 at 107 Hoover Street was in a white-stoned, green-canopied building. There was a doorman, a back and white tiled entrance hall with potted plants (fake lemon and orange trees) and a doorman’s desk. I was announced before I went up the elevator.

When Mrs. Roselli opened the door I was immediately embarrassed by my unkempt presentation of a denim, mini skirted, sandaled teenager with a sweaty hairline. She looked so elegant, dressed in an ivory cream trouser suit. She reminded me of the wife in van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait, a fifteenth century painting of a wealthy, young married Italian couple, living in Bruges. We had talked about this famous painting in our art history class, and I had been mesmerised by it the year before when I’d first seen it with my parents at The National Gallery in London during the Christmas vacation.

Like the beautiful wife, Mrs. Roselli’s arms and fingers were long and slim, her face pale and oval shaped; her forehead high, her eyebrows faint, her eyes almost black and her nose and mouth gently shaped. Slim china dolls.

Mrs. Roselli didn’t shake hands even though I raised my right hand slightly. (Years later, when I came to live in England, I learned that shaking hands was not the done thing to do among her kind.)

‘Betsy Fielding,’ Mrs. Roselli pronounced. ‘Come in.’ The front door opened into a large living room with white modern furniture. There were no antiques, ticking grandfather clocks and gilded framed oil paintings of families with cherubic offspring. The apartment must have been rented.

Sitting on the sofa was a wizened version of Mrs. Rosselli. ‘Let me introduce you to my mother, Mrs. Stanworth. She’s staying with us until the weekend.’ I was relieved when she directed me to put my heavy satchel by the door. It was hurting my shoulder.

I did not dare raise my hand to Mrs. Stanworth. She and I nodded in unison. Mrs. Roselli beckoned me to sit down in a vast armchair. I sank. I worried that my skirt revealed too much flesh.

The women did not invite chitchat. ‘I spoke to your school about you, and I hear you are a very responsible girl and completely trustworthy,’ began Mrs. Roselli. ‘So all should go very well. Now this little job entails looking after our Thomas. You will come at 1 o’clock, and do help yourself to lunch. Thomas will be sleeping, as he is now. He’ll wake at 2.30. He always does. You will change his diaper and give him his milk. Is this clear so far?’

‘Oh, yes, very, thank you.’

‘Excellent. You will then take him for a good walk along the river, perhaps to the playground. Afterwards, he can have his juice. And then you can amuse each other. I‘ll return shortly after this. The afternoon will pass quickly. Our pushchair – the stroller – is in the cupboard by the door. Mummy brought it for me from England. We will have a practice run on the first Thursday. I’ll show you where everything is kept and how we do things.’

‘Oh, thank you, that would be very helpful,’ I responded, trying to digest her speech and act in a formal fashion like the ladies, so I didn’t feel out of place. I nearly became a verbal chameleon and changed my accent.

‘We’re wondering, if the days go well, if you could continue after you finish school in June, perhaps through July? We go to Italy in August and presumably you go on holiday, too, with your family.’

‘Oh, yes, yes, I could. We go to Maine every August where my mother’s family have a house. We have a lake where we swim. I have a rowboat. There are lots of families we know. I love tennis. We sail and we…’

‘How nice for you. What fun,’ piped Mrs. Stanworth. ‘I do enjoy a game of tennis once in while.’

The two creatures were caricatures of what I imagined very upright respectable English ladies to be, and they were reflections of each other. I reckoned Mrs. Roselli was in her mid twenties at most, though she seemed so austere for a woman of her age, as if she’d opted out of youth.

‘It’s very nice to meet you, both,’ I suggested. ‘And I love babies.’ The women looked askance. ‘I… I like babies. They are the future of the world. I have lots of experience of looking after babies. My friend Priscilla has twin baby sisters, Madeleine and Jane.’ I decided that I talked much too much to ever be a ‘proper English lady’.

Mrs. Stanworth smiled. I thought she would ask me more about my credentials. ‘It’s so lovely, your enthusiasm,’ she remarked.

‘Will you be seeing many or any other applicants?’ I queried meekly.

‘Of course not. Thomas will be very happy with you,’ declared Mrs. Roselli. ‘I know it in my bones.’ I nearly giggled at the thought of Mrs. Roselli’s bones. She appeared so fragile that I wondered if any deep feeling she experienced would make them crack.

‘Do you have any questions?’ said Mrs. Roselli. I was curious to know why her family name was Roselli; it seemed so un-English, though I didn’t dare ask.

‘Where will you go? I mean, excuse me, will you go far?’

‘I will leave you all the numbers you’ll need. I’m sure you will be fine. I will meet girlfriends for a spot of lunch; perhaps we’ll go to an exhibition. I studied art history, you know, and go shopping. But I don’t have many friends in this country. We are here because my husband, an Italian, is now the New York correspondent for an Italian newspaper. We were meant to stay in London.’

‘Oh, that is very interesting,’ I ventured to say. I wondered to myself why an Italian – I had a stereotyped image of Italians as always being warm-hearted and friendly – would want to marry an icy Englishwoman, and surely religion might pose a problem.

‘How very nice of you to say,’ commented the elderly mother.

Both women stood up at the same time to signal the end of the meeting. We confirmed arrangements for the following Thursday. I picked up my satchel and said how thankful I was to have the opportunity to look after their baby. The women nodded after I said goodbye.

On the next Thursday, Mrs. Roselli granted me brief glimpses of the three bedrooms, the two bathrooms, the compact kitchen/laundry room and the tiny dining room. In one bedroom there was a large white rectangular table with a typewriter and several piles of books on top, and a large glass ashtray. There were many books and magazines and newspapers on the tall wooden shelves. The desk faced the window, which faced the street. There were framed photographs of the family and of what could be Rome at night. At the other end of the room was a single bed. Presumably, this was where Mrs. Stanworth slept. Perhaps she found the circumstances quaint.

Mrs. Roselli told me snippets about her herself but asked very little about me. I was surprised that she was as open as she was. But the bits came out in little bits. Her husband, Alberto, travelled a great deal. They had met at a reception for an art exhibition at the Royal Academy of Art in London. They discovered that they worshipped at the same church. Mr. Roselli’s mother was English. She did not reveal any details of their courtship except that when they became engaged they, and especially she, had assumed they would remain in London. Mrs. Roselli abhorred the brashness of New York. It was a ‘rugged’ city.

The next Thursday and several Thursdays following I managed quite competently on my own. Thomas was very docile and, despite my fears about nursing, he was surviving. He chortled at my jokes and looked captivated when I sang and recited poetry to him. I would bring some children’s books from home and some borrowed from Priscilla’s family. I never left them at the apartment although there were only one or two books for babies in the nursery. Thomas could sit up by himself; Ulla, Nancy and Priscilla were impressed.

My new friend was handsome, with nearly olive toned skin, big brown eyes, and a full lipped mouth, like his father in the photographs. I was convinced that it was with me that he blossomed. I’d miss him when I left for the summer vacation. I practised, with Thomas as my audience, asking Mrs. Roselli if she would like me to come back in September when school started again.

Mrs. Roselli was quite adamant that Thomas and I should always go for a walk, for the sake of fresh air and change of scenery. I loved to walk, almost as a leisure sport, and I never tired of the promenade. Sometimes I would scurry a little with the stroller. Thomas was excited by the whirl, the speedy sensation.

One afternoon, it looked as if one moment it might rain, and the next as if it wouldn’t. The sun would shine and then fade, and the clouds turn charcoal coloured, and then white again. During the spell in which I determined to make my decision to stay in or venture out, the sun’s shine won me over. But while Thomas and I were ogling the skyscrapers it started to rain. There was no warning drizzle allowing us time to rush back to the apartment without being drenched. Baby carriers were not the battleships they are now; Thomas’s stroller did not offer a plastic tent for protection.

The raindrops fell hard on my back and shoulders as they pelted down. What about Thomas? He faced the rain. If I could cradle him against me, the warmth of my body, with my arms as cover, would shield him from harm, maybe. I’d ask a nearby doorman to guard the carrier while I sped home with Thomas. Priscilla could collect it for me and return it to us before Mrs. Roselli returned.

I went to an apartment block where a school friend’s family lived. The doorman, Jimmy, I knew would remember me because he always said how my curly hair reminded him of his mother’s. Whenever he saw me on Thursdays, walking with Thomas, he doffed his cap.

Jimmy obliged and I ran back, dripping, with Thomas. We were soaked. I changed his diaper and his clothes, and then I plonked his garments and my flowery dress in the tumble dryer. I held Thomas in my arms while I dialled Priscilla’s number. I was so anxious that I did not make myself very clear about where the stroller was parked, fumbling my words.

Twenty minutes later, I was dressed, and Priscilla arrived without the stroller. While I was trying to explain to her again where I thought it was (I’d forgotten to mention the landmark, Jimmy), Mrs. Roselli’s key turned in the lock.

She looked stunned.

I stammered my explanation…Priscilla, the weather, and my theory about protecting Thomas from the elements. Once she was made to understand the circumstances, she’d be relieved, grateful, and as gracious as her ancestors would expect her to be.

‘I do hope you find the pushchair, as soon as possible. My mother brought it, you will recall, especially from England. It cost thirty pounds. It’s very hard to find this sort of pushchair in America. Can’t you remember where you left it?’

‘Well, yes, I can, but it’s not there.’

‘Well, then you can’t remember, can you? Silly girl.’

‘I’m sure I’ll find it, Mrs. Roselli. I know all the apartment buildings near the promenade really well and the doormen, too.’ Maybe Priscilla’s remark sounded a little unwholesome to Mrs. Roselli.

Meanwhile, I was bouncing Thomas gently up and down in my arms. Mrs. Roselli sighed and took off her summer coat and started to empty her packages. Her hair was barely damp.

‘I’ll try again,’ promised Priscilla.

Mrs. Roselli went into her bedroom while Thomas and I played. I wanted to cry on his shoulder. I was angry, not ashamed.

Mrs. Roselli emerged.

‘Babies are not all that fragile, Betsy. Once you have one you will see. You will see how ridiculous you’ve been today. But strollers are hard to find.’

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs. Roselli. I only meant to do what I thought best. I’m sure we’ll find the stroller. I’ll pay for it, if not.’

‘That’s not the point. Don’t you see?’

Priscilla found the stroller and Mrs. Roselli relaxed just a little. She took Thomas from me. I was sorry to let him go.

My adult life in England (I married a British journalist) has helped me understand a little more about Mrs. Roselli’s character, her frostiness, a mask for shyness and fear – of the unknown, the unfamiliar. Her pushchair – my stroller – was the tangible link with her unalienable heritage, the root of the old English rose.

Even now, as a mother of four, I still wonder how Thomas is and where he lives and whether the Roselli couple are content.

I’ll always admire van Eyck’s painting for its technique and detail but the characters seem unreal. Some scholars might consider it holy and disdain my thinking it lacks a sense of the nuts and bolts of sweaty human warmth; but I know that if Daniel Styron were alive today, he’d share the same view, the one I find beautiful.