Betty the Baby-Sitter

Part I

(Schoolchildren in Britain and the United States often work in their free time for money. Very often they take a job to help their families. Sometimes they do it to get money for a holiday somewhere or to buy something. Very often schoolgirls look after little children while their mothers are away, and for this they are paid. Betty is a babysitter, and she tells about her work herself.)

I am Betty, and I am just sixteen. I go to work only on Saturdays. I'm still at school, and during the week I go to bed early. Oh! That’s the telephone. Excuse me. “Hello? Hello? Yes, Betty Brown speaking. Saturday next? Yes, Mrs. Smith. That’s February 18th, isn’t it? Yes, six o’clock sharp. Sixteen, College Road.”

Mrs. Smith is one of Mummy’s friends. She has two little boys. Here is Mummy now.

“Mummy, can I go to Mrs. Smith’s on Saturday? She and Mr. Smith are going to the cinema, and they want me to babysit.”

“Till when, Betty?”

“Till ten-thirty, Mummy. Oh, please, Mummy, can I go?”

“You’re coming home at ten-thirty, Betty! Don’t forget!”

It’s Saturday night, and the time is seven-thirty. The little boys, George and Tom, are going to bed. George is seven, and Tom is eight.

They don’t like going to bed.

“Come on, George! To bed!” I say.

“Just a minute,” says George. “I want a drink.”

“I want a drink too,” says Tom.

I get them a drink.

“Come on, boys. Bedtime.”

“Read us a story, Betty.”

I read a story.

“Now, come on, boys! Bedtime,” I say.

“There’s a ghost in the bedroom, Betty!” says Tom.

“No, there isn’t, Tom. Please go to bed, boys.”

Part II

They’re in bed at last. It’s eight-thirty. I go downstairs into the sitting room. I get out my books. I’m going to do my homework. But there’s a big television set in the sitting room, and the programme is very good. So I watch it. And there are some sweets on the table too, with a note: “Betty, these are for you! — Mrs. Smith.”

When the programme is over, there are no more sweets. I turn off the television. What’s the time? It’s ten o’clock. I open the door and listen. Are the boys asleep?

Silence.

I go upstairs and open the door of the boys’ bedroom. It is dark inside. I go into the room. Where are the boys? They are not in their beds!

Tom and George are playing a game, of course. They’re under their beds. No, they’re not. Then they’re in the bathroom! No, they’re not in the bathroom. In the kitchen? No! Then where can they be?

It is ten-thirty, and I hear Mr. and Mrs. Smith at the door.

“Hello, Betty,” says Mrs. Smith. “Are the boys asleep? I’m going upstairs to look at them.”

We go upstairs.

At the door of the boys’ bedroom I stop. How can I explain where the boys are? I don’t know where they are!

But Mrs. Smith opens the next door and looks in. “Sleeping,” she says. “Good!”