The Colour Navy
My musing on devilish French kids and the unspoken fashion laws of Paris. This essay is one of many in my Paris series.
I must preface this essay by stating that all names have been changed prior to publication.
What’s the deal with Parisians and the colour navy? It’s a colour that goes with very little, aside from more navy, or if you’re accompanying it with red and white and opting for either a nationalistic or a sailor look. Residents go about their day decked out in navy on navy on navy, each of them pottering along believing they look effortlessly chic, when in actual fact it reveals to passers-by that one enjoys a substantial amount of wealth and success, thus a more creative aesthetic is unnecessary. But this is just my humble opinion gathered from living in the affluent 7th arrondissement. It is for the reasons given that I find the colour rather intimidating, particularly when I’d begin my daily au pair duties and pick the kids up from school, once again taking my place as the outsider amongst the similarly costumed guardians. Yes, maybe I was an outsider because I’m English and predominantly stood there emitting fear from every pore. However, I’m convinced that I looked out of place because I refused to conform to the unspoken fashion laws of Paris.
I’d stand amongst dads wearing thigh length navy Parker jackets, accompanied by skinny dark denim jeans and a pristine pair of blue New Balance. They’d stand their exchanging in small talk with mums and nannies – referred to as “nounous” - kitted out in freshly ironed suit pants, navy of course, a shirt or sweater – an area of fashion that occasionally allows colour to creep in – and partnered with a similar jacket to the male they were conversing with. Moments later, their kids, or more suitably labelled ‘clones’, trickle out of the building. There must be one store, indiscriminate of age and gender, where everybody buys their coats because the outside of the school was constantly swarmed by long, slightly quilted, navy coats with fur-lined hoods. Each child then enthusiastically embraced their parent with a “coucou”, or grunts if it’s an au pair or nounou. I’d wave at my seven-year-old, Mathilde, as she’d hobble over to me from the school gates, managing to maintain a limp from a bruise she’d acquired in dance class weeks prior. This reunion was always fairly bland but pleasant enough, understandably she was more interested in her friends and their dogs, that stood ankle high awaiting to be trodden on, than me.
We’d then walk over to the doors where the slightly older children would spill out of five minutes later. I’d anxiously await the appearance of my nine-year-old, Gabriel, anticipating what mood he would be in that day. I’d look for correlations between the weather and his temperament. I’d search for links between his sister’s disposition and his. However, six months into the job, I could confidently say that there was no way to foresee what kind of a child I’d be faced with each day. I concluded that he would be relatively pleasant if he wanted something in return – that being to play a game on my phone, for me to play chess with him (which I was never allowed to win), or if he wanted to play fight with me (the word ‘play’ is said tentatively due to his desire at the time to inflict physical and often emotional pain on me.)
Half way through my time in Paris, I’d come to notice an error in my ways. Prior to my arrival, Gabriel could speak a bit of English and we managed to get by through simple conversations and with me speaking the odd bit of French when necessary. Mathilde, on the other hand, knew a small handful of words and phrases before she met me, so we relied more on a combination of the two languages, as well as my phone’s translation app. I’d made the decision early on, that if the children asked me something in English that was not completely accurate but I was able to understand them – for instance Mathilde asking “What is Gabriel?” instead of “Where is Gabriel” - I would not repeatedly correct her as her message was understood and I didn’t want to discourage her from speaking English. This was all a horrible mistake. The children developed a superiority complex when it came to my native language, and seemingly thought they’d conquered it almost perfectly. As a result, when asked something by Gabriel that I could not understand straight away due to the incorrect English he’d used, he would proceed to shove me into the middle of the street, leaving myself and onlookers gobsmacked. I guess it was all my fault, as my original kindness in not wanting to hurt their feelings, resulted in vicious consequences.
Looking after two young children is, as demonstrated, challenging. As I was very present in their lives, I got to witness their rapid change in mood and likeability, and just had to accept them albeit their flaws. The difficulty in being a child’s guardian though not being their actual parent, is that I did not have endless love for these kids. I had a small amount of love available for them each day, which they’d very quickly use up. Mathilde had a goofy side to her which was most visible in the evenings before she took a shower. She would often jump around in just her pants and perform entertaining dance routines for me which I was normally forced to film; she’d later watch herself back with great amusement. Lucky for her, this character trait managed to amend any negative feelings I’d had towards her earlier on in the day. It was particularly interesting watching her personality and temperament change as, throughout the months, this playfulness became more infrequent, and in its place was a whole lot of sass. There was often an evilness when she’d look up at me, and in certain things she’d say in order to make me sweat. For instance, if I’d tell her to do something that she’d disagree with and didn’t think was right, she’d maliciously say “I’m telling mummy.” After the ten months spent with her, I was still uncertain how empty these threats may or may not have been.
Gabriel also had a goofy side, though it was always on his terms and tended to emerge when I’d be asking him to behave at dinner time. He’d get a kick out of drinking other people’s water and mischievously dribbling a bit back into the glass. Other times he’d steal bits of food off my plate – often the tomatoes which he said were his “favourite sweets” - and he’d replace them with delicately sliced pieces of meat, which I don’t eat. He’d then proceed to lie on the floor screaming “coucou” at me whilst I’d film him, in order to show his parents as proof of his poor behaviour; however, his sweet laugh that accompanied the chaos ended up making the videos frustratingly adorable and consequently, pointless.
Then there was the rare occasion when the pair of them would act silly at the same time; homework was completed, dinner was eaten, and teeth were brushed, meaning I could just sit back and enjoy the show. One evening in particular has stuck with me. It was a night fresh off the back of the Christmas holidays, so we’d all just spent two weeks apart. We’d all had some space from each other, so things were light and easy, with mutual resentment yet to sink in. The kids were showing me some Christmas pictures that they’d drawn for their mum which were proudly on display in her walk-in wardrobe. After showing me the images and me overly-encouraging their adequacy with a “très doué!”, they began to look for inspiration elsewhere, settling on the lavish clothes that hung around us. Gabriel slipped into a pair of silk blue high-heels and posed for photos, greatly differing his daily displays of machismo. When the shoes came off, Mathilde began whispering with her brother, conjuring up a plan which was seemingly going to be hilarious. I was then banished from the wardrobe and told to wait in the living room as a surprise was in store.
After a few moments, the two of them ran out into the room that I was patiently awaiting them, wearing their pyjamas and a set of suspicious grins. Gabriel then counted “1...2...3...” and the two began to undress. Before I had a chance to shield my eyes at their potential nakedness, I noticed what lay beneath the pj’s. Within seconds, Gabriel was sporting one of his mum’s padded bras and a gaping pair of knickers – both I imagine were meant to be sexy if not worn by a small and slightly weedy nine-year-old. As my eyes moved over to Mathilde, she stood clutching at her dad’s boxers which were failing to stay up on her seven-year-old hips. It was a wild scene. Moments later, we heard a key in the front door. The kids frantically ran to their bedrooms, presumably in fear of it being their dad who, despite his warmth, was rarely in the mood to play after a ten-hour work day. Though it ended up being their mum, who would have found the scene as funny as I had, they still kept to their rooms, attempting to fool their mum into thinking they were quietly reading before bedtime. Gabriel’s main giveaway being the bra he had forgotten, which he kept on whilst settling down with a book. As I crept into their rooms to say goodnight, the sight of Gabriel laying there in his navy sheets amongst the similarly coloured wallpaper quickly brought me out of the playful scenes I’d just witnessed. He was once again that child who ignores me and ultimately intimidates me with his navy presence.