But see, that’s the problem. Benjamín’s business is becoming my business and vice versa. He is lonely, that much is obvious, and thus, I suspect, glad to have us around the place. Benjamín gives the impression of someone who knows he should be mean to us, but simply can’t overcome his inherent kind nature to be so, and the thing I like absolutely best about him is that he seems to have taken over nannying by default and this strikes me as an excellent turn of events. I’m only too aware that my children have spoilt city ways and the sooner they’re taught to swear fluently in Spanish and kill things the better. To that end, they have taken to hanging out in his cabin. There are no books in Benjamín’s cabin, nor pens nor writing paper for that matter. In fact there’s precious little in the way of material possessions and it’s a great deal cleaner and tidier than ours. On the walls hang a Madonna and child clock and a tin effigy of the infant Jesus in St Joseph’s arms, the baby tugging playfully on his father’s beard, which is nailed (the effigy, not beard) inside a makeshift altar underneath which, rather audaciously, sits a television powered by the generator.

When Emmy is not watching Mexican soap operas she likes to help cook Benjamín’s lunch. This takes the form of her balancing precariously on a bar stool and spooning cold shredded mystery meat into quesadillas, folding them in half, pinching down the edges with her filthy little nails before dropping them from a great height into lethally hot spitting fat while Benjamín offers silent encouragement, strokes his chin and mixes a third jug of Kool-Aid. Jack, meanwhile, addicted to Baywatch reruns, sits in Benjamín’s tweedy upholstered chair, in a 36D-cup-induced stupor, picking fitfully at a selection of Ring Ding doughnuts, pop tarts, Twinkies and strange fluffy pink marshmallow things covered in coconut, all of which Benjamín believes constitutes a wholesome child’s meal. As a nanny, Benjamín is unusually good at taking criticism. For instance, when I tentatively broached the subject of the children contracting scurvy, he merely said, ‘Okay, Alice ... no problem,’ and announced he would make them chicken soup instead. Sure enough, the next time the children went round there was a huge pan of water heating on the stove and on the counter next to it, a freshly strangled chicken. When the water boiled and the lid began to jump, Benjamín flipped it off with a wooden spoon and popped in the chicken: legs, beak, feathers – and an onion as an afterthought.