A Spoonful of Sugar

by Brenda Ashford

  For taste buds unaccustomed to really sweet things, the tangy, acidic burst of sugar on my tongue was like nectar. Pear drops were my favorite and always made a Saturday; but if it weren’t those it was bull’s-eyes, which we’d take out to the roughs and suck until our tongues were purple. Sometimes Father brought Pontefract cakes, small licorice disks, but I never understood how anyone could like licorice.

  In the 1930s, sweet shops were all the rage and popping up all over London. It was a very productive decade for Rowntree’s. For a small child, imagining where the sugary delights came from was a constant source of wonder. After continual begging from us children, Father finally told us.

  “There’s a little place I go to just off Regent Street,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “with a bell on the door that jingles as you enter and a lady older than your mother wearing a dressing gown who appears with a metal scoop to weigh out your sweets—”

  “Tell us about the sweets, Daddy,” I interrupted.

  Father smiled and paused for dramatic effect.

  “Row upon row upon row of shiny glass jars crammed with sweets,” he said eventually.

  My eyes were as a big as bull’s-eyes as he went on.

  “Every kind of sweet you can imagine … lollipops, licorice bootlaces, gobstoppers, peanut brittle, toffees, walnut whips, cherry lips, coconut mushrooms, Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls, pineapple chunks.”

  I glanced over at Basil. He was nearly drooling.

  “And on the counter, chocolate, glistening fudge, gingerbread men, sugared plums.”

  It was almost too much. Our palates weren’t much troubled by unusual flavors in those days; and food largely consisted of some sort of meat, potatoes, and vegetables such as turnips or carrots from the garden, with suet or steamed sponge pudding for dessert. To hear about these exotic sounding treats was to be transported to food nirvana. It’s no wonder sweet o’clock, midday Saturday, was the most hotly anticipated time of the week.

  I must confess, Father’s treats left me with a lifelong sweet tooth. If you were to visit me in my flat today, you would find a good number of chocolate biscuits stacked in my cupboards. One bite of heavenly chocolate and, if I close my eyes, I am transported back to my childhood.

  Our Saturday fun didn’t stop there. While some fathers may have retired to the study with a paper and strict instructions not to disturb, ours adopted a more hands-on approach.

  We loved sitting at his feet as he read Rupert Bear to us and sipped stout from a large brown bottle. For us children it was a cup of hot cocoa in winter or a glass of the milk that was delivered weekly by a milkman on a horse-drawn float and sold by the jug from a stainless steel milk churn.

  On one day I’ll always remember, Father spent hours in the garden plotting a surprise. When we children were finally allowed outside, the suspense was killing us.

  With a smile a mile wide, Father stood in the middle of the lawn to the side of the house that had always been earmarked for use as a tennis court.

  “What is it, Daddy?” I piped up, puzzled.

  “Look down,” he said, and winked.

  Father had mowed lines in the garden to look like railway tracks, and up and down the tracks he’d placed signals that he’d made in the shed and that he operated with a string pulley system.

  “Who wants to play trains?” he bellowed.

  Did we ever! Every Saturday afternoon after that was spent hurtling up and down the tracks on our trains, which to the untrained eye might have looked like bicycles.

  Looking back at the childhood my parents had, it is nothing short of a miracle that they turned out so full of love.

  My mother’s mother, Granny Brown, was from the Victorian era and clung to the rigid discipline of her day. She certainly didn’t share our father’s hands-on approach to child rearing. Not for Granny Brown the sugary delights of hidden pear drops and running amok in the vegetable patch. Like most Victorian people, she believed that children should be seen and not heard and expected docility and obedience at all times.

  I dreaded our annual visit to her home in Norfolk. Our days there were rigid in their routine. After fresh air on the beach and a lunch of boiled cod and junket, we had to lie very still on the floorboards and rest. To an excitable child who just wanted to be running free, this was nothing short of agony.

  The only time a frenzied burst of activity was acceptable was when the national anthem came on the wireless and we were expected to leap to our feet, with the command “show some respect and stand to attention.” It was ghastly!

  It’s no wonder that the end of the Victorian period coincided almost exactly with the invention of psychoanalysis. I’m fairly sure that my parents never went in for any of that, but perhaps they made an unconscious decision not to replicate their own childhoods in the way they brought up their offspring.

  Mother and Father’s unashamed love of children, enthusiasm for life, and sense of fun made our childhood that much richer. Thanks to their efforts, I realized subsequently that becoming a mother or father doesn’t automatically make you a good parent. You have to learn and work hard at family life, a lesson I hope I have instilled in my many charges.

  One tradition that was most certainly passed down was that of a boarding school education. In 1932, at age eleven, I was sent to Courtfield Gardens School for girls in Bognor Regis.

  The boys were all sent to the same boarding school on the Isle of Wight, and Kathleen had gone to Courtfield Gardens the year before me. Having been duly equipped with the correct green school uniform, I prepared to set off with my father, who was to drive Kathleen and me down to Bognor.

  It was only fifty miles, but I may as well have been traveling to the moon. Apart from our trips to Norfolk to see Granny Brown, I had scarcely left Hallcroft. I was desolated at leaving David, who was coming up to two, but I accepted my fate. Girls from my background were always sent to boarding school to be educated.

  Nevertheless, it was a big change for an eleven-year-old. Parting from the warmth and security of my family was agony.

  As Father loaded our trunks into the car, Mother stood on the doorstep, clutching David to her chest. His chubby little arms pumped with excitement when he saw the car. He loved cars almost as much as he loved my kisses. Already I knew big changes would take place in my absence. Every day he’d pick up a new word, toddle that bit farther up the garden, embark more boldly on life’s journey … and I wouldn’t be there to witness any of these new milestones.

  Sadness gripped my heart.

  “Be good, my little angel,” I whispered in his ear, as I planted a soft kiss on his jam-smeared face.

  Mother scooped me into her arms.

  “I’m so proud of you, Brenda. Now you do me proud.”

  She kissed me, and my cheek tingled where her soft, downy cheek had touched mine. Her skin was as warm as toast and she smelled of lemony soap.

  I gulped back my tears and nodded my head vigorously. “I will, Mother,” I whispered.

  In the car Kathleen stared out the window, lost in her own thoughts, so I was left quite alone in my misery. By the time we pulled up in front of Courtfield Gardens, my head was spinning.

  The driveway was full of parents unloading trunks, excited girls babbling away ten to the dozen, anxious mothers and fathers checking their watches. You could spot the new girls a mile off: they looked as bewildered as I did.

  Father crouched down to our level.

  “D-do—do me proud, my darlings,” he stuttered, hugging us both close.

  My lip wobbled as I watched him turn and stride to the car.

  Don’t cry, Brenda, don’t cry, not here, not now.

  And then he was gone, and I was sucked into the regime that is boarding school life.

  Courtfield Gardens was a rambling old mansion house with ten dormitories sleeping five girls each.

  Our routine was similar to most boarding schools. The day started at 7:30 AM, when the deputy matron came to wake us. We washed, dressed
, and stripped our beds.

  We waited for the bell to ring, which was the signal for quiet while we said our prayers, then filed to the dining room for breakfast.

  Then we trooped to our classrooms for a day of lessons. Formal education in those days was focused on the three R’s: reading, writing, and arithmetic.

  Occasionally I saw Kathleen in the dining hall, but our lives were still very separate. She had her friends and I had mine. Mind you, she still managed to have an impact on my life.

  One morning, during a particularly complex lesson on algebra, I found myself completely dumbfounded. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t grasp it. The letters and numbers swam in front of my eyes like a foreign language.

  “Why can’t you get it, Brenda?” snapped the teacher. “Your sister, Kathleen, can do it.”

  Annoyance prickled inside me. I was hopeless, totally hopeless at numbers; and as soon as the teacher started making comparisons to Kathleen, something inside me just shut down even more.

  I wasn’t Kathleen. I was me. Brenda Ashford.

  That moment lodged in my mind. Throughout my career I have never, ever drawn comparisons between children in order to humiliate them. Each child is a unique individual with his or her own skills and talents.

  There was a strange sense of comfort in the unchanging daily routine, but even so, boarding school was a bewildering place with many unspoken rules to learn and observe.

  I was greatly relieved therefore when summer term ended and Father collected us for the hotly anticipated summer holidays. I couldn’t wait to get home and tore up the drive like a tornado.

  “Mother, David!” I shouted. “We’re home.”

  Mother came rushing into the hall. I noticed her slight hands were nervously ringing a tea towel. She had faint black circles under her eyes and a vein twitched in her temple.

  What had gone on since I was at school?

  And then I noticed. Everything was different. The hall was piled up with brown packing boxes, the windows had no curtains, and even the ceiling lights were just bare bulbs.

  I ran from room to room, tears blurring my eyes. Every room had been stripped bare of its belongings. The bedroom we had all been born in looked vast and empty. Even the air felt thinner.

  Shivering, I returned to the hall where Kathleen and Mother stood looking bewildered.

  “I’m afraid we are moving, girls,” said Mother.

  And that was all that was said on the matter. Neither Mother nor Father elaborated any further.

  Years later I learned the truth about why we had to leave Hallcroft that fateful summer morning. Father’s business partner had done the dirty on him.

  For years my father had been asking to see the books, and his partner had been fobbing him off. When Father finally got his hands on them, he was horrified to see the company was in debt—bad debt that his unscrupulous partner had run up against the business. Then the scoundrel did a runner to America, leaving Father to face the music. The wholesale ladies’ and children’s knitwear business with its grand premises was forced into bankruptcy.

  Mother’s brother, our uncle Jeffrey, came to the rescue and gave Father enough money to rent a small bungalow in Bookham in Surrey, but the business was closed and Hallcroft had been sold.

  Can you imagine the shame of bankruptcy for a man like my father—a man with high morals, decorated for his bravery during the war? He had survived the trenches only to be destroyed by an enemy closer to home.

  It must have been a savage blow.

  Father had a hand in everything that had gone into Hallcroft, right down to those leather thong door handles. He had designed it and overseen the building of it. It was the pinnacle of everything he had achieved, and his lifeblood pulsed through every oak staircase and floorboard. He had been so proud of that house.

  But the human spirit is nothing if not resilient, and to us children it was merely a blip. We might no longer have our glorious home to run through, but we still had each other. Mother and Father were the heart of the home, and to me it didn’t matter where we slept at night as long as I had them. So in the summer of 1933 we found ourselves living at Amberley bungalow in Bookham.

  Over the eighty years since we left Hallcroft House I have moved many times, and I do so without a backward glance.

  Trading down taught me an important lesson: never let a house define you. You can make a home anywhere, from an air raid shelter to a shed, if you have to. Riches and wealth don’t matter a jot. You can be happy anywhere so long as you have love and family in your life. I may never have had much money but I have always been rich in love.

  That first night, as I snuggled down in the room I shared with Kathleen and listened to the boys’ soft breathing in the room next door, I looked forward to the next adventure in my life.

  Nanny’s Wisdom

  A HOUSE IS JUST A BUILDING.

  A house is just four walls filled with material items. It’s not the house and the price of the items in it that count—it’s the occupants who really matter. Whether you live in a castle or a shack, you can find true and lasting happiness only if the house in which you live is filled with family and love. Only then, when a house is ringing with laughter and people you worship, can it become a home. So next time you find yourself wishing you lived in a bigger house with more space and rooms, think again. I enjoyed just as many happy memories crammed into that bungalow with my family as I did in our big house. Wealth, riches, and a fancy kitchen don’t matter. It’s the people that count.

  SURPRISE YOUR CHILDREN.

  Every now and again why not do what my father did and surprise your children with some wonderful sweets in a brown paper bag. Watch their eyes light up when you pull it out of your pocket—not too often, mind you.…

  CHAPTER 2

  THE CALLING

  THE RAVENSHERE FAMILY

  BYFLEET, SURREY, ENGLAND

  [1937, AGE SIXTEEN]

  One, two, buckle my shoe

  Three, four, knock at the door

  Five, six, pick up sticks

  Seven, eight, lay them straight

  Nine, ten, a big fat hen

  Eleven, twelve, dig and delve

  Thirteen, fourteen, maids a-courting

  Fifteen, sixteen, maids in the kitchen

  Seventeen, eighteen, maids in waiting

  Nineteen, twenty, my plate’s empty

  —ENGLISH NURSERY RHYME

  Schedule

  7:00 AM: Woke up, washed, and dressed.

  7:30 AM: Fixed boys breakfast of cereal and hot buttered toast.

  8:00 AM: Got boys’ satchels and their coats on so they were ready for their father to drive them to school.

  9:00 AM TO 1:00 PM: Washed up, made boys’ beds, and tidied their rooms. Did chores dictated by Mrs. Ravenshere, from washing and ironing to cooking and baking.

  1:00 PM: Ate homemade soup and bread roll for lunch with Mrs. Ravenshere.

  2:00 PM: Did more chores, such as washing, mending, and sewing.

  3:00 PM: Helped muck out and feed Mrs. Ravenshere’s ponies.

  5:00 PM: Fixed the boys ham sandwiches and milk on their return from school, then supervised two hours of homework.

  7:00 PM: Helped with the bedtime routine. Got out boys’ pajamas and drew their bath. Watched Mrs. Ravenshere tuck them up and kiss them tenderly good night.

  8:00 PM: Ate supper, then bed by 9:30 PM.

  THE WIND OF CHANGE WAS heady in the air. King George V had died and his heir to the throne, Edward, was causing shock waves throughout the country with his determination to marry the scandalous American divorcée Wallis Simpson.

  To a fifteen-year-old girl not schooled in the ways of love, this seemed simply outrageous. How could he court a woman who had cheated on her husband, then expect us to accept her as our queen? Preposterous. It wasn’t only schoolgirls who felt that way, mind. I didn’t meet a single person who didn’t think it was wrong. Looking back, the vilification of Wallis Simpson was probably o
ver the top, but in those innocent yet judgmental times their love seemed destined to fail. In the end, Edward chose love over duty, whereas I have always chosen duty over love. Would I have been happier had I opted for marriage rather than life as a nanny? I very much doubt it.

  There was change in my life, too, albeit on a smaller scale. Our reversal of fortune meant no more smart boarding school for me. Instead, the local county school in Epsom beckoned.

  As for my brothers, Father had made a gentlemen’s agreement with the headmaster of their boarding school on the Isle of Wight that they could stay on; and eventually all four would be schooled there, on the proviso he could have two boys educated for the price of one. It was only later when the bill for the school fees came in that he realized the headmaster had rescinded on his agreement and charged the full cost for all their board and education. This was a fresh blow for my father, who was struggling financially.

  In many ways Father was naive: he just accepted what everyone told him as gospel. He simply saw the best in people and never had a bad word to say about anyone. I hope I have inherited these traits and I hope I have done my best to pass them along to my charges. Sadly, people with personalities such as ours will never grow rich, but at least we know we will always do right by others.

  It was with this attitude that I marched into my first day at my new school.

  As I walked into the classroom, I felt all eyes swivel and turn to rest on me. I could see all the girls taking in my freshly pressed and starched uniform, gleaming white socks, and plimsolls. We may not have had much money then, but my mother was a proud woman and wouldn’t have dreamed of having her children leave the house looking anything less than immaculate.

  Nervously I took my seat as the others girls tittered and nudged one another. Listening to them talk, I was amazed. I had led a sheltered life and these girls were street-smart.

  “ ’Ere,” hissed the girl next to me, elbowing me sharply in the ribs. “Ainchya that girl what lost all ’er money?”