Right on cue, a curious noise rang out from a neighboring field.
“Weee … weeeeee … weeeeee.”
The pitch grew higher and higher.
Suddenly, a squealing little pink piglet burst out of a hedgerow and galloped full tilt the length of the field, with a crowd of Bethnal Greenies in pursuit on the other side of the fence.
“Children, calm down,” hollered Miss Taylor as they disappeared behind an ancient beech tree.
“Forgive them,” she said, with an apologetic smile. “It’s a new experience, and the fresh air has quite gone to their heads.”
“Nothing to forgive,” I said. “I love to see them playing so carefree.”
Miss Taylor nodded her agreement.
“True, Nurse Brenda. They are well, sturdy, and happy—and that is the most we can hope for. Their little souls are being filled with the beauty of nature.”
OVER THE COMING DAYS, as the Bethnal Greenies grew accustomed to their new home, I lived to see their little faces light up when they made some magical new countryside discovery.
The gentle slopes on the far side of the parkland made a perfect spot for roly-polies. You could bet little Elsie would be first to hurl herself down with a whoop, skirts tucked into her knickers.
Her joy and love of our new home was infectious.
“ ’Ere, Brenda,” she called to me one morning. “Cook said I could ’elp collects the eggs for breakfast. I was looking in the trees, so I was.… They only come from an ’en’s arse.”
Later, at playtime, I saw her poking around in the ornamental pond in the garden with a stick, her skirts spattered with mud.
I chuckled, then thought nervously of other stories I had heard of evacuee children frying goldfish they had found to eat.
When they weren’t climbing trees, wading in streams, and collecting feathers, they came in from their walks with their mouths stained bright purple from eating blackberries straight from the hedgerows.
“There’s a lot of room in the countryside, ain’t there?” Elsie remarked one day.
I couldn’t have put it better myself.
“How about that game of It now, Elsie?” I said. “I’m dying to play.”
Her eyes lit up like stars. “All right. Coming, ready or not!” she yelled.
I spent a glorious afternoon with Elsie and her chums, playing It and catch. We scarcely had a toy between us and yet the hours slipped by like minutes.
I quickly realized children have inexhaustible reserves of energy and never seem to tire. Not only that but they have a boundless capacity for fun.
Fortunately, a childhood spent chasing my brothers had left me pretty fit, which was just as well as I could see child care didn’t leave one with much time to rest.
“Brenda, let’s pretend to be pirates now,” said Elsie, after she had caught me ducking behind a hedgerow.
She picked up a stick and quickly clambered up a nearby tree stump. “What a wonderful idea,” I praised. “Let’s take it in turns to be Captain Blackbeard on the tree stump ship.”
Spotting a feather I picked it up.
“Here”—I grinned, tucking it in her hair—“you’ll need this if you’re a true pirate.”
Picking up a dandelion, I squeezed the head until my fingers were stained yellow, then used the natural dye to place two yellow streaks across her face. “There. Now you look truly ferocious,” I said.
She simply could not believe her eyes. By using a feather and a flower, I had made our make-believe game burst into life.
Her blue eyes sparkled at the possibilities, and I learned a valuable lesson by observing this.
As I grew in confidence throughout my career I learned that children love when an adult can understand their world and play on their level.
I think the problem for so many mothers now is that most of them have so much to deal with. It must be like keeping plates spinning for the poor modern mum.
How a woman nowadays juggles work and child care I shall never understand. I daresay finding half an hour to sit down with your children, much less unlocking their secret world, is a perplexing and exhausting struggle. My heart goes out to every mother today. I think too much is expected of them, I really do.
But if one can take the time to understand children’s worlds and what motivates them, the rewards are endless. Even if you spend just ten minutes after reading a bedtime story to ask what made her laugh today, what scared her, and what made her excited, you can learn so much about what makes your child tick.
Seeing the Bethnal Greenies was an enormous learning curve for me and a lesson to treasure always.
Likewise so was dealing with their little tantrums, of which all children are more than capable of throwing.
When Elsie refused to give up command of the ship, I remembered my mother’s words: what I do for one, I have to do for all.
“Come on now, Elsie,” I said firmly. “It’s time to let someone else have a go.”
“No!” she shouted. “Don’t wanna.”
Was I nervous, scared at the scene that could erupt and leave me like a fish out of water? I was only a nanny in training, after all.
Slightly, but instinct told me that now wasn’t the time to show fear—now was the time to get stern. If I didn’t, I would lose her respect forever.
“Well, you have no choice I’m afraid, Elsie,” I said lifting her down. “Now, up you go, John,” I said with a smile, hoisting a little boy up on the tree stump.
“Spoilsport,” she grumbled, kicking the stump.
“Come now, Elsie,” I chided. “It’s such a waste of time being beastly when you could be doing other things—like being a ferocious pirate.”
There was little point losing my temper with Elsie. A girl like her would only have yelled back louder. Instinct told me reasoning and logic was the way forward.
For all her bravado I could tell she was sensitive and probably very intelligent. If I could make her see that being horrid wasn’t a waste of my time but hers, I might get through to her. It worked, because two minutes later she had focused her attention on trying to make cannonballs out of conkers.
Tantrum averted. I breathed a sigh of relief. I suppose some parents today would have issued her with a short, sharp smack, but I was a Norland nanny. By training with them I rejected the use of smacking, and jolly grateful I was for that, too.
Imagine if I had left that little girl with a stinging hand mark on her leg? I would have lost her trust forever; and once lost, trust is something you can never get back.
I learned another important lesson that afternoon. Children are not like peas in a pod: no two are alike.
John, whom I had just helped up onto the tree stump, was as different from Elsie as chalk is to cheese. Maybe it was because he had been wrenched from the security of his family, but he was a quivering mass of nerves, poor little soldier.
“I don’t think I know how to steer the ship,” he said, his little lip wobbling. “I want to get down.”
“You’re doing marvelously.”
“If you think so,” he said nervously.
“I know so,” I trilled. “Really, you are the most splendid captain,” I said with a grin. “Isn’t he, Elsie?”
Tantrum forgotten, she smiled and galloped off over the fields. “He’ll never take me alive, me ’arties,” she bellowed.
“I’ll make you walk the plank, so I will,” said John shyly, a lovely smile spreading over his sweet freckled face.
Soon everyone was playing again. Phew. Disaster averted. Just observing these little children playing was teaching me so much: that each child is as unique and individual as the trees that grow in the fields.
Miss Taylor, who had watched the whole episode, came up behind me, smiling. “Well done, Brenda. You’re a natural with those children. They seem to really respond to you.”
“Thanks.” I beamed. “I think it’s about understanding and respect. If I respect them, they will respect me in turn. Likewise, I th
ink I understand a little something of what it’s like to be a child. My sister, Kathleen, was a bookworm, you see, always reading in her bedroom, whereas I was like Elsie here—couldn’t wait to get outside and get my hands dirty. It can’t hurt to take a little extra time to understand what makes them tick.…” My voice trailed off. “What?” I asked. “You’re looking at me funnily.”
“Nothing, dear Brenda,” she said, smiling and putting her hand on my arm. “I was just thinking what a really excellent nanny you’re going to make.”
I was walking on air as I gathered the children up and ushered them inside for tea. Well, what about that? Maybe I really was going to be good at something, too.
As I drifted off to sleep that night, with the sound of the children’s laughter and images of Elsie’s pirate chasing through my mind, I dared to dream. Maybe, just maybe, I might have it in me to be a very proper nanny.
OVER THE WEEKS THE CHILDREN GREW to not only love but also respect the countryside and its furry occupants. Particularly young Elsie, who befriended every horse, pig, and cow within a twenty-mile radius.
But one crisp morning Elsie and her gang saw something that I am sure, if they are still alive today, they will remember as if it were yesterday.
We were coming back from a stroll when a shrill noise screamed across the fields. Every animal and small child in the vicinity paused, nostrils quivering.
Seconds later a fox leaped from its hiding place and tore toward us, followed by a pack of slavering beagles.
The children didn’t know it but they were witnessing the Ashford Valley Hunt, a local tradition.
Suddenly, the ground seemed to shake beneath our feet as over the brow of a hill a dozen or so magnificent horses galloped in our direction, their tails streaming behind them.
The master, resplendent in his scarlet jacket, had the fox in his sights and the hunt was on.
The dogs, scenting a kill, upped their pace.
The terrified fox bobbed this way and that, but he was no match for the dogs and he seemed certain to meet a grisly end in the jaws of one of those beasts.
Suddenly, little Elsie drew herself up, her face red with rage. “Flamin’ cheek,” she huffed. “Who they fink they are, chasing an ’armless fox? Run!” she hollered.
She was joined by the rest of the Bethnal Greenies.
“Leg it! Run!” they whooped and yelled, stamping their feet and bellowing like a pack of angry fishwives.
Perhaps his own personal East End cheerleading team spurred the fox on because he ducked into thick brambles and outwitted the dogs, much to the relief of Elsie and her gang.
“Aah.” Behind us Miss Whitehead sighed. “The agonies of anxiety.”
I’d have loved to spend more time with the Bethnal Greenies, but my attentions had to be elsewhere. Knowing how Joan and I loved the babies, Miss Whitehead had put us in charge of the baby nursery. Every student had to have a go, and presently it was our turn.
We had five babies in all, ranging from one month to eight months. When we were on night duty, we slept in the nursery in the large double bed that also served as the perfect place to change a baby’s nappy during the day.
Joan and I were on duty together, and we took it in turns to do the night shift, with one sleeping and the other getting up to tend to whichever baby had woken up. Well, I say sleeping, but you try sleeping when five babies decide to wake at once. Invariably whoever’s turn it was to stay in bed ended up getting up to help out.
We were discouraged from giving milk to babies older than three months to get them back to sleep, so Joan and I offered water. Then we seemed to spend the rest of the night pacing the nursery, each with a little baby on her shoulder, soothing them back to sleep. Pacifiers were taboo in those days: they were looked upon as the poor man’s trick. I must have walked marathons round those nurseries.
But I didn’t mind, as I was close to my beloved babies. You cannot imagine the noise of those nurseries. If I close my eyes, I can still hear it now. We didn’t get much sleep!
When we were in charge of the baby room, we got up at 6:00 AM and got dressed and ate breakfast as quickly as possible before the babies woke.
For the rest of the day, we were constantly juggling feeds, sleep times, burping, and naps. The babies always had to have a walk in the morning. Then we combined feeds with playtime on a little mat on the nursery floor. After that, all the babies were lined up outside in their prams for their afternoon naps. While they slept, we cleaned the nurseries, changed the sheets, and prepared the bottles. Goodness, we didn’t stop for a moment.
Bath time was a lot of fun. The babies weren’t washed in tin tubs like the Bethnal Greenies. Back then, we had these sort of strange folding rubber baths that were erected in the nursery and filled with jugs of warm water. We didn’t use soap or anything to wash them, just warm water.
Afterward they were towel dried and then liberally sprinkled with talcum powder to blot up any remaining dampness. Nowadays they say it blocks the pores of the skin, but those babies seemed just fine on it. If they had a particularly sore-looking bottom we fetched up a jug of olive oil from the kitchen and rubbed that in. We didn’t have nappy rash cream back then, but olive oil always did the job.
Next, we put their terry cloth nappies, fastened up with a big safety pin, on them, then gently got them dressed in little cotton or soft Viyella nighties. We didn’t use “baby grows” because they hadn’t come in by then. How I loved that time of day when the babies were all lined up and kicking their pudgy legs on the double bed.
They were all sweet smelling, soft, and sleepy and looked simply adorable side by side in their pristine white cotton nighties.
After feed times, we swaddled the ones younger than six weeks, then all babies were put down to sleep by 7:00 PM latest. One of us would stay in charge and sit in the darkened nursery and sew by the light of one small lamp in the corner.
Pacing a nursery night after night with at least one crying baby as we did, it was inevitable that exhaustion and self-doubt did at times creep in. If I couldn’t settle a baby, despair would grip my heart. What was the point of being a nanny if I couldn’t get a child to sleep? Eventually, the baby would drift off. Joan and I would crash back onto our shared bed, overcome with exhaustion. At least we had each other for company.
But there was one thing, thank goodness, I did seem rather good at.
I remember sitting one morning with a baby nestled in the crook of my arm. From time to time the Norland lecturers came up to observe us going about our duties, and on this occasion two of them were watching me give this baby her feed.
Presently one turned to the other and whispered in her ear. The other one nodded and then continued to stare.
Oh, crumbs. What had I done wrong?
I was supporting the baby’s head, the bottle was at the right angle to get a good flow, baby had a good attachment to the bottle and was feeding happily, and I had my muslin cloth to hand to dab away any milk from round baby’s mouth.
So what on earth had I done wrong? They couldn’t take their eyes off me.
“Am I d-doing something wrong?” I stuttered eventually. “It’s just that I notice you’re looking at me a lot.”
“Don’t worry, Brenda.” One of the ladies smiled warmly. “We were actually just saying how good you are at feeding babies, a natural, in fact. You look as if you’ve been doing it all your life.”
Me. Brenda, a natural? A warm glow of happiness spread through me. I could scarcely wipe the silly smile off my face.
How perfectly, perfectly wonderful.
As the baby finished his milk and rounded it off with a soft burp, I chuckled to myself and gently put him over my shoulder to wind him. Then I swaddled him tightly in a blanket and tucked him up in my arms.
Watching him snuggle down and drift off to sleep, his soft little fingers splayed out, his chest softly rising and falling, I felt a rush of love so strong it took my breath away.
He, like all babies
I had ever held in my arms, was heartbreakingly innocent and vulnerable.
The world might have been an uncertain place, but there was one thing I was growing more sure of by the day: babies and children were my destiny.
While my days were filled with milky burps, cuddles, fun, and laughing at the adventures of the Bethnal Greenies, my nights were a little lonelier.
When one sense is blocked out, the others quickly become more acute. The darker the nights got as the year turned to autumn and the less we could see, the more sensitive my hearing became.
The old house was forever creaking and groaning, the ancient plumbing put under extra strain by its new occupants. Burst pipes were often followed by sudden deluges through the roof.
The hooting of owls drifted through the night and occasionally the soft cry of a little Bethnal Greenie, suddenly missing his or her mum, reached the baby nursery.
Upon hearing those pitiful little cries, my mind always returned to my own family. At night I missed Mother, Father, and David. I thought of them all sharing cocoa and listening to Father reading Rupert Bear and my heart ached just a little.
Christopher, Michael, and Basil had one another for comfort at school on the Isle of Wight, and Kathleen was busy with her training in London, but David was at home with Mother and Father.
How I longed to have a cuddle with them all.
But then my mind drifted to the Bethnal Greenies. They, like me, had been parted from their loved ones, and they were much younger than I. Yet somehow, they took it all in stride, and, apart from the odd cry in the night, were a resilient and cheerful bunch, not prone to feeling sorry for themselves.
Their poor parents were goodness knows where, risking their lives. The children had no idea when they would see their parents again, but did they complain? Not once. Perhaps, I realized with a wry smile, I should take my cue from these little folk and let them be the teachers. Thankfully during the day there were plenty of chubby little souls that needed my cuddles and love.
I was in my element caring for the newborn babies. They were illegitimate, born as a result of a no doubt scandalous liaison. It is impossible to overstate the stigma then attached to bearing a child out of wedlock. To find yourself unmarried and pregnant in the 1930s was a quite intolerable position in those harsher, more judgmental times.
A Spoonful of Sugar Page 10