Child adoption only became legal in 1926, so the fate for babies born out of wedlock was often uncertain. This was where the Norland stepped in. They gave a home to young mothers and their children until more permanent arrangements could be made.
In return for cooking, cleaning, and general domestic duties, young mothers could lodge at Hothfield, and we students cared for their babies and gained valuable experience. The mothers came and breast-fed their children before returning them to us for their day-to-day care.
We weren’t allowed to form friendships with the mothers or even eat with them.
This may all sound strange to you, but in many ways it was a godsend for the mothers. They had a roof over their heads, regular meals, and the knowledge their babies were being cared for, all away from society’s prying and judgmental eyes.
These ladies turned up at all hours with tiny babies in tow. I knew better than to ask where they had come from or what their stories were. But it didn’t stop us from wondering. Were the babies the result of illicit liaisons between workhouse masters and young inmates, or perhaps a chambermaid at a London hotel and a wealthy married businessman? One thing was for sure: these women were nearly always young, pretty, and vulnerable.
Meeting them was a privilege in many ways, as it taught me a very important lesson and one I have carried with me throughout my life: do not judge or be judgmental. Those women were just girls really, scared out of their minds and in need of my love and support, not condemnation.
It was not my place to purse my lips and tut disapprovingly. It was my place to help them and do all I could to make their lives a little less frightening.
Fortunately today for young women, having a baby out of wedlock is no longer frowned on. Back then it was a huge disgrace, and these girls would have been treated harshly from the moment their bumps started to show.
The world would be a much nicer place if people just tried to understand a little more instead of sitting in judgment. Think how many fewer wars, political rows, and family disharmonies there would be if only people didn’t judge.…
One morning I was summoned to the nursery to meet a new resident who would be under my care. The baby allocated to me was about ten days old and screaming at the top of her lungs. Her mother, Rose, a pretty, timid little thing about the same age as me, looked utterly distraught.
“M-my milk hasn’t come in,” she managed between sobs. “My baby, Lilly. She won’t feed.”
Breast-feeding had always been championed by the institute. It was drummed into us that only three things are needed to establish successful breast-feeding: a healthy mother, a good sucking baby, and a stable nervous system.
Mabel Liddiard, in her The Mothercraft Manual, asserted that “the mother should have good food, not too much, fresh air and healthy occupation. The only excuse for failure would be a very poor mother living on the dole.”
Well, this girl, slim as she was, didn’t look as if she were starving.
A good sucking baby. “Some babies are rather sleepy and require concentration.”
It couldn’t be that; this little one was raising Hothfield’s rafters.
A stable nervous system. “The nervous mother, unsure of herself, frightened that the baby is not progressing, imagines all sorts of non-existent complications, which reacts on the baby.”
I suspected this was the problem. Poor Rose looked scared stiff, and who could blame her? Poor mite. She needed confidence and cheerleading, not my condemnation. She was such a pretty little thing, with her big brown eyes and soft brown curls. I wondered, as I always did, what on earth had led her here.
One thing was for certain, I wasn’t about to judge. Whoever the father was, he didn’t want to know, otherwise she wouldn’t have been there, but he was obviously wealthy. This baby wanted for nothing but stability. She had the best of the best—a shiny new Burlington carriage pram, no doubt purchased from that emporium of fine goods, Gamages in Holborn, and the finest soft smock dresses. But her poor mother looked like she would have traded it all in a heartbeat for some love and a kind word. She was so shy she could barely meet my eye.
I thought of my first trembling days at the institute.
“Come here,” I said, smiling and laying my hand on her shoulder. I felt her relax to my touch. “Let’s see if we can’t get that milk to come. Your little girl is hungry.”
Together we gently applied the breast massage I’d been taught at Norland in London, and when the first trickle of milk came in, her eyes shone and she gasped. “Oh thank you,” she cried.
Picking up Lilly, I handed her to Rose—and the little one instantly latched on, gently suckling milk.
The screaming stopped and peace descended on the nursery.
“You’re doing marvelously,” I reassured her, fetching her a glass of water.
I wondered at the bond between mother and baby as I watched this most magic and bonding of rituals.
When the baby finally fell contentedly asleep, little pools of milk gathered at the corners of her mouth, cheeks rosy, I felt a warm glow of satisfaction. The mother smiled at me and I knew in an instant that life didn’t feel quite so bad for her.
“I have to go and report to Miss Whitehead for my duties now but thank you, miss,” she said, looking me in the eye. She handed me her sleeping babe and scurried off.
We didn’t speak much after that and I didn’t dare risk a telling off by inviting friendship, but an unspoken bond existed between us. She entrusted me with her baby day after day.
I often wonder what became of Rose and baby Lilly after I left Hothfield. I have no idea, but I hope she found the peace and security she and her little girl needed.
WITH EACH PASSING SEASON the bonds between us girls strengthened and the camaraderie deepened. The misery of Great Ormond Street was long forgotten and even home and my beloved baby brother didn’t crowd my thoughts as they once had.
Autumn blew in, and Hothfield became a kaleidoscope of red and gold. The breeze carried the damp smell of fallen leaves.
The annual burning of winter bracken took place on the common nearby, and its rich smell revived the senses. Windblown conkers were eagerly scooped up by the Bethnal Greenies, who challenged each other to conker fights.
What the Bethnal Greenies loved most, though, was charging their way through great drifts of fallen leaves, relishing the crunching noise they made under their feet. Little wonder. The concrete streets of Bethnal Green didn’t contain many leaves, much less leaf mountains.
“Look at me, Brenda,” Elsie said with a whoop, as she threw them over her head. “It’s raining leaves.”
I laughed heartily.
For all the world she looked like a little princess in a falling-leaf snow globe as they tumbled over her blond head.
“Why don’t you keep some?” I suggested. “I’m sure we can find you a scrapbook somewhere. In fact, let’s hunt out all sorts of things to stick in. There’re acorns, wildflowers, beautiful leaves.”
She wrinkled her nose. “But won’t they go moldy and yuk?”
“Not at all, darling. The wildflowers will dry if you press them right. I’ll show you how later. Don’t you think when you see your mummy next she would love to see all the beautiful nature you’re surrounded by? She’ll be so much happier, knowing you are in such a beautiful place—and if you show her the flowers, she’ll be able to imagine it for herself.”
At the mention of her mother, Elsie smiled, and I knew that had sunk in. “Yeah,” she said, brimming over with excitement. “She ain’t never seen an acorn afore. Nice one, Brenda.”
What a voyage of discovery Elsie and I went on that afternoon. We made necklaces of pretty leaves and showed the other Bethnal Greenies how to paint their faces with earth. We poured water on the ground to make the worms wriggle their way to the surface and laughed as the children gasped in amazement.
Seeing their excitement that day made me realize what a good idea that was for all children; and later in my career I alway
s went nature hunting with my charges. It costs nothing. A nanny’s treasure box, filled with seasonal treats of nature—from fallen leaves in autumn to shells in summer—is a lovely way of having fun and teaching children something at the same time. I always encourage them to collect things and treasure their collections.
Treat nature as a toy box, and the rewards are endless. Even now if I see a lovely conker or a beautiful leaf, I have to stop myself from picking it up to hand to a little child.
But the lovely autumn quickly gave way to freezing cold and snow.
We awoke one morning and pulled aside the blackout curtains to see that a blanket of powder had arrived overnight, covering everything as far as the eye could see. It was magical.
Muffled squeals of delight rang out over the house when the Bethnal Greenies realized their playground had been transformed into a winter wonderland.
Wellies and mittens were hurriedly pulled on as the children charged outside between lessons. The snow was so deep it went right over the tops of their boots. Elsie and her gang let out great excited yelps as the snow melted and trickled between their toes. It would take more than soggy socks to stop these intrepid children; and soon the gardens glittered like a snowstorm as snowballs were hurled back and forth.
The winter of 1940 was the coldest one recorded for forty-five years, and the snow lasted for weeks. I can’t remember anything like that winter in all my life. Milk, butter, and other supplies were brought in from the village by sled. The pipes’ constantly freezing was enough to try Miss Whitehead’s legendary calm to the limit. The building looked like a giant white wedding cake with huge drifts of snow piled on the roof and fringes of icicles hanging off the edge of the porch.
But even the subzero temperatures weren’t enough to stop Miss Whitehead from insisting that all the babies receive their daily dose of fresh air. We couldn’t wheel the prams outside in such thick snow, so instead we moved all the cots out there. Nothing, but nothing, would come between those babies and their fresh air!
What a sight! Rows of cots were lined up in the snow. In them, chubby, rosy little faces peeked out from a warm nest of blankets.
They looked so cozy nestled up that I half longed to join them, but there was far too much fun to be had at break times with the Bethnal Greenies.
“Gotcha,” yelled Elsie as an expertly rolled snowball caught me right round the side of the face.
“That does it,” I hollered, charging after her.
Joan, Margaret, Yvonne, Mary, and I couldn’t resist joining the children. The tough little East Enders were expert at dodging this way and that, and their snowballs were delivered with stinging precision. Suffice to say, we students came off a lot worse than them!
The same slopes that had made such a perfect place for roly-polies in the late autumn sunshine now made ideal sled ground.
Many an exciting hour was spent clinging to the edge of a toboggan as Elsie and her gang launched you off down the icy slopes. With the cries of “ ’Ang on, Brenda” still ringing in my ears, my nerves tingled all over as I hit a tree stump and found myself suddenly airborne.
Later, as a clear moon rose over the house and the temperatures plunged, we all trooped inside for a warming mug of cocoa.
We had so much fun and banter every day that it was easy to forget we were in the middle of a war. In all the weeks we’d been here there hadn’t been so much as a whiff of Hitler’s forces or the threat of imminent invasion that had driven us all to this beautiful corner of Kent.
“What a funny collection of people we are, gathered under this roof,” I mused to myself one evening. Norland matrons, young students, Bethnal Green evacuees, and illegitimate children all were blissfully coexisting, all helping one another through these uncertain, troubled times. I had grown most fond of our little community and the safety and warmth it represented. In fact, I thought it couldn’t get any better … until Christmas and all its magic arrived.
What a joyous occasion. We had a never to be forgotten festival, and each child was sent presents and photos from home.
There were tears as the children suddenly remembered their mamas and papas left behind in London. But tears were quickly replaced with gasps of delight when after a dinner of turkey with all the trimmings, kindly donated by local farmers, each child opened a well-filled Christmas stocking made by us nurses.
Then we all marched upstairs to the spacious hall, where Miss Whitehead had prepared an enormous tree. A toy babe snuggled in a manger. The lights twinkled on the tree and then … the most magical thing of all happened.
The door swung open and a jolly fellow in a red suit appeared.
“It’s Father Christmas,” screamed little Elsie.
Forty-four little jaws dropped.
Chaos broke out as Father Christmas walked in, ringing a large bell and, joy of joys, pulling a sleigh groaning with presents.
“Me … me … me,” clamored the excited evacuees happily.
Wrapping paper was eagerly torn off and discarded and murmurs and whoops of delight filled the room.
I looked over at Miss Whitehead. She was standing back, watching with a tired but happy smile on her face. Only a woman such as she could have pulled all this out of the bag in the middle of wartime!
Next, we sat down to a tea of ham sandwiches and fairy cakes, followed by party games.
As I watched the evacuees and the nurses, I realized we were in a haven of security and joy. We may not have had our loved ones around us, we knew not what the future held, but we were all making the most of it. Even shy Rose was joining in the games, laughing and clapping, her pretty brown eyes shining with delight.
That night the great house was comfortably silent as every occupant fell into a deep, exhausted, and contented sleep.
That Christmas was one of the happiest times in my life and I will remember it always.
It taught me that you don’t need to have a lot of money to enjoy a magical Christmas. A few well-chosen toys are better than piles of presents and, as long as everyone is prepared to join in and put their troubles to one side for a day, a wonderful time can be enjoyed by all.
So many children get so much for Christmas these days that I fear that the magic of it is quite ruined.
Put aside those endless toys, switch off the television, and play games with your children. It is those fun times they will remember, not the toys. It’s the emotion of the day that carries through over the years and lives on in our hearts.
EVENTUALLY, THE FREEZING SNOWS of winter thawed and revealed a countryside beautiful almost beyond recognition. Lambs frolicked round the fields, giving endless joy to Elsie and her crew of Bethnal Greenies, wildflowers burst from the hedgerows, and a mist of blossom spread over the orchards. The woodland around the common was blanketed in bluebells.
Again I marveled at the fact that we were in the middle of a war. Rationing didn’t much affect us, thanks to the abundant food supplies in the countryside and the kindness of the locals. The skies were endless and blue, without an enemy plane in sight. No one knew what the future held, so all we could do was live in the present.
And then, suddenly, I had more pressing problems than worrying about the German army. I had to take my final exam!
Mother had written to inform me she had a job with a family friend lined up for me the moment I passed; plus if I failed the exam, I might not get the funding for another term, as my bursary would run out.
And so I found myself one spring morning staring balefully at an exam paper.
“Your time starts now,” said Miss Whitehead, leaving me alone.
Question 1—“What do you consider Froebel’s most notable characteristics as an educator?”—became blotted and blurred.
The first teardrop was quickly joined by another.
Question 2—“Define the following methods of cooking: baking, stewing, roasting, and steaming,”—soon became an inky jumble.
Question 3—“Why is air the greatest necessity of animal life and
how do we ensure that children get a constant supply of it night and day?”—was washed away under the deluge of tears.
Soon my eyes were a puffy mess as I broke down, my whole body juddering as I sobbed. My head pounded and everything ached. Even my eyeballs throbbed. I was extremely emotional—taking tests always vexed me.
Finally I cast one bleary eye at the clock. Oh, crumbs. I’d been sobbing for nearly an hour. I had just half an hour to finish the paper.
I realized this was my only chance. If I failed this, I doubted I’d ever receive another bursary. I’d be letting Norland down, letting my family down, letting myself down.
And then what? Back to my parents and an uncertain future.
I’d wasted so much precious time already. “Pull yourself together, Brenda Ashford. You can do this.”
After that my pen became a blur as it whizzed over the page at breakneck speed.
By the time I put my pen down I was spent.
It was a miracle I passed: 76 out of 100 meant I was in line to receive the preliminary certificate of training from the institute. It would take another year of successful work in a private post before I could receive the full certificate, but I had done it.
Along with the rest of my set, my time at Hothfield had sadly come to an end. I held back tears as I kissed good-bye my beloved Bethnal Greenies; beautiful little illegitimate baby Lilly, and her shy mother, Rose; not to mention my loyal friends.
Everyone knew this was the end of an era. Not a single person’s future was secure.
“I don’t know when I’ll see you again,” said Margaret, hugging me tight. “But thanks for your kindness. I’ll never forget it.”
I smiled wryly. The world was already such a changed place since Margaret was asked to take elocution lessons thirteen months previously. Now, in the grand scheme of things, the way she spoke barely mattered.
A Spoonful of Sugar Page 11