The stone porch was filled with leather trunks, bags, and girls sobbing farewells. Promises to stay in touch however or wherever we could echoed round the steps.
Even Miss Whitehead looked moved.
My funny little family was to be scattered to all parts of the country.
Sad times, but with all the arrogance of a nineteen-year-old, I didn’t look back. I picked up my case, and as a newly qualified Norlander, marched to my first post with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. War … pah, what war? I saw no evidence of it, so how bad could it really be?
But as I traveled north by train, huge changes were already taking place. And these changes when they arrived came thick and fast and were full of terrifying surprises.
Nanny’s Wisdom
LET CHILDREN BE OUR TEACHERS.
Sometimes we adults get so caught up in our obsession to impart knowledge to children that we can forget that children have a lot to teach us, too. The Bethnal Greenies at Hothfield were so brave about being parted from their loved ones. I never once saw them feeling sorry for themselves, and it made me realize how I should take my cue from them. I think we can all learn from children, if we only just stop and listen to the little people in our life. Their minds are young, uncluttered, and unbiased. They see things very simply and without prejudice—surely the perfect way to approach any situation in life.
GET YOUR DAILY CONSTITUTIONAL.
I’m not saying you should make your children take their naps outside, as we did at the Norland, but I simply cannot overstate the importance of fresh air to children, and adults, too, for that matter. Switch off the mobiles, televisions, and computer games and get them outside in the fresh air for a short walk at least once a day.
CHAPTER 6
MY FIRST FAMILY
THE BEAUMONTS
APPLETON, SURREY, ENGLAND
[1940, AGE NINETEEN]
Girls and boys, come out to play.
The moon doth shine as bright as day.
Leave your supper and leave your sleep,
And join your playfellows in the street.
Come with a whoop and come with a call,
Come with a good will or come not at all.
Up the ladder and down the wall,
A half-penny loaf will serve us all.
You find milk, and I’ll find flour,
And we’ll have a pudding in half an hour.
But when the loaf is gone, what will you do?
Those who would eat must work ’tis true
—NURSERY RHYME
Schedule
6:30 AM: Boys woke. My room was next to their nursery so I rushed in and tried to give them toys so as not to wake parents.
7:00 AM: Got the boys dressed. They had to be smartly turned out in sailor suits or slacks and pullovers. I put their clothes out the night before.
7:30 AM: Cook brought breakfast—scrambled eggs and bacon or boiled egg and toast soldiers—up to day nursery. Rationing had started, but we still did well with sausages and bacon, thanks to kindness of local farmers.
7:50 AM: Grace was said at the end of every meal, including breakfast, and I always insisted the boys politely request to get down from the table, just as my parents had.
8:00 AM: Potty time; praised them when they did it well and said “better luck next time” if not so well. Washed hands.
9:00 AM: Out in garden and the boys played in the sandpit while I made beds and tidied rooms.
11:00 AM: Both boys rested or slept before lunch.
12:30 PM: Washed hands and then cook brought up lunch and I laid the nursery table.
2:00 PM: Walked to feed the ducks, pick pretty leaves and flowers, and collect eggs from the chicken coop.
4:00 PM: Simple tea in the nursery: jam sandwiches, slices of cheese, glass of milk, followed by jelly or a slice of apple. Washed their hands after tea and wiped their faces clean.
5:00 PM: Delivered both boys to the drawing room to spend time with their parents and visitors while I prepared for their bath time.
6:00 PM: Bathed both boys, then dressed them in flannel pajamas.
6:30 PM: Read them stories in bed.
7:00 PM: Prayers and lights out.
7:00 PM TO 10:00 PM: I ironed, sewed the boys’ clothes, mended, and washed nappies while listening to the wireless. No time to read.
10:00 PM: Bedtime.
I FELL IN LOVE WITH twelve-week-old Benjy Beaumont the moment he fixed his big, melting chocolate-brown eyes on me.
Benjy’s mother or father must have been of Eurasian origin, as he had the softest, dusky skin and a head of thick jet-black hair. There was no doubt this little chap was going to grow up to be heartbreakingly handsome.
“Well, aren’t you a dear little fellow?” I said, beaming as I tickled his chin.
A big gummy smile spread over his face, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. His dimpled cheeks creased in delight as he pumped his chubby little legs and arms in frantic excitement.
What a perfectly adorable little man.
“I think you and I are going to get along just fine,” I said, laughing and scooping him into my arms.
As I breathed in his sweet milky smell, the years rolled away and I found myself smiling as I remembered the first time holding my baby brother.
I feel this way each time I hold a small child for the first time. It’s a magical feeling cuddling a fresh, young life with it all ahead of him.…
Why would anyone want to give this little angel away?
Benjy was adopted, you see, as was his new brother, two-year-old Peter. Along with his adoptive parents, Iris and Frank Beaumont, they were to be my new family.
My first charges in my first proper job! Gracious, I was nervous. A million feelings raced through me, from nerves to excitement. I was so eager to get started.
Iris and Frank Beaumont were wealthy and well-respected members of the local community of Appleton and good friends of my parents.
Frank’s father was the minister of the local church, where his rousing sermons and strong morals made him a popular figure. Frank shared his father’s religious ideals but had made his money in the textiles industry and obviously was not short of a bob or two.
When Iris told my mother they were planning on adopting Benjy and Peter, she instantly suggested me as the boys’ new nanny.
I think Mother was keen to help Iris in any way she could. Iris and Frank had been good to my parents after Father had lost all his money, lending us bell tents and a caravan to take cheap holidays in. I was very grateful to Iris, if perhaps a touch intimidated by her.
In later life I stopped being intimidated by mothers. I saw that for the most part they were as apprehensive of me as I was of them. Once I made them realize I was only there to help and support them, in most cases, first day nerves melted away. Mrs. Beaumont was somewhat more aloof, though, and had firm ideas on how she wanted things.
She was also exquisitely beautiful with high cheekbones and a cut-glass accent to match. She had a complexion like double cream and intense cornflower-blue eyes that narrowed like a cat’s when she looked at you.
Her chauffeur-driven navy-blue Rolls-Royce was a familiar sight about the village of Appleton as she nipped from the golf course to the various parish lunches she hosted.
Iris had been caring for the boys on her own these past few weeks while she waited for me to complete my studies, and seemed awfully relieved that I was finally there.
“I’m exhausted,” she cried, fanning her beautiful face as she placed Peter into the crook of my other arm. “Thank goodness you’re here, Brenda, or Nurse Brenda as I shall call you from now on.”
I nodded eagerly.
“I should warn you,” she added, “I like things to be done in the traditional way. You are to wear your uniform at all times and I expect the boys to be well turned out. Cook will bring you tea in the nursery every afternoon promptly at four, when I shall also visit. There may be a war on, but there is no
need to let standards slip. Wouldn’t you agree, Nurse Brenda?”
I nodded even more furiously. “Absolutely, Mrs. Beaumont. You know, they’re gorgeous boys.” I smiled. “You must be so proud.”
“Well, yes,” she muttered. “We got them from an orphanage in London.”
I quickly came to see that Iris, for all her beauty, was not a particularly loving woman and was not prone to shows of affection. Nor did she ever seem entirely comfortable with the boys. Most mothers were more at ease with their children, but I think it must have been different for Iris. She had only just adopted them, after all, and was still finding her feet, so I fear hugs and kisses didn’t come naturally.
But I couldn’t judge her for that. She had demonstrated the ultimate act of love: she had plucked these two boys from an orphanage that still operated according to Victorian notions of discipline, and now they had a beautiful, rambling farmhouse to call home.
Their world had been transformed. Stark dormitories had been replaced by day and night nurseries, painted powder blue. The spacious sunlit rooms were stocked full of fine clothes and the best toys, including an electric Hornby model railway set, which can’t have been easy to find. Supplies of toys had fallen by 75 percent since the outbreak of war so. most people improvised, making cars out of tin cans and sewing their own teddies. Not so for the Beaumont boys. In fact, the whole house oozed comfort.
As well as the chauffeur, a good-looking young man by the name of Bill, Frank and Iris employed their own cook. Not only that: cook had a fridge. She was a short, dumpy, no-nonsense woman who came in daily from the village, and she was extremely proud of her fridge. Only she was allowed access to it, and she guarded it as if it contained the crown jewels.
I suppose that’s not so surprising when you consider that only 25 percent of people had a fridge in those days. As with most kitchen appliances, mass production of fridges didn’t really begin until after the war. The price of such luxuries simply put them beyond the means of most families, so food was kept cold on a marble slab at the back of the larder or outdoors. Fridge adverts at the time boasted “how big is yours?” Well, the Beaumonts’ was huge.
For all her bristly ferocity Cook was excellent at her job and could seemingly make a feast out of nothing. Food rationing had stepped up since the Hothfield days, when only sugar, butter, and bacon were rationed. For the last four months, more or less everything had been rationed, but thanks to vegetables in the garden and the odd rabbit or chicken given to Frank by local farmers, the boys and I were to eat like royalty.
Cook’s omelets, made of Mullins’ powdered egg and bulked out with stale bread crumbs, tasted as good as the real thing, and she had an excellent trick of dipping stale bread in milk and then heating it in the oven with cinnamon to make a delicious afternoon tea for the boys.
I learned a lot from Cook about stretching and making do. We never threw anything away. In fact, it was regarded as a crime to throw away even stale bread. Vegetable peelings could go on the compost; every last leftover bit of food could be used to make a tasty dish for the next day; old bones were boiled to make stock for delicious soup. We thought very, very hard before we put anything in the bin. From food to scraps of cloth, there was little that couldn’t be recycled.
I had a day and night nursery to work in, which were to be totally my domain, a comfortable salary of £15 a week, and half a day off a week.
These little chaps were to want for nothing, except maybe a cuddle from their new mother.
I had to remind myself that not every parent was as tactile or loving as my mother and father, and for the hundredth time since leaving home I blessed my lucky stars for having such wonderful parents.
Besides, it didn’t matter that Benjy and Peter only received a cool little kiss on the head from their new mother as she breezed out of the nursery to play golf; they had me to shower them with love and kisses now. I was determined they would have the same happy childhood I had enjoyed.
Benjy and Peter stared sadly after their mother as the door swung shut, leaving us in a cloud of Chanel No. 5.
I looked out the window as Iris’s chauffeur-driven Rolls slid away from the house, then turned back to my new charges.
“Right, boys,” I cried. “Who would like to go for a walk and feed the ducks?”
There may have been a war on, but we still had to get outside for our daily blast of fresh air. To stay in was considered positively degenerate.
“Quack, quack,” said Peter, bouncing about on the spot. Benjy gazed adoringly up at his new big brother as if he couldn’t quite believe his good fortune.
Peter’s skin was as milky white as his new brother’s was dark, but it gave me such a glow to see the way they looked at each other. They didn’t see each other’s skin color, just a fun new playmate.
Having tucked them both up in their beautiful new coach pram, we set out to walk the village streets. Perhaps I’d even have time to pop in and show off my new charges to Mother. Amberley wasn’t far away.
Walking out down the drive, my palms felt suddenly clammy on the pram handles. Fear nagged. Two young lives were entirely in my hands. All the training of the previous year buzzed around my head. Did I have spare clothes and cloth nappies, a drink of water? Were the boys’ clothes immaculate and their faces squeaky clean? These were the minister’s grandsons, after all, and it wouldn’t do for them to be seen around town with grubby faces and hands.
No, a thorough inspection revealed them to be the picture of angelic perfection, propped up in their pram in their new sailor suits.
My freshly ironed and starched Norland uniform was immaculate, my leather shoes gleamed, and my Norland cape swung merrily behind me as I marched up the drive. I was finally on my own!
I strolled into the center of the village. Hadn’t Surrey changed since I’d left for Hothfield nine months previously!
Something about the sight of my smart uniform seemed to inspire respect among the villagers as shopkeepers and male passersby nodded and lifted their caps, and mothers and elderly ladies looked into my pram and smiled warmly. I was the picture of respectability and didn’t I feel it.
These children were seen as part of their family, so I felt the duty fell to me to keep them looking as lovely as possible and the pram and its occupants gleaming.
I would never have fed them snacks while out and about in the pram. We never had snacks back then. In fact, I can’t even remember giving a child snacks at all. If a child has sufficient breakfast, lunch, and dinner he shouldn’t need a snack. If she said she was hungry, I’d say no, you won’t eat lunch.
I don’t really like it today when I see children being wheeled along in a pram, stuffing things in their mouths. Isn’t it dangerous? Surely they could choke on their food while being bumped along. There is such a culture of children grazing on food all day long. I don’t approve of this.
Children shouldn’t need to eat snacks, and it teaches unhealthy eating habits. If a child comes back from a sporting activity and is ravenous, then I will give her a banana or another piece of fruit, but other than that snacks should be banned. I’ve never snacked and I’ve made it to ninety-two in good shape!
On my walk I stopped to chat to people I recognized and show off my new charges. I was as proud of them as I would be if they were my own.
With every step, every cheery greeting issued, and every smile that came my way I felt my confidence soar.
I had followed my heart, worked hard, and it had led me to this: a very proud, newly qualified nanny, pushing her smartly dressed and adorable charges through the streets. It made me realize that hard work pays off and the rewards for sticking at it are endless.
I wish more people remembered that. Hard work does pay off and wouldn’t it be dull if everything we did in life we found easy? Where would the challenge be?
Such happiness I never knew existed, and I wasn’t alone. There might have been a war on, but every villager seemed filled with purpose, determination, and optimi
sm.
The village had come alive in a way I least expected. The community was thriving and people were determined to look after one another, come what may.
Our country, to quote Churchill, had found its soul.
By the time I reached my family’s home I must have passed a dozen houses with their windows crisscrossed with sticky tape to stop them shattering. Every window had blackout curtains ready to be drawn at dusk and heavy sandbags on their doorsteps to put out fires.
Most back gardens had also been transformed, with everyone digging up what spare land they had for vegetable patches.
This country was ready for whatever the war was about to throw our way.
If I thought the villagers seemed happy, it wasn’t a patch on my mother. She loved babies almost as much as I. When I proudly pushed Benjy and Peter’s pram over the threshold of their small cottage, a babble of voices hit me.
There were children everywhere! I spotted twins, a little girl of about three with red hair, and another girl of two with huge violet eyes and poker-straight tresses.
Sitting in the middle of them all, with her knitting and a look of quiet satisfaction, was Mother.
Something was bubbling on the stove for tea, giving off the most mouthwatering smell; and a fire flickered in the hearth, a hod of coal placed beside it. The children were all happily playing with our old toys and were dressed in clothes that quite frankly had seen better days.
I thought of Benjy and Peter’s well-stocked nursery. It may have had the latest toys, but it simply didn’t give off the same warmth as my parents’ home.
Untucking the boys from their pram, I gently placed them next to the other children to play.
I think it’s so important for young children to spend time with other children. It’s all well and good being around adults all day long, but only around other children can they learn the true meaning of play and how to share.
Benjy and Peter looked delighted with their new playmates and soon they were all gurgling, giggling, and happily waving at one another.
A Spoonful of Sugar Page 12