A Spoonful of Sugar

by Brenda Ashford

  “Hello, darling,” Mother exclaimed, leaping to her feet to give me a kiss. “Meet my evacuees. Aren’t they all just gorgeous?”

  I had to laugh. Mother had never hidden her desire to have twins, and thanks to the war, her wish had now been granted.

  Father had joined the Home Guard and was terribly busy around the village with them, and all the boys, including David, were now at boarding school and had been evacuated to the Lake District. I rather suspect the evacuees were helping my mother with her empty-nest syndrome.

  “They’re not with us for long, sadly,” she said, looking at the twins. “But this little one is Rita,” she said, pointing to the serious-looking redhead who was clutching a battered old doll. “And this is Sally. Your father’s grumbling that the house has been taken over, but I know he’s secretly delighted.”

  Rita and Sally’s stories were fascinating.

  Little Rita was from Croydon. Back then, Croydon was home to one of the greatest airports in the world and certainly the largest in London, receiving international airfreight into the capital. This made it a major target, so Rita’s evacuation had been swift.

  “Poor little scrap,” whispered Mother. “She’s illegitimate, you know. Seems to have a new father each week. When she came here, she was to be called Rita Ratcliffe. When her mum turned up to visit from Croydon last week she tells me I now have to call her Rita Fowler.”

  “Me no Fowler,” piped up little Rita, shaking her head defiantly. “Me Ratcliffe.”

  “That’s all she says. I’m at my wits’ end with her mother.”

  Seems little Rita’s mum had been using the cheap railway fares the government had issued specifically so mothers could visit their evacuated children to go off for jaunts with her latest fancy man.

  “She turned up last weekend and spent an hour with Rita, then vanished and was gone for days. Fed me some cock-and-bull story about getting lost, but I’m not daft, you know. I know she was getting up to fun and games.”

  I could see why Mother was cross. Rita’s mother had turned the war to her advantage: now she had free child care and the means to get up to goodness only knows what.

  I stared at little Rita, who had climbed onto my mother’s knee and was now happily curled on her lap.

  “She calls me her mummy now.” Mother smiled, reaching out to stroke her hair.

  Her smile was so tender and her manner with these little evacuees so gentle. It was plain to see she had already formed strong bonds with the girls. I felt alarm bells jangle at the back of my mind. One day, these children would have to go home. How would she cope then?

  Now her eyes were shining with love as she told me Sally’s story.

  “She’s illegitimate, too. Her mother had been working in a hotel and having it off with all sorts and didn’t have a clue who the father was. Then Sally was adopted by Lady Lillian. Her ladyship is single, but I imagine, as she is titled, she pulled some strings and was able to adopt Sally.”

  I had heard of Lady Lillian. She was a well-known member of the aristocracy who lived nearby in a very grand house. Back then, it would have been almost impossible to adopt as a single woman, but she’d obviously used her considerable influence.

  But there was one thing puzzling me.

  “Why has Sally been evacuated?” I asked Mother. “She doesn’t even live far from here.”

  “Lady Lillian has turned her house into a rest home for injured soldiers, says she can’t have Sally there during the war. She’s been here eight months now, but Lady Lillian must be terribly busy as she hasn’t visited once.”

  I felt rage bubble up inside me. What was wrong with these women? Rita and Sally were beautiful, happy little girls that surely any mother would long to spend time with. Children weren’t commodities to be shipped around on a whim.

  Over the course of my career I met some neglectful parents—not many, thankfully, but some—and it always enraged me. Quite simply, what is the point of having children if you can’t be bothered with them? Few things anger me in life like that.

  On the walk back to the Beaumonts’ I remembered Norland’s motto, “Love never faileth.” It seemed that, thanks to the war, there were more children than ever who needed love and security.

  At the time of the evacuations there wasn’t a great understanding of children’s emotional needs and the impact that loss and separation could have. My Froebel-based Norland training gave me an insight into what it must be like to be a frightened evacuee. All these children were like frail little flowers that had been uprooted. They needed love, security, and understanding to flourish and blossom in their new homes.

  My resolve to do the best I could by these children stiffened as I let myself back into the Beaumonts’ spacious farmhouse.

  Suddenly, I realized the time: 4:30 PM.

  “Goodness gracious,” I gasped. I’d been gone longer than I realized.

  There was just enough time to get the children fed their tea and washed and scrubbed up, ready to be presented in the drawing room.

  In those days it was quite commonplace for children of wealthier families to go to the drawing room for the hour after tea, to spend time with their mother, father, and visiting relatives before being taken back to the nursery. Often it was the only time a parent might spend with their child in the day.

  This was the tradition of the times, and for many families it was set in stone. I don’t think they were being unkind; it was just how their parents had done it and these routines get passed down through the generations.

  Fortunately, it hadn’t been like that for my parents, who simply adored spending time with my siblings and me.

  I like to think that’s why we all grew up to be secure, empathetic, and loving individuals. The time our parents invested in us paid off.

  Over the years this attitude did soften and gradually I realized parents were starting to spend more and more time with their children; but back then, certainly among the upper classes, spending more than the required hour with your offspring simply wasn’t done. That was what nannies were for, after all!

  Once Peter and Benjy’s faces were scrubbed clean with a warm flannel and their clothes were neat and tidy, I duly knocked on the drawing room door and presented my charges.

  Iris looked like a Hollywood movie star in her stunning satin evening dress. She was sipping a martini. She smiled when she saw the boys but didn’t get up. As always, I felt a little on edge around Iris. There was just something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  In contrast Frank beamed and leaped to his feet.

  “Hello, boys. Your grandfather is here,” he cried, ushering them in.

  There in the corner, nursing a whiskey, was Iris’s father, a dour Scotsman.

  He nodded and issued a gruff welcome. The man positively radiated disapproval.

  Then I saw something that made my heart take a nosedive.

  He looked down at little Benjy and disapproval flashed in those steely eyes. I’d seen it only fleetingly, but it was enough for me to realize that he was not impressed with his new dark-skinned grandchild.

  As the drawing room door swung shut behind me I stood stock-still on the landing, trembling. I wanted to run back in there and pluck up dear sweet little Benjy and take him to the warmth of the nursery. But I couldn’t. I wasn’t the boys’ mother. I was their nanny.

  At first I found that hard—caring for children, then leaving them when told to do so—but if my training had taught me anything, it was that a nanny is there simply to minister to her employer’s needs and wishes. It would have been unprofessional of me to allow my feelings to interfere in my job.

  Professional Norland Nurses respected the parents and did what they told us, full stop. You would never dare question their methods or presume to love their children more than they did.

  There were very clear invisible lines drawn and boundaries one knew never to cross. Of course I loved those little children, and every day the bonds between us grew stronger, but I k
new my place. I was there to care for those children when and where the parents dictated.

  I walked out of that room and took a deep breath. It wouldn’t be the first time I had to walk away from children. I would have to do it many times over the course of my career, but there is something about being young that makes one resilient and less sentimental.

  Young people in all walks of life accept change a great deal easier than older people. I accepted what people told me to do and I grew accustomed to it.

  I even became good at walking away. I don’t say that to sound callous, but that was the way it was.

  My belief in being the best and most professional nanny I could possibly be was overriding.

  Of course, now that I’m older and a great deal more sentimental, I think I would have a harder time just walking away from children; but back then I did my duty.

  Later, after I had read them their story and tucked them up in their beds, I spent the evening as I spent every evening—washing nappies, knitting them little woollies, or sewing. But the work that usually gave me such comfort couldn’t save me from the agony of remembering the look Iris’s father had given little Benjy.

  Gazing at him sleeping soundly in his cot, I planted a gentle kiss on his forehead and said a prayer for his future. In fact, I prayed for the good fortunes and secure futures of all the children I knew, but especially Benjy, Peter, Rita, and Sally.

  Unable to settle, I paced the nursery, then sneaked a peek out the window onto the dark, deserted streets. My thoughts were interrupted by a shout from below.

  “Deal with your curtains,” yelled a faceless air raid precaution warden.

  Letting the curtain drop, I looked back round at the nursery.

  The winter nights were drawing in, so I’d jolly well better get used to this room. I’d be spending a lot of time here. It was a little lonely but, like walking away from children, loneliness was something I quickly got used to. I was always to be found in the nursery, you see. By myself.

  Every evening was spent in the same way; knitting, sewing, washing and scrubbing soiled nappies in great buckets of soapy water, or ironing. My job wasn’t done until I had finished all my chores, and usually these could only be completed after the boys had gone to sleep. I was rarely done before 10:00 PM and I could hardly go out after that, especially not when little people would be waking me up at 6:30 the next morning.

  We didn’t get—or expect—much time off, not like today’s modern women. I tell you this not to invite pity or to sound like a martyr; that was simply the way it was and our expectations didn’t extend beyond that. Being a nanny is a fairly isolated life, at least in terms of adult company, and you don’t go into it if you expect a full and busy social life. There is only so much you can fit into one half day off a week, after all.

  Little wonder that so few Norlanders married. A formal survey conducted in 1935 showed that only 25 percent of nurses tied the knot.

  Socializing belowstairs or with one’s employers was unthinkable, and many of us found ourselves alone with our charges for the majority of the week.

  There was an unstated implication in Norland during the thirties that personal fulfillment was to be found in serving your family and being the very best nurse you could possibly be. Becoming a nanny is a little like giving yourself to the Lord: you have to do it with your whole heart. And for the most part, I did.

  Apart from anything else, there were simply more pressing things to worry about.

  That night I snuggled down under my eiderdown and was just drifting off to sleep when I heard the siren go off.

  I sat bolt upright in my bed. Had I dreamed it? No, there it was. That unmistakable drone that bore right down into the depths of my belly. As I sat in my pitch-black bedroom my brain scrambled to focus.

  Come on, Brenda. The children, the children.

  Leaping out of bed, I threw on my dressing gown and slippers and tore into the boys’ nursery. On the landing, Frank and Iris were emerging from their room.

  “The shelter, Brenda. Get down there now,” urged Frank. I hardly had time to question where they were going.

  Instead, I scooped little Benjy out of his cot and gently woke Peter. I was as gentle as possible, so as not to scare them, even though I was scared myself. So scared in fact my heart was pounding in my chest.

  Minutes later we were fumbling our way through the dark and out into the garden.

  The cold night air stung my cheeks and whipped up and under my dressing gown.

  “What’s happening?” mumbled Peter sleepily.

  I gripped his hand tighter. “Nothing, darling. We’re going to sleep in the shelter tonight. Won’t that be fun?”

  My heart was banging out of my chest by the time we bent down to get into the Anderson shelter at the bottom of the Beaumonts’ garden. Once inside, I finally felt I could breathe.

  The shelter was small, just four and a half feet wide and six and a half feet long, but there was enough room for two tiny bunks and a box of provisions. Jam, cocoa, Mullins’ powdered egg in a tin, powdered milk, and jugs of water and water-purifying tablets. Frank had also left some comics there for Peter. Light came from a torch.

  But we didn’t touch any of the provisions. I drew the boys close to me, and we all snuggled together. A nursery rhyme would help fill the time and calm the boys until we got the all clear.

  “Twinkle twinkle little star … how I wonder what you are,” I sang gently.

  Soon the boys’ eyelids had grown heavy and they were drifting off.

  “Up above the world so—”

  Boom. The sound from up above was so ferocious that my words broke off.

  Bang. Bang. The bombs were coming thick and fast now.

  The noises were like nothing I’d ever heard before. First a low drone, then the scream of the bomb as it hurtled to the ground, then a sickening thud, followed by an explosion. Menacing crunches and whining sounds were heard all over Appleton.

  These shelters could withstand most things except a direct hit. I squeezed my eyes shut and issued a silent prayer.

  “What that, Nanny Brenda?” quivered little Peter, his eyes suddenly wide with terror.

  “It’s just the bang bang,” I said as chirpily as I could muster. “Who wants to hear a story?”

  An hour or so later the siren sounded the all clear, and I carried the boys back to their beds. I could barely sleep for the rest of the night. The reverberations of the bombs still seemed to linger.

  The morning after that first attack, breakfast was a strained and exhausted affair.

  Iris came into the day nursery as the boys were tucking into their porridge.

  “Everyone okay?” she asked.

  “We’re all still standing,” I replied.

  “Goodo, Nurse Brenda,” she replied. “Frank and I were at the post last night helping out. I’m off to see what needs doing round the village. I’ll see you all at teatime.”

  It struck me as odd that she wouldn’t prefer to stay with her sons in the shelter during a raid, but I bit my lip, as I did many times at the Beaumonts’.

  If it were my parents and we were little, I know without a shadow of doubt that they would have been snuggled down there with us, making sure we were safe and free from fear, but the Beaumonts were different. Every parent, I came to realize throughout my career, is unique in his or her outlooks and attitudes toward child care.

  Leaving your children in the middle of an air raid might seem perfectly normal to some but perfectly abhorrent to others. Such is the complexity of child care.

  Seeing their attitudes taught me important lessons in how people react around their children, and I noted it all.

  There is no one size fits all when it comes to parenting. I forced myself to detach from my emotions, stand back, and remind myself of my number one belief: I wasn’t there to judge the parents, I was there to care for their children!

  After breakfast we took our morning walk and I took the boys over to Mother’s to
check that she and her evacuees were all right.

  “We’re fine, darling, aren’t we, girls?” she said cheerily.

  “Yes, Mother,” said Sally, smiling.

  “She’s not really your mother, you know,” I said gently to Sally.

  The poor little thing looked genuinely bewildered.

  My heart ached. This little girl had been shunted from home to home and had now been dumped by her adoptive mother. All she wanted was someone to call mummy, a real family to belong to. Not for the first time, I was struck by the thought that these children were war casualties, too.

  Sometimes days went by with no bombs, then other times we found ourselves in the shelter twice in one day, all huddled together for warmth and comfort. Occasionally Frank and Iris joined us, but more often than not they went to the post when the siren sounded.

  Their frequent absence meant that the bond between me and the boys was getting stronger, and my love for Benjy and Peter grew with every hour spent underground.

  But, despite all this fear and uncertainty, something extraordinary was happening inside me, too. With every bomb that was dropped on us, I found my confidence growing.

  The woman that a year ago wouldn’t have said boo to a goose, much less dare answer Miss Whitehead back, was now becoming stronger, turning into a woman who could dodge bombs and run through the night with her charges.

  Thanks to these experiences, I came to expect the unexpected—handy when you’re looking after children—and it made me that bit tougher and more resilient, too.

  Every time I found myself in a situation, be it huddling underground in a shelter with my charges or running from bombs, I found my confidence grew. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger; and day by day I was becoming a stronger, surer, more adaptable nanny.

  Living through conditions like this also makes you realize that what you think is bad or stressful more often than not isn’t.

  I don’t sweat the small stuff. For the rest of my career, and even now, I’d think to myself, Well, I survived the Battle of Britain, none of my charges died—who cares if I’ve burned the lunch or missed a bus?