“So why are they down here?” I asked.
“The big house has been requisitioned as a convalescent home for soldiers, so they were forced to move to their country seat.”
And with that we came to an abrupt halt in front of one of the loveliest houses I’d ever seen. I stared at my new home in awe. Granville House, the country seat of Lord and Lady Smythe-Villiers, was a seventeenth-century manor house with a slightly wonky roof; it was set in five acres of gardens. It was so grand it really wouldn’t have looked out of place on the set of Downton Abbey.
It was pretty as a picture. Pale mauve wisteria curled gently round the old stone porch, and swallows had made their homes in the eaves.
The golden brickwork of the house, mellowed by time, looked as much a part of the landscape as the ancient apple trees that dotted the garden.
Chickens scratched and strutted around the drive, feasting on ripe apples as they dropped from the trees.
“So beautiful,” I murmured wide-eyed, as Mr. Worboys slowed the Daimler to a halt in front of a stable block, five hundred yards from the house.
The stables had been converted to house the Daimler and another car.
“Me and the missus lives up there,” he said, pointing to a flat above the stable block. “If you need anything, Brenda, anything, just ask.”
Mr. Worboys had given me a thorough rundown on the village, but there was still one thing about which I was none the wiser.
“What’s Lady Francesca like, Mr. Worboys?” I asked.
His face darkened. “Her ladyship? Well, how can I put this …”
Suddenly, the door to the manor house swung open. There in the doorway was the most formidable-looking woman I’d ever set eyes on.
Lady Francesca Smythe-Villiers.
When I had first met her, she was sitting down, but now I could see she towered over me at six feet tall. Despite being well into her sixties she had an almost regal bearing and stood ramrod straight like a statue in the stone porch.
When I glanced back, Mr. Worboys had vanished into thin air. I was on my own.
Her ladyship’s slate-gray eyes were piercing and seemed to stare right down into the depths of my soul. The thin lips, hook nose, and gray bun only added to the austere image.
“Nurse Ashford, are you quite well?” she said in a clipped voice.
“Good morning,” I gushed. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to be here.”
“I’m sure,” her ladyship replied in a deadpan voice.
I did what I always do when I’m nervous and in the company of someone I feel to be my intellectual superior. I start to babble. On and on I went about the journey, the weather.
“Anyway, here I am and I can’t wait to get started,” I blustered.
Her ladyship’s eyes never left mine for a moment, and I quickly realized that hers was a face not accustomed to smiling.
“Follow me,” she said eventually. “I’ll introduce you to our evacuees.”
The upstairs, downstairs divide might have been dying out among the aristocratic families of England, but here at Granville House, Lady Francesca Smythe-Villiers was keeping the tradition going.
“This door,” she said, pointing to an old oak door at the end of a passageway, “leads to his lordship’s quarters and mine. You are permitted to breakfast with us, but lunch, tea, and supper are to be taken with your charges in your quarters. You and the evacuees are not permitted in that part of the house. His lordship needs peace and quiet.”
Her hard stare didn’t invite any further questioning on the matter.
Our quarters turned out to be quite grand. A huge old bedroom, with the most glorious views over the surrounding countryside, had been turned into a day nursery. A coal fire burned merrily in the grate, and toys were scattered about the place. Two separate bedrooms had been allocated to the evacuees—one for the boys and one for the girls—and my small bedroom led off the same passageway.
My evacuees were perfectly lovely, charming little people, though I quickly realized, by the hushed silence that fell over the room when her ladyship strode in, that they were just as much in awe of the lady of the manor as I was.
There were five of the poor little souls, separated from their mothers and fathers. This bunch weren’t from the poor East End but from other areas of bomb-hit London and weren’t half as robust as the Bethnal Greenies.
“Are you having a wonderful time?” I asked the eldest boy, who seemed to have made himself unofficial leader.
I made sure to crouch down so I was at his eye level.
Throughout my entire career I have always made sure to get down to a child’s level. How on earth can you communicate with a child if you are looking down on him, much less expect him to like and trust you? Children cannot get up to your level, so you have to go down to theirs, try and understand how the world looks through their eyes.
Once I was at the same height as he, I saw him relax and drop his guard.
“Yes, nurse, we are,” he said with a smile.
Her ladyship hovered nearby, watching us with those steely eyes of hers.
John was the ringleader and the eldest at five; the other four ranged between two and five.
“It’s great here,” he told me. “There’s so much to do. We’ve climbed trees and there’s a place where you can pick strawberries and eat them straight off the bush.”
“Really, how wonderful,” I said. “You must show me where.”
“Oh, we will,” piped up a shy little girl behind John. “You know they have something called spring here in the country—they do, they have it once a year.”
Her blue eyes shone with such sincerity.
It would have been so easy to laugh at the little girl’s innocent remark, but I would have lost her trust forever so I kept my face as straight as a die.
“Well, that is just marvelous. I can’t wait to explore.”
After that, her ladyship nodded curtly, then left. The air in the nursery lightened just a little.
I stared at these sweet little souls and found myself marveling at their spirit. They had been taken from their families to live in a strange place where they knew no one. If they could find the best in the situation, then so could I.
I jolly well wouldn’t let the imposing Lady Smythe-Villiers intimidate me.
The nursery was scattered with many of the popular toys of the day, little metal soldiers, not to mention a whole trove of books.
Later, in the evening, as I helped the children get undressed and into bed, I felt so sad. Each evacuee had a small case, in which they had heartbreakingly little. Each of the girls had just one vest, one pair of underpants, one bodice, one petticoat, one skirt, two pairs of stockings, a handkerchief, and a cardigan. The boys had even less: a vest, one pair of underpants, a shirt, one pullover or one jersey, one pair of trousers, two pairs of socks and a handkerchief. Apart from a comb, some soap, plimsolls, and a toothbrush, that was all their worldly possessions.
They had probably arrived bewildered and scared, and been promptly lined up in the village hall, where no doubt her ladyship would have had first pick, before deciding who was to be billeted with whom. Each billeter was paid ten shillings and sixpence for the first evacuee, and an additional eight shillings and sixpence for each extra one.
Having now met her ladyship properly, I could see how many of the local villagers would have found it hard to refuse her, particularly as it was her ladyship’s houses they were living in.
Over the coming weeks I quickly came to see that her ladyship was not particularly popular in the village. My goodness, she was dictatorial. What her ladyship said, went.
There was nothing that woman didn’t have a hand in. She’d moved her husband’s valet from his cottage at the drop of a hat and was prone to move people around the village on a whim. No one dared stand up to her. If she turned up on your doorstep with a command to move cottages or take on another couple of evacuees, you jolly well did!
Was it all a
power game to her? To know that she could uproot families at the flick of her wrist? Hard to know, but she didn’t make it easy to warm to her, that’s for certain.
Even her own husband, Lord Smythe-Villiers, seemed a little in awe of her. For three days a week he may have held sway over the House of Commons, but in his home it was his wife who ruled the roost.
I used to love my breakfasts with his lordship.
Every morning I took my seat at the table next to him.
“Morning, Nurse Brenda,” he’d say. Well into his sixties, he had a gentle, soft voice, and seemed tiny beside his tall wife.
“Morning, your lordship,” I’d reply, beaming back at him.
Lord Smythe-Villiers was as English as a cream tea. He was descended from distinguished naval captains.
Rumor had it he was also much involved in the antiaircraft defense of London. Not that I ever dared ask him about that over breakfast. Our conversation never went beyond small talk, but I loved to sit beside him in companionable silence.
Every now and again he’d pick up a dish and hand it to me. “Don’t forget your Bemax, Nurse Brenda,” he’d say. “It’ll keep you healthy.”
Bemax was a wheat germ cereal that you sprinkled onto your porridge as a health supplement.
His lordship loved Bemax. In fact, I rather think he thought liberal sprinklings of it on our morning porridge would be sufficient to win the war.
I watched in fascination as, after breakfast, Mr. Webb brought in a freshly ironed copy of The Times.
After his lordship finished his paper and coffee, Mr. Worboys brought the Daimler round to the front and drove his lordship to the station, where the stationmaster was waiting to usher him into a first-class carriage. It was another world.
After his lordship had left, a stream of dailies came in from the village, including Pat Worboys, the chauffeur’s wife. These ladies were exempt from conscription, either because they were married or because of their age. Instead, they did no end of tasks for her ladyship, from cooking and scrubbing to washing all our clothes and linens.
Her ladyship treated these women as servants, which of course to her they were, but I always made an extra special effort to be friendly to them. I didn’t want them thinking I shared her ladyship’s airs and graces. We were all equal as far as I was concerned.
The wonderful side effect of having so much help was that I could spend more time with the children, and I was less tired out. How joyful to be a nanny who didn’t have to spend her days and nights with her hands plunged deep into buckets of soapy suds or tackling endless mountains of ironing. I was free from the drudgery of nursery housework. It was blissful.
Little Cranford was a veritable fairyland of sunshine and fresh air. During the day we had the most glorious time. John showed me where the wild strawberries grew. As we sat and feasted on them, I’d tell stories or we’d sing songs. Sometimes we tramped through the fields for hours singing or playing It. When apples were in season, we picked them straight from the trees to give to Cook to make delicious apple pies with. Other times we paddled in the streams, picked bluebells, and collected frog spawn. The countryside was beyond beautiful and those spring days seemed endless. Away from the oppressive gaze of her ladyship we could roam free and be whoever we wanted to be.
It took me right back to the roughs and my glorious childhood with my brothers.
Our days were filled with fun, but of course I made sure to instruct my charges, too. It was vital that despite the horrors unfolding in the wider world, precisely because of those horrors, we maintain the virtues I had been instructed in throughout my childhood and at the Norland.
Once, I caught John eating his food with his hands.
“We don’t eat with our hands here, John,” I chastised. “That is what a knife and fork are for.”
If I ever caught any of the children looking sloppy, they were quickly reproached. “Pull yourself together and pull up your socks,” I’d insist.
We always made sure our hands were washed before we ate, no elbows on the table; you ate as much as you could of what was on your plate; never spoke with your mouth full; inquired politely whether you may be excused from the table after eating; and always made sure to say please and thank you.
I was adamant that certain basic rules be followed: never poke out your tongue, bite your nails or clean them in public; never scratch your head; and avoid all other repulsive habits including spitting, cursing, farting, belching, or using vulgar language.
Good manners had been drummed into me growing up, and so as far as I was concerned, my charges should be brought up with the same respect for etiquette. I firmly believe that if you show respect to others, they in turn will show you respect. That includes listening without interrupting to someone who is talking and looking people in the face and smiling when you meet them. It never hurts to try and remember people’s names when first introduced and to use their names when talking to them. It’s the little things in life that count, and kindness costs nothing. Manners are part of our national heritage and should be observed keenly. All this might make me sound like the most terrible disciplinarian, but I so believe that a child is what you make him or her.
Balance is vitally important, too. I know how difficult it is to tread that line. Even when the children had been naughty, I made sure that I didn’t spend the day solely telling them off, or it would have badly crushed their confidence. I always made sure to treat John and his little friends to plenty of encouragement, praise, kisses, and cuddles, especially at bedtime. Children thrive on affection and can never have too much love. Her ladyship was most undemonstrative, so someone had to make sure their emotional needs were being met.
I wondered what her ladyship had been like with her own children. She had three of them, all grown-up and living away from home and all with terribly grand and important jobs in London. Did they ever get cuddles and kisses when they were young?
Who knew, but under my care I didn’t want my evacuees to know a minute’s loneliness or fear.
That’s why the time of week I always relished most was bath time, always guaranteed to cheer up even the loneliest of children.
Friday night was the allocated time. The children were only bathed once a week and the hour after tea on a Friday was hotly anticipated.
Once a week may not sound much to you, but back then that was about the average. Everyone had a duty not to use much water; and the wartime ration for a bath was just three inches of water once a week.
Hot buttered crumpets were wolfed down as I fetched up pails of warm water from the kitchen.
Mrs. Worboys came in to help and together we dragged the huge tin bath in front of the coal fire.
Once the fire was stoked up and roaring and the bath foaming with soapy suds, the fun began.
“Who’s up first?” I’d ask. A sea of hands shot into the air.
“Me … me … me,” clamored the evacuees.
In went John first, for a good rubdown. A week’s worth of mud and grime floated off as I scrubbed and sang, “This little piggy went to market,” grabbing one of John’s toes to wash it.
“Look, Nurse Brenda,” he said, slathering foam on his chin. “I’ve grown a beard.”
As he poked his tongue through the foam, the rest of the children were quite helpless with giggles.
One by one they were dunked in and then out, in a little cleaning conveyor belt. By the time Mrs. Worboys and I finished, there were five little children all squeaky clean and wrapped in towels.
“Hard to say who’s wetter,” I said, as I clambered to my feet, rubbing my soapy hands on a sopping wet apron, “us or the children.”
Mrs. Worboys, flushed red with steam, laughed. “Right enough, Brenda.”
Once all the children were snug in their pajamas and nighties, we huddled round the fire for warmth and I read them the adventures of Rupert the Bear, as my beloved father did all those years before.
One by one, little eyelids, sleepy and toasty warm
from the fire, started to droop and close, until the floor was a mass of slumbering little bodies. The children had so much fresh air during the day that no matter how hard they tried, they could never stay up past 8:00 PM.
Together, Mrs. Worboys and I gently carried them to their beds, where the sweet land of nod was waiting.
As I tenderly tucked them in under their eiderdowns, love flooded my heart. These little people were so brave. I never heard them crying for their parents or caught them being really naughty. They just got on with things. Somewhere out there in the dark, their parents were risking their lives for our country and freedom. The children must have missed them desperately. I encouraged them to write to their parents often and tell them about all the fun they were having here at Little Cranford. In those days the phone was only for emergencies, so mail was the only option available to us.
Sadly, my charges’ parents never visited—not because they didn’t love them. It was just too far to travel from London, too expensive, and they didn’t get enough time off.
How I prayed the homes these children had left behind would still be standing when they returned, and more important, that their families would still be intact.
During the war, 130,000 children lost a parent in active service. Goodness only knew how many orphans were being created as they slept soundly in their beds. It broke my heart just to imagine.
At the thought of orphans I remembered Benjy and Peter and made a mental note to request a call home and find out how everyone was. I hoped Peter wasn’t too scarred after the stuck foreskin incident and little Benjy was feeling a little more secure after my sudden departure from Appleton.
War makes little folk resilient, and children are nothing if not adaptable. All the same, Benjy had already survived an orphanage, the threat of Nazi invasion, and the Battle of Britain and he was only two. Something made me a little more protective of him than any of my previous charges. He had a heartbreaking fragility about him that plucked at my heartstrings.
The following day, her ladyship allowed me to make one brief phone call home.
A Spoonful of Sugar Page 15