A Spoonful of Sugar

by Brenda Ashford

  I knew I didn’t have long, and my words were spilling over themselves as soon as Mother answered. I heard the worry in her voice when she picked up the receiver, but I quickly assured her that I was perfectly fine, just missing them all.

  “How is everyone?” I demanded. “Sally and Rita keeping you busy? How’s Father? And what news of Benjy and Peter?”

  “Slow down, Brenda,” said my mother, laughing. “Everyone is very well. We haven’t seen Peter and Benjy around recently, mind you.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. The niggle of worry I had felt when I left them returned, a little stronger.

  But Mother was bright and breezy, so I did my best to shrug it off and instead I told her all about my new job, ten to the dozen, before all too soon it was time to go, amid a flurry of my promises to come to visit soon and her urging me to take care.

  I sighed as I heard her replace the receiver in its cradle. Hearing my mother’s voice made me miss her all the more.

  IT WASN’T UNTIL A FEW MONTHS after my arrival at Little Cranford that I was given leave and could travel home by train for a rare weekend off. I couldn’t wait to see Mother and Father, not to mention Sally, Rita, Peter, and my beloved Benjy.

  Mother welcomed me home with an enormous hug and a steaming mug of tea. Gratefully I sank down on a chair next to the fire. Traveling by public transport during the war was never easy, and one never knew entirely how long one’s journey would take. I was cold, hungry, and exhausted.

  As I warmed myself by the fire I was brimming over with questions.

  “How are Peter and Benjy?” I asked eventually.

  My mother’s face fell, and suddenly an awkward silence filled the space between us.

  “Mother, please just tell me,” I urged.

  “I heard Iris and Frank gave Benjy up for adoption.”

  Disbelief, then horror settled over my heart. “They did what?” I gasped.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I know you were fond of Benjy.”

  I wasn’t just fond of him. I loved that little boy dearly. A cry of anguish escaped from my lips and I put down my cup.

  How dare they, how dare they do that?

  I remembered his bewildered face as I’d left, and the blood in my veins turned to ice. I was filled with a hopeless rage. Why would they do such a thing? It was beyond me.

  Just then Mother’s face fell.

  “What else? Just tell me, Mother,” I urged.

  “Well, they have adopted another child, so I hear, a little girl. A little white girl,” she said.

  I couldn’t believe they had swapped Benjy for a white child!

  “Where has he gone?” I raged.

  “No one knows,” Mother whispered.

  Suddenly, I felt quite crushed by the injustice of it. My poor, poor sweet Benjy. Please don’t let him be lying back on a bunk bed in the orphanage.

  What was wrong with Iris and Frank? They had that little boy baptized into their family, had promised to love and raise him as their own. They were supposed to be a God-fearing family!

  Was the idea of having a child of a different race really so abhorrent? They must have their reasons for doing so—they weren’t bad people after all. Who knows what happened after I left and what circumstances conspired to create this situation. It was, after all, hearsay, but it did affect me so deeply.

  That little boy needed love. All children just need love, pure and simple. Is that too much to ask? Loving a child, to me, is the most instinctive thing you can do. And if you live in a community, you accept who’s there, and you get along with everyone, be they black or white, man or woman.

  From that moment a sense of injustice settled in my heart, and even today I don’t think it’s ever truly left me. I felt what they did so badly, and I wasn’t the only one. It broke the friendship between my mother and the Beaumonts.

  Today Benjy would be seventy-three. Where is he now? I wonder. I hope he found the happiness and security he so desperately needed.

  Benjy wasn’t the only one suffering. Mother’s evacuee, Rita, the little girl she’d cared for so fastidiously and who now called my mother mummy, had gone.

  “Just like that, after two years her mother turned up one evening and said she’d come to collect Rita,” said Mother.

  She’d barely taken the time to write or visit. It simply made no sense at all.

  “I don’t know where they’ve gone or if I shall ever see that little girl again,” my mother confided in me. “I miss her terribly.”

  Not half as much as Rita missed Mother, I’d be willing to bet. I wonder if she remembers her village sanctuary and the place where, for a brief while, she found a family?

  Benjy, Rita, and Sally. Abandoned, ignored, and rejected. What messages were we sending to them? How would they grow up to behave?

  What was the Norland motto? “Love never faileth.” Well, never again, not on my watch.

  Nanny’s Wisdom

  CHIVALRY COSTS NOTHING.

  I have talked a little in this chapter of the virtue of good manners, but I also believe chivalrous men to be a dying breed.

  The word chivalry originates from a group of French knights on horseback who embraced virtues such as courtly love, honor, and courteous behavior.

  My father was the ultimate gentleman. He always opened doors for ladies, stood if a lady came into the room, gave up his seat, and walked on the outside (nearest the traffic on the pavement).

  These are the old-fashioned ideas that I was brought up on; and they helped make my parents’ marriage stronger, I’m sure.

  When was the last time a man gave up his seat or opened a door for you? Do your bit to bring it back by insisting your sons show deference to girls.

  If you do it when they’re young, it will be natural to them later in life. Respect for the opposite sex is the foundation for good manners.

  Impeccable manners are something I always insisted on from my charges, and I firmly believe being raised by a chivalrous man helped to instill this in me.

  BAKE THE BEST APPLE PIE EVER.

  We often picked apples at Little Cranford so Cook could make apple pie. Hers was good, but—and I know I am being biased here—I do believe my recipe is the best one yet. Make this and the smell of baking will have them haring for home. Serve the pie warm with cream or cheddar cheese and watch the kitchen fill up with children.

  4½ cups of cooking apples

  Pastry for a 9-inch two-crust pie (store-bought and ready rolled just as good)

  ½ cup sugar

  ¼ cup dark brown sugar

  Juice of half a lemon

  1 tablespoon flour

  1 teaspoon nutmeg

  Small teaspoon grated cinnamon

  Grated zest of half an orange

  Grated zest of half a lemon

  6 tablespoons of raisins

  2 tablespoons orange juice

  2 tablespoons butter

  Preheat oven to 400°F.

  Peel and core apples and slice thickly. Place apples in a bowl of water with the lemon juice to keep them from browning.

  Line a 9-inch pie dish with half the pastry.

  Combine the sugars, lemon juice, flour, nutmeg, and cinnamon. Rub a little of this mixture into the pastry base.

  Mix the grated orange and lemon zest into remaining sugar mixture.

  Cover bottom of pastry with apples. Sprinkle on the raisins and some of the sugar mixture. Add another layer of apples, then more of the sugar mixture. Repeat until pie dish is full.

  Sprinkle with orange juice.

  Dot with butter.

  Place pastry top over the pie, pressing the edges together.

  Cut slits in top.

  Bake for 35 to 40 minutes, until pastry is golden and crisp and apple mixture bubbling.

  CHAPTER 8

  STOLEN KISSES

  LORD AND LADY SMYTHE-VILLIERS, GRANVILLE HOUSE

  LITTLE CRANFORD, DEVON, ENGLAND

  [1942, AGE TWENTY-ONE]


  Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John,

  Went to bed with his trousers on;

  One shoe off, and one shoe on,

  Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John.

  —NURSERY RHYME

  Schedule

  7:00 AM: Woke children and got them dressed and ready for breakfast.

  8:00 AM: Breakfast of bread, jam, and milk in the day nursery. Children to ask to be excused from the table when they have finished their breakfasts.

  9:00 AM: Washed hands. Toilet trips. Teeth brushed and faces wiped clean.

  10:00 AM: Supervised playtime. There were very few toys, so one had to ensure everyone shared.

  10:30 AM: Cleaned day nursery and got children’s dirty clothes ready for her ladyship’s dailies to collect and wash.

  11:00 AM: Gave children drink of milk. Then dressed them in boots, coats, and mittens and took them out for morning walk in the fresh air.

  12:30 PM: Back to the house for lunch in the day nursery. Good manners to be observed throughout the meal.

  1:30 PM TO 3:00 PM: Quiet time. Rest and sleep for younger children. Quiet play and reading for older children.

  3:00 PM: Outside for games of catch and hide-and-seek. Picked apples and blackberries for Cook.

  4:00 PM: Tea in day nursery of jam sandwiches, fruit, milk, and pudding.

  4:30 PM: Visit from her ladyship.

  5:00 PM: If a Friday we dragged up the tin bath and the children were bathed and washed in front of the fire (including behind their ears).

  6:00 PM: Read children bedtime story by the fireside.

  7:00 PM: Prayers and bedtime.

  7:30 PM: If Henry was free, we met. Otherwise I sat quietly in my room and read.

  10:00 PM: Retired to bed and lights out.

  BY THE TIME I ARRIVED back in Little Cranford my shock had eased a little and I found myself looking forward to seeing John and the rest of the evacuees again and putting into practice my stiffened resolve to love and protect every child on my watch.

  How I’d missed my little poppets and the glorious countryside I’d grown to adore. After a wonderful spring and summer in Little Cranford, autumn was brewing and I could smell it in the air.

  There is nothing so precious as autumn sunshine, and I could not wait to take my charges out in its beautiful golden, mellow light. To point out the dazzling show of red and gold from the chestnuts, oaks, and maples, falling leaves swirling in the autumn breeze.

  My mouth watered at the thought of all those wild hawthorns just waiting to be picked from the bushes, ripe apples, and plump blackberries, so delicious under a cloud of cream.

  I smiled as I imagined John charging through a pile of crunchy leaves in his wellies, and countless little cold hands that could be warmed by the nursery fire when we got home after one of our walks. Yes, there was much to look forward to.

  The sadness that had settled over my heart since I’d heard the news of Benjy was still there, but I owed it to my evacuees not to live in the past. Children don’t live in the past, after all. They are always looking onward, upward, and to the future. A furious row with another child over a toy can be quite forgotten the next day. This attitude is what I adore most about children. It’s also how they remain so wonderfully accepting and harbor no traces of bitterness. We should follow their lead in this. If one lives in the past, one can never properly move forward and truly enjoy all that life has to offer.

  Mr. Worboys had come to pick me up as before, and was waiting at the station with his trademark grin.

  Over these past few months I’d found myself growing fond of his lordship’s chauffeur. He was a real gent and a countryman through and through. He was as loyal as the day was long to his lordship, and loyalty is a much-underrated characteristic in my book.

  “Hello, Nurse Brenda,” he said warmly as I got in the car. “There’s a few little people who’ve missed you, I can tell you. Her ladyship’s been busy, too,” he added mysteriously.

  Oh dear. What had she been up to now? On the drive back to Granville House I gazed out the window and found myself marveling once again at the peace and solitude of the countryside during this time of war. This green and pleasant corner of England was in marked contrast to its bustling cities, which teemed with accents from all corners of the world. By now the war had well and truly gone global.

  British soldiers, sailors, and airmen found themselves posted to any far-flung corner of the world. My brother Michael was now serving with the RAF in India, after training in Canada. Christopher, David, and Basil and the rest of the boys from their boarding school had been evacuated to Coniston in the Lake District and, from what I could tell, were having the time of their lives.

  Evacuation had done nothing to dampen Basil’s sense of mischief at boarding school. Indeed, he had gained a new partner in crime. He had befriended Robin Day, later to become the legendary broadcaster Sir Robin Day.

  Concerned that they weren’t getting their full rations of Spam, the pair managed to get into the store cupboard and enjoyed many a Spam-based midnight feast. Perhaps a childhood spent with Basil gave Sir Robin the backbone to tackle Margaret Thatcher.

  Meanwhile, as our boys went overseas, so our shores were filling up with all manner of nationalities. In London up to fifty different uniforms could be spotted, as soldiers of every creed, color, and nationality pounded the streets and filled the dance halls.

  Young Americans who fought in the war endeared themselves to their numerous fans by giving away silk stockings and cigarettes.

  Not that there was a whiff of a foreign accent in Little Cranford or any men bearing gifts of silk stockings—just farmers and their sons.

  Little did I know it then but as the leaves turned golden on the trees and the fruits ripened ready for harvest, the winds of change were blowing my way, too. A man was about to make an appearance in my life.

  Back at Granville House I warmly hugged each of my evacuees.

  “I’ve missed you all, my darlings,” I said, crouching down to their level.

  Just then I noticed a face I didn’t know peering at me. A new evacuee had arrived in my absence.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” I said, with a big smile. “What’s your name?”

  The serious-looking girl gazed at me with big solemn eyes and said nothing. Poor mite; she was probably shy.

  Just then her ladyship swept into the nursery.

  “This is Gretel,” she said. “She’s a refugee. She will be staying with us for a while. Gretel doesn’t speak much English.”

  So this was what Lady Smythe-Villiers had been up to. I was heartened to see her ladyship’s meddling was at least in a good cause.

  Gretel and her parents were Jews who had escaped from Germany. She was just one of the estimated ten thousand Jewish children who fled Germany at the outbreak of World War Two to avoid Nazi persecution.

  I never could discover any more about them, their story, and how it was they came to be in Little Cranford, but the village was alive with gossip about our refugees.

  Over the coming weeks I tried to reach out to Gretel, but she was painfully shy and scared witless.

  Soon after she arrived there was a fierce storm. Rain drummed against the windows and lightning split open the skies.

  I found Gretel huddled in her bedroom, hugging her knees and sobbing softly to herself.

  “Oh, my darling,” I cried when I found her. “Come here. Don’t be scared. Thunder is only the clouds knocking together.”

  But she shrank back from my touch, terror and misery flashing in her blue eyes.

  Those pale eyes said it all and a million emotions seemed to race through them: pain, bewilderment, fear.

  Just what horrors had this little girl seen? How unspeakably awful that this little girl, no older than five, had been forced to flee her home and her friends and all that was familiar in her life and hide out here. She was the human face of this war, the reason we were all fighting and sacrificing so much to save our country from tyranny.


  Just then there was a low rumble of thunder and a howl of anguish escaped from Gretel’s lips.

  “Mama. I want Mama.”

  “Mama and Papa will come soon,” I soothed.

  Her ladyship had billeted her parents with some of the locals in the village. I knew it was no business of mine, but it struck me as so odd. Could there really be no room there for her? Her father was an educated man—a professor so I heard—and her ladyship seemed to treat him with a great deal of respect. Maybe they thought it best she be around other children, but Gretel obviously didn’t, and she cried day and night for her parents. When they did visit it just upset her further, especially when they left.

  “Me go with papa,” she would cry.

  “You must stay here, Gretel,” he would say softly, untangling himself from her embrace.

  Gretel’s papa seemed a kindly enough man, but like her ladyship he was terribly proper. He must have witnessed unimaginable sights himself, of course, but he seemed adept at keeping his feelings locked inside. I daresay he and his wife were grateful for a safe haven and didn’t want to rock the boat, but I did so feel for that little girl.

  For hours after their visits she sat in the corner, hugging her teddy, quite alone in her misery. It was little wonder she felt abandoned in this strange country, where lords and ladies lived in one part of the house and children in the other.

  Little Gretel had no interest in playing with John and the rest of the evacuees and always hung back, even at mealtimes. Even Friday night bath time, always a time of high excitement among the rest of the giggly gang, didn’t raise so much as a flicker of a smile on that sad little face.

  How I hated seeing her suffering and fragility.

  I racked my brains. There had to be a way to win this little girl over and gain her trust. I had to let her know I was on her side. Just getting down to her level wasn’t enough, nor was singing her nursery rhymes or telling her the stories of my youth. The language barrier meant she simply didn’t understand them.

  “What is the key here?” I puzzled night after night. I was failing my charge, and to me that was simply unthinkable.