A Spoonful of Sugar

by Brenda Ashford

“Darling,” I said, bending down to pick her up, “are you all right?”

  The episode, if you can call it that, passed in no time. She seemed fine after that, and I thought no more of it until a month or so later the same thing happened again. Only this time it was far worse. Her poor little body was in spasms and her face went bright red as she shook. I tried to uncurl her fists, but they were clenched shut.

  “Juliet, can you hear me?” I cried. Finally she collapsed exhausted into my arms.

  Terrified, I called Nurse Trudgett and she cycled over immediately. She examined Juliet and then promptly called out the doctor. The doctor made a thorough examination of Juliet, who was by now fully recovered and beaming at the stern man with the stethoscope like he was Santa Claus.

  The diagnosis was swift.

  “Looking at her facial characteristics, skin tone, family history, and behavior, I would say she has Down’s syndrome,” he said, frowning.

  My heart sank. What would her poor mother say? Fortunately, I wasn’t there when the diagnosis was passed on; I don’t think I could have borne witness to her heartbreak.

  I often wonder what happened to that sunny, adorable, lovable little girl after she eventually left the nursery. Of all the children I have ever cared for, she was one with the most love to give, which just makes her possible fate all the more tragic.

  Characters like Jimmy, Gladys Trump, and Juliet continued to make my life in Redbourn a constant source of wonder. The place consumed my every waking thought; it was like working inside a bubble. After I’d got the bus home, Mother put my dinner on the table and it was as much as I could do to wearily raise the fork to my lips. All too soon I would be heading to bed. My life revolved around the nursery, quiet evenings at home, and Sunday morning worship—with no social life to speak of.

  I was just twenty-two and in a position of huge responsibility for one so young. Consequently, I allowed the job to take over. Being conscientious I so wanted to be professional and not let the reputation of the Norland down.

  My life within the four walls of the nursery ruled out any chance of finding a boyfriend. I was simply too busy, or too ill, to socialize. Hardly surprisingly, during my time at Redbourn I contracted everything the children caught. That nursery was a breeding ground of germs and my poor immune system took a battering. I even gave German measles to my brother Christopher while he was on leave before going abroad.

  Outside on the village streets, however, people were beginning to relax a little as the fear of German invasion subsided.

  On June 6, 1944, thirteen months after I began working at the nursery, the Allied invasion of Normandy took place.

  Bulletins rang out from wireless sets all over the village. “Here is a special bulletin. D-day has come.… Early this morning the Allies began the assault on the northwestern face of Hitler’s European fortress.”

  But despite its success, the dangers were far from over.

  A week after D-day, on June 13, 1944, the first V-1 pilotless rocket crossed the English coast; and during the following month thousands were launched on war-weary England. The V stood for Vergeltung, or retaliation.

  On September 8, four years after the Battle of Britain, the longer range V-2s began to fall out of the autumn sky. It was too late for the Germans to win the war, but once again we found ourselves in the line of attack.

  There were ten thousand casualties in the first week of the V-1s, or doodlebugs as they came to be known, but it was the V-2s, which gave no warning, that were really sinister. Unseen and unheard they plummeted to earth delivering one ton of high explosive at a speed of 3,500 feet per second.

  As our troops advanced throughout Europe, the Germans retaliated by raining down these hateful missiles.

  These unmanned invaders from the skies truly were the ultimate weapons of terror warfare. I was outside in the playground the first time I encountered one of them. I became aware of a strange droning noise overhead just as it abruptly stopped. A V-2 rocket!

  I felt sick with fright.

  I’d been warned that when the engine cuts out, that’s when the bomb is ready to begin its descent. Where it landed was anybody’s guess.

  I stood stock-still in the playground, ice-cold panic pumping through my veins.

  “Everyone inside now,” I bellowed.

  The staff, sensing the urgency in my voice, gathered Jimmy, Juliet, and the rest of the boys and girls together and ushered them back inside, where we quickly sheltered them under the tables. The children thought it a marvelous game of course, but we adults were all scared witless.

  We stared at one another, our faces white as flour.

  I was tense as a coiled spring, waiting for an almighty explosion. It never came, but the fear of waiting and the silence as we waited for the bomb to land, was unbearable.

  This happened a few more times as these hateful machines of war passed over our heads. Fortunately none ever exploded in Redbourn, but the anxiety aged us no end. That was the only thing that I remember being really scared of throughout the war.

  Ironically, as these rockets left people paralyzed with terror, our thoughts were already turning to peace. Thanks to D-day it was widely believed we were winning the war; and most knew these rockets were Hitler’s futile last-ditch maneuver in retaliation for the Allies’ advance throughout Europe. At the same time, the blackout gave way to a halfhearted dim-out and we wearily took down the blackout curtains.

  Soon after the rockets began, another strange noise filled the skies over Redbourn. The village was alive with news of the day the horizon turned black. I hadn’t witnessed it but many of the villagers had become aware of a strange droning sound, different from the hated rockets. Staring out their windows they were flabbergasted to see hundreds of British RAF planes towing gliders fly overhead.

  One by one, villagers trickled out of their cottages until soon the common was filled with silent onlookers, craning their necks skyward, an uneasy feeling growing in the pits of their stomachs.

  “It was obviously an invasion force,” one local told me, “but for where?”

  “The skies were black with planes,” muttered another.

  We didn’t know the exact scale of it at the time, but some truly horrendous battles were being fought by our boys in Europe. The last year of World War Two was our country’s darkest hour. Tens of thousands of sons, husbands, and brothers lost their lives. Precious few survivors of these battles walk among us now.

  One person clearly affected by this was Martin the milkman.

  His eldest boy, Ray, twenty-one, had joined up and was serving with the 1st Airborne Division. Martin tried to maintain his sunny disposition when he delivered the milk, but his face was pinched with worry, and his poor wife’s face, God bless her, took on a haunted look.

  Somehow, in some way, we all felt responsible for Ray. The Webbs were so popular in the village and young Ray was “one of ours.”

  A couple of weeks after the skies had turned black, I heard a furor out on the common. I glanced out the window and who should I see striding along the road but Ray himself! It was a moment of sheer joy for the village. People rushed out of their homes to applaud him. Ray was one of the lucky ones and it’s a miracle he survived.

  I watched with a lump in my throat. With his dark hair, chiseled features, and Errol Flynn mustache, he was so handsome. He got a hero’s welcome, particularly from the young ladies of the village, who positively swooned in his presence.

  The village was buzzing after Ray’s return; and we all prayed as we had never done before for a swift end to this war. Two months later, barbed wire started disappearing from Britain’s beaches, and Father and the rest of the Home Guard were stood down from duty.

  Finally, the following May, 1945, came the moment we had all been waiting for, VE-day—victory in Europe. A huge cheer erupted from the boys’ school next door and bulletins all over the village rang out with the triumphant news.

  The following letter was sent to schools up and do
wn the country and pinned on notice boards in the village.

  8th June, 1946

  To-day as we celebrate victory, I send this personal message to you and all other boys and girls at school. For you have shared in the hardships and dangers of a total war and you have shared no less in the triumph of the Allied Nations.

  I know you will always feel proud to belong to a country which was capable of such supreme effort; proud, too, of parents and elder brothers and sisters who by their courage, endurance, and enterprise brought victory. May those qualities be yours as you grow up and join in the common effort to establish among the nations of the world unity and peace.

  George R.I.

  London went mad with joy, people screamed and shouted, perfect strangers embraced. Revelers danced the conga, a popular new import from Latin America, the Lambeth walk, and the hokey-cokey.

  Churchill appeared on the floodlit balcony at Buckingham Palace with the king and queen, while the princesses were allowed to party with the celebrating crowds below. On every street a sea of red, white, and blue flags and bunting fluttered triumphantly.

  In Redbourn, Union Jacks were hung at every window, and people finally looked less careworn and more relaxed. Even the deserter must eventually have crawled out from under his mistress’s bed! Martin Webb and the villagers organized a huge afternoon of races, games, and tea on the common. John, Ron, and Podge celebrated alongside Spanner and the rest of his gang with egg-and-spoon and sack races, followed by tea with lashings of jam.

  I spent my VE-day more quietly. I went home to be with my family. I had survived incendiary bombs, flying shrapnel, doodlebugs, betrayal, a broken heart, German measles, and ferocious East End mums. The war was over. I was shattered.

  As for my siblings, Michael was demobbed from where he was stationed with the air force in India and the rest of the boys came home from their school in the Lake District. Kathleen was working as a midwife in Woking and thanks to the war was a virtual stranger to me. I was looking forward to getting to know them all again.

  The all clear had sounded for good, the strains of “We’ll meet again” were to be heard everywhere, and the age of postwar austerity had begun. What now for the village and the nursery?

  Twelve evacuee families loved village life so much they decided to stay on. They were embraced by the local community and became a welcome part of it, settling down and raising their families in Redbourn. Even today an old boys and girls reunion is held with ex-evacuees occupying a table known affectionately as “cockney corner.”

  Not so for Jimmy and his mother, who decided to return to the East End.

  When it came time for Jimmy to leave, he flung his arms around me.

  “Fank you, Nurse Brenda. I’ll never forget ya.”

  My heart soared.

  “Nor I you, my little treasure.”

  He may have been filthy, thin, and pale when he arrived, but I like to think he left me rosy cheeked, happy, well fed, and clean—the perfect child. Who knew what the future held for little Jimmy?

  Unrelenting poverty in a tiny two-bedroom tenement flat? Even if his home was still standing, it was set in a bomb-ravaged wasteland. Still, knowing Jimmy, he’d be all over those bomb sites, quickly becoming ruler of his strange new playground.

  Over at my parents’ house, life was all change, too. Soon after the war ended I came home from the nursery one day to find my mother utterly distraught.

  “Lady Lillian is insisting that Sally return to live with her,” she cried.

  “But how can she?” I protested. “Sally has lived with us for years.”

  Call us naive, but as Sally had been with us for six years with scarcely a visit from her ladyship, we assumed she would be with us forever. She was one of the family now, a happy, healthy seven-year-old. We had even enrolled her in a local Catholic school as per Lady Lillian’s wishes.

  “She can and she is,” sobbed Mother. “What’s more, I’m not allowed to visit. Her ladyship has consulted a doctor who thinks it best Sally make a clean break of it and not have contact with us, as it will confuse her.”

  As I hugged her I realized my mother was bereft.

  “I loved that little girl as a daughter,” she whispered.

  Saying good-bye was a painful and bewildering experience for all involved. Sally blamed herself. “When I saw her putting on makeup on a visit once, I told her my mummy doesn’t wear makeup. She was angry. Is this my fault?” Sally’s lip was quivering as she spoke.

  “Of course not, darling,” gushed Mother. “She’s your mummy and she wants you home.”

  Mother folded little Sally into a last hug and wept her good-byes.

  We never saw that little girl again.

  As Mother returned to the house, I felt so scared. What would she do now without her little Sally to care for? What would women all over the country do now their roles had changed? Return to a life of domesticity? “Where Do We Go from Here?” was the title of a Vogue article on the future of women after the war. So many had found liberation and acceptance by wearing a man’s uniform during the war that giving it all up would be a bitter pill to swallow.

  In 1945 divorce rates were double what they were in 1938. Women had tasted freedom and they didn’t want to return to the kitchen. (Amazingly, though, I heard the lady who had all the illegitimate children with the deserter was forgiven by her husband when he returned. Not only that but he even helped to raise all the children as his own. What a forgiving fellow! He was regarded as a saint by the village.)

  Whatever women wanted, the remaining years of the forties and the fifties represented a backward step for their emancipation. There was desperation to see society return to normal, and women going back to their old domesticated role was part of this.

  Things were all change for me, too. Wartime nurseries declined due to the withdrawal of Ministry of Health funding and so Redbourn Day Nursery was put into the care of the local authority. This spelled bad news. The children were leaving in droves, full-time care not being needed anymore, and the staff were losing their enthusiasm. Who could blame them? We all felt like we were just going through the motions.

  I so wanted to leave, but to do what? Britain was a much-changed place. The British nanny was dying out, a symbol of a disappearing way of life. One by one, private colleges to train nannies were closing. In 1945 the National Nursery Examination Board was founded and laid down national standards of qualification. NNEB courses were introduced into new colleges of further education. The new state-run colleges threw open the profession to girls whose families could not afford private training.

  More and more families began to employ cheaper au pairs and untrained help. Postwar austerity was already biting, and social changes meant that employing a nanny in a uniform wasn’t seen as prestigious in the way it once was. In three years’ time the NHS would be formed and mass antenatal care organized for the first time.

  Meanwhile, the Norland’s headquarters at Pembridge Square had been sold off. The lecture rooms and workrooms—where we had toiled, ironed, sewed, knitted, and polished our prams—now lay empty. Miss Whitehead had resigned in 1941. No more children’s laughter echoed round the grand old house.

  The Norland, like so many other businesses, was engrossed in financial survival. Economy became the order of the day.

  In March 1946 I could stand it no longer and handed in my notice. The nursery had lost its soul and I my enthusiasm for it, but I owed it a huge debt of gratitude. What a journey of discovery I had been on. The East Enders and this little community had opened my eyes to the world. Thanks to them, the bombs, and betrayal, I had changed. I was no longer a naive young girl but a strong woman. I could look forward with my head held high and say I’d done my duty. I’d done my little bit to help secure the safety and freedom of our children.

  The world was changing, but could I change with it? Was I still needed and wanted? Could I keep the pram wheels rolling? Now that the bombs had stopped raining down, were there any childre
n in need of protection, love, stability, or just a lap to sit in for a cuddle?

  For me the route was obvious. My faith had always been strong in my life, even when I’d been a directionless child. It seemed natural that I would be drawn back to religion in some way.

  Feeling lost, I was only too pleased to take up an offer that had come my way.

  Mary was an old friend of mine whom I had met through the church, and, hearing I was at a loose end, she invited me to join her on a religious conference in Hildenborough, Kent.

  Religious camps, or rallies as they were known, were springing up all over Britain. They were extremely popular in the postwar years and offered direction to thousands of youth. For young men and women who had seen their homes bombed, their loved ones killed, and who had survived countless brushes with death, these conferences offered hope and peace in uncertain times.

  And so it was that I found myself traveling to Kent with Mary. On the way she told me whom we’d be meeting there.

  “My brother Branse is going with his friend Bill,” she chattered excitedly. “You’ll like Bill—he’s lovely. Very bright—he’s studying theology at Cambridge University.”

  Apparently Bill and Branse were great friends and had both flown Spitfires in the RAF during the war.

  “Terribly brave, both of them,” Mary went on.

  I wasn’t disappointed when I met them.

  “Hello,” said the soft-spoken, blond young man, shaking my hand earnestly. “I’m Bill.”

  “Hello,” I murmured, savoring the warmth of his hand in mine.

  Oh my. Bill was quite lovely—delicious, in fact.

  He radiated a goodness and a gentle sincerity I’d never come across before.

  For the rest of the day we barely drew breath, chatting till the sun went down. I talked about my work as a nanny and he told me about his studies at Cambridge University. I’m quite sure he was far more intelligent than I, but he was so interested in everything I had to say, and kind, gentle, and considerate.

  One evening I watched him out of the corner of my eye during a prayer meeting. His eyes were closed and a look of utter peace washed over his face as he silently mouthed the prayers.