Mother was still bereft after losing her beloved little Sally when Lady Lillian had suddenly decided to reclaim her after all those years. I knew that seeing these gorgeous little bundles would cheer her up no end.
When Mother answered the door, I could see she’d been baking, as she was wiping her hands on a white apron and the faintest trace of flour shone on her soft downy face.
Her eyes went from me to the twins, propped up in their big coach pram under a snowy white blanket. I had to admit, with their soft dark curls and Cupid’s bow mouths they did look simply adorable.
Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, Brenda,” she gasped. “Aren’t they beautiful. Come in, come in—you’ll catch your death of cold. I’ve just baked some jam tarts.”
As she bustled into the warm kitchen and put on the kettle, I marveled at Mother’s ability to make every house a home.
Within ten minutes I was cradling a hot cup of tea and Mother was cradling one twin in each arm.
With two babies nestling in the crook of each arm she radiated happiness. “I’ve got a marvelous idea,” she said. “Why don’t we take them to a photographer and have some photos taken?”
Her eyes shone with so much excitement I had to laugh. “How can I say no?”
Mother proudly pushed the twins along the street in their pram, showing them off to friends and neighbors on the way.
“Brenda’s new charges,” she explained.
Bless her. She would so have loved to have had twins.
The war in some senses had been good for Mother—she had evacuees coming out of her ears and plenty of little folk to care for. But now, with the war over, the evacuees returned to their parents, Father working hard in London, and my brothers either at school or work, I suspect she may have been a little lonely.
My older sister Kathleen was working long hours as a midwife, even though she visited when she could, like me.
Kathleen and eventually I were to be kept extremely busy, as 1946 marked the start of the baby boom. Prewar relationships were resumed and birthrates went through the roof.
For Mother, like so many other women returning to a life of domesticity after the war, readjusting was a struggle.
We had a whale of a time that afternoon, dressing the babies up in pretty bonnets and having their photos taken, followed by tea and a stroll in the park. By the time Mother and I returned home I could see she was brimming over with stories to tell Father.
“Thank you, Brenda.” She smiled as Mr. Sacks’s car arrived to take us to our new residence. “That was a tonic.”
Seeing Mother was a tonic to me, too, and on the drive home I felt fully restored.
I was twenty-five by now, but after the war and running Redbourn Day Nursery, I felt years older. Yet despite all that I had seen and experienced, I didn’t feel too old to still need my mother’s love and to bathe in the warmth of her company. She made having a family seem the most natural and easy thing in the world.
Having children and a family to call my own hadn’t happened to me yet, and I’ll admit, there was a part of me that longed to know the love a mother feels cradling her baby. I lived in hope that my time would come and I could have the honor of making my mother a grandmother.
As we pulled up outside Carolyn’s father’s house, I could see our new home was somewhat grander than our previous semi. The large detached home was set in its own grounds and was surrounded by beautiful blue rhododendron bushes. A garage annex contained a little studio flat above it, too.
Inside, the boys chased each other happily through the packing boxes that were strewn over the large hallway as Carolyn busily unpacked.
“Hush, boys,” she called. “You’ll wake Grandpa.”
“Grandpa is bedbound,” she explained. “He has a new male carer. Charlie got rid of the last one, so you won’t have much to do with him.”
Grandpa had good taste, as the sideboards were groaning with lovely ornaments. A mahogany display cabinet glittered with silver and an exquisite duck egg blue china tea set. Beautiful oil paintings hung from a picture rail. I sighed. I should never have the money to buy such things. Little matter. Money wasn’t the most important thing. Which reminded me.
“Mr. Sacks,” I called brightly, as he walked past carrying a box of china to the garage. “It’s my day off and I don’t seem to have been paid yet.”
He paused and a muscle twitched under his eye.
“Yes, yes, course, Nurse Ashford,” he blustered. “Terribly sorry, I just forgot. I’ll get it tomorrow when I go to London.”
I frowned. This wasn’t the first time Mr. Sacks was struck a bad case of amnesia. The sight of a bill seemed to have an unusual effect on his memory. I’d lost count of the number of times he’d forgotten to pay me my £15 a week.
In fact, pinning down the elusive Mr. Sacks was proving most difficult. His hours were so sporadic. Sometimes he was here all day; at other times he was gone for hours, not returning until late at night.
I never presumed to ask him what he did for a job—one simply didn’t with one’s employers—but whatever he did required a certain degree of ducking and diving.
Still, it was most irksome to have to chase him for my pay, but I put it to the back of my mind. Tomorrow was my day off. I was visiting Bill in Cambridge, and I was fizzing over with excitement. Carolyn was coping quite nicely now with the twins and was far more settled, so I felt comfortable taking a much-needed day off from my duties.
Bill met me at the station in Cambridge and he was every bit as gentle, kind, and sincere as I remembered.
“Let me show you round this beautiful place,” he said with a smile.
I could barely take my eyes off his face. He wasn’t brilliantly good-looking, but he radiated a goodness that was quite spellbinding.
We wandered round. I was totally absorbed in the sights and smells, the dreamy River Cam and its punts, the awe-inspiring King’s College Chapel.
I was overawed by a place steeped in such history, learning, and beauty.
Bill fitted in perfectly. His soft brown eyes shone and he spoke with such passion and conviction as he talked of his studies and what Jesus meant to him.
He encouraged me to talk about my faith and listened, really listened, to what I had to say.
He was nothing like cocky, arrogant Henry. In fact, he suited me down to the ground.
His faith was as solid as the foundations of these grand colleges. His love for the Lord shone from him like an inner radiance.
“He is always there guiding us, Brenda,” he whispered. “You just have to listen and open your heart. You should come and pray with me soon.”
Staring into those shy and dreamy eyes, I’d have gone to the ends of the earth if he’d asked me. “I’d like that.” I smiled, flushing pink.
When we parted, I longed for him to kiss me, but he simply smiled and shook my hand gently as we made promises to meet again.
On the train home I tingled all over and stroked my hand where he had brushed it. I wanted to hold on to the memory of his touch for as long as possible.
I enjoyed his company. Really enjoyed it. Who knew what the future held?
When I returned home later that evening with a smile still playing on my lips, a number of things had occurred in my absence.
We had a new resident. Sitting in the front room with his feet up on the coffee table like he owned the place was a most shifty-looking young man.
“This is Bob,” said Carolyn, smiling nervously. “He’s a friend of my husband. He will be staying with us for a while. He’s started a business selling toys and he shall be living and working in the studio above the garage.”
Bob was small and twitchy like a rat, with narrow eyes that bobbed this way and that. I didn’t like the way he was staring at me. The velvet collar of his jacket was turned up, and he wore a cocked fedora.
What a most peculiar creature.
“Pleased to meet you, Bob,” I said stiffly. “What an interesting line of work. What sort of toys wi
ll you be making?”
“Not sure yet.” He sniffed. “Play ones, I expect.”
“Right,” I replied, puzzled.
“Anyway,” he said, draining his tea and straightening his wide tie, “just wanted to wet me whistle. I’ll be orf now.”
“What time will you be back?” Carolyn asked.
“See me when you see me,” he called, picking up a small suitcase by his side and heading out the door.
Carolyn turned to me and rolled her eyes. “Between you and me, I don’t much like him,” she confided. “He never gives a straight answer. He’s a bit of a spiv.”
“Hmm,” I murmured. “I can see.”
“But Charlie says he’s down on his luck and he needs a hand until he’s back on his feet.”
Needed more than a hand to get him back on his feet, if you asked me, but I kept my opinion to myself. I was just the nanny, after all.
That night I tossed and turned in bed. I thought of Bill, who had made so many sacrifices for his country. Now this dreadful war was over he was trying to make the best of this situation, following his heart and calling to Jesus. I daresay he had little money, but this was the age of austerity and he was knuckling down and getting on with it like the best of us. And then there were men like Bob, no doubt pulling scams and dabbling in the black market. Ducking and diving and living above garages. What a strange existence.
This was turning into a very odd place to work indeed! And it was about to get stranger.
Soon after shifty Bob’s introduction another even more peculiar character arrived.
Carolyn had warned me about her brother. “He’s a musician,” she’d said. “A—well, how can I say—colorful character. He does rather tend to turn up when he pleases. You know what musicians are like—they don’t keep the same hours as us.”
Soon after, I was in the twin’s nursery, dusting. Grandpa was asleep next door, and Mr. and Mrs. Sacks were out.
“Alwight, darlin’,” boomed a loud voice up the corridor.
Jumping in shock, I managed to upend my polish and drop my duster.
I whirled round and gasped.
Standing before me was a vision in polyester. This must be Trevor the musician.
He was a tiny man, as slight as a sparrow and just as twitchy.
A head of thick dark hair had been slicked back with pomade. A tight, bright, yellow shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a thick bush of chest hair. Nestling in the bushy forest twinkled an enormous gold medallion.
Everywhere one looked, gold seemed to twinkle. Even his fingers were dripping with gold rings.
“Trevor’s the name and music’s me game,” he chirped. “And what’s your name, darlin’?”
I bristled. I most certainly was not his darling.
“I am Nurse Ashford, the children’s nanny,” I replied.
“Course you are, darlin’,” he said, beaming. “What’s a fella got to do to get a cuppa round these parts?” he said, planting his hands on his hips. “Me tongue’s hanging out.”
He was like nothing I’d ever come across before. I supposed he was embracing the modern trends I kept hearing about. Rock and roll hadn’t been invented at that stage, but the music being played was the forerunner to it.
Turned out, Trevor played bebop jazz and boogie-woogie blues on the piano in pubs. “You should come and see me play tonight,” he said, grinning, then heading to the kitchen.
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m working.” In any case I couldn’t bear the smell of beer and never set foot in a pub.
In the coming months, Trevor turned up sporadically and never with any warning. I began to feel like I was in a comedy of errors. Between the alarming Trevor and shifty Bob, I was living in a most peculiar household.
Trevor would sneak up behind me and frighten the life out of me with a booming “alwight, darlin’.”
His outfits grew more outrageous with the passing months. No combination of clothing was off limits. From Day-Glo shirts teamed with bright patterned trousers to cocked fedoras and loud wide ties, Trevor could always be relied on to add a garish splash of color to the house.
From his tight shirts worn unbuttoned to his wide ties, he always seemed so casual and thrown together.
What Miss Whitehead, who was a stickler for a properly turned out uniform, would have made of this young man, goodness only knows.
Between Trevor and shifty Bob, who seemed to jump out of the shadows and scare me half to death, I was a bag of nerves.
What effect all these comings and goings were having on the children was anybody’s business. It was most disconcerting.
On the whole, though, thanks to separate day and night nurseries, the children didn’t seem too put-out by the mayhem created by these bizarre characters.
Children by and large are fairly resilient and not easy to shock. They took these sketchy men in their stride. As ever in 1940s households, the children were confined to certain areas of the house, such as the day and night nursery and the kitchen and garden. They would no more play on their hands and knees with their trains in the living room than I would. This meant, luckily, they mainly saw only their mother and me.
With four children under five I had to run that household with a meticulous eye for detail and a consistent routine.
While the elder children were playing with their toys and the twins were napping, I washed and ironed their clothes, washed bottles, or did any of the countless tasks that seemed to make up my day. I was forever looking ahead (not to mention left and right) to see what tasks I could complete to save time and confusion. Carolyn cooked, so I didn’t have to make their meals, but keeping all four entertained, fed, watered, and happily playing was most certainly a full-time job that involved a high degree of stamina.
I couldn’t take my eye off the ball for a moment. If I did, you could be sure chaos would break out. One afternoon I was trying to change the twins’ diapers when I heard the most terrific din downstairs.
Trevor was doing a full-throttle rendition of a jazz number on the piano in the room below. It sounded like a stray cat was being strangled.
“Really,” I muttered, securing Violet’s terry cloth diaper with a large safety pin, “this is quite intolerable.”
“Don’t leave the room, boys,” I ordered to the older two and, after making sure the twins were safely in their cots, I stormed downstairs and told Trevor in no uncertain terms that his playing was above the acceptable limits of tolerance for my ears.
On the landing I dodged Bob, who was just going out—or was he returning? One never knew—and let myself back into the nursery, shut the door, and fell back against it with a big sigh.
My relief was short-lived.
“What on earth?” I gasped.
The boys had somehow managed to get hold of a pot of Trevor’s pomade and had smeared it all over their hair and faces, and tried on every piece of clothing they owned. Pullovers were bundled over shirts and they had socks on their hands.
The twins were an eager audience to this hectic scene and were sitting up in their cot, giggling and banging the cot bars with the pomade lid.
“We’re putting on a show for the twins, Nanny,” piped up the older boy.
By the time I had cleared up the mess I was quite exhausted. Thank goodness poor old Grandpa was bedbound. It was far and away the safest place for him to be!
With days such as these, scarcely did an evening pass when my head did not hit the pillow and I was sound asleep by 10:00 PM. Even if I had wanted to watch Trevor showing off on his piano down the pub, I would never have had the energy to stay awake.
And throughout all this bedlam Mr. Sacks still kept conveniently forgetting to pay me my wages on time.
One morning, about five months after I started, I had had enough.
He was late paying me again and yet only the day before I’d seen him counting a big wad of money. “I shall need paying promptly each week,” I said sharply.
“Nurse Ashford,” he said smoothly
, “don’t fret. I won’t see you short.”
That evening he arrived home late from London, with the oldest boy. As I was helping the boy into his pajamas I asked, “Where did you go today? Anywhere nice?”
“I played the piano at Harrods,” he replied.
“Oh,” I said. “Were you trying one out to buy?”
“Oh, no,” he replied. “Dad and I just go all over.”
Suddenly, it dawned on me that the image of the professional city gent that Mr. Sacks had presented to me all those months ago in Fortnum & Mason was totally at odds with reality.
I very much doubted whether the slippery Mr. Sacks worked at all. They’d probably only moved in here for somewhere bigger to live, nothing to do with a fraudster care assistant.
More likely than not he was gambling, which would explain his erratic hours and why sometimes he had money and other times not.
I resolved to say nothing. It wasn’t my place to question my boss and I had grown fond of Carolyn and the twins, but a sense of mistrust had settled in my heart toward Mr. Sacks and his dubious associates.
Even I was surprised at what he did next. One spring morning Carolyn’s father died. It had been in the cards. The poor old man couldn’t even get out of bed.
Carolyn, of course, was distraught, and I vowed to help her as much as I could to take the burden off.
I was just taking the twins out one morning, when I saw Mr. Sacks acting suspiciously by the door, packing things into boxes.
When we returned from our walk, I paused in the hallway. Something was different. Then I realized: the duck egg blue china tea set was gone, as were most of the paintings. A faint line of dust outlined where they used to hang on the wall. In fact, anything of value was missing.
“It’s all right,” said Carolyn, walking in and seeing my concern.
“Charlie has stored them in next door’s cellar to avoid probate.”
Life could be so puzzling. Mother and Father had brought me up to tell the absolute truth at all times. Behaving in this deceitful way was against everything I held dear. Bill would never dream of behaving in such a way.
The only upside was that Bob hadn’t been seen around lately and seemingly had vanished off the face of the earth. I’ll admit it, I felt relieved now that he wasn’t sidling around the place.
A Spoonful of Sugar Page 24