“A place for everything and everything in its place,” I always say. And lead by example. “Always hang your things up when you come in. The floor is the untidy child’s table.”
Manners are so vitally important. I can’t abide it when children don’t say please and thank you. It’s such a little thing but it means the world.
I love this little poem as there is so much truth in it.
Hearts, like doors, will open with ease
To very, very little keys.
And don’t forget that two of these
Are “Thank you, sir” and “If you please.”
—AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Isn’t it lovely?
As for fussy eaters? I don’t stand for it.
In the late 1950s, when rationing had all but died out, I started to see many mothers indulge fussy eaters and start giving them options.
This is a mistake in my book.
Maybe after my public showdown when Miss Whitehead insisted I eat all the beetroot on my plate I have taken a hard line on fussy eating. “This is a home, not a restaurant, and you will jolly well try it before you turn your nose up at it,” I would say. Children shouldn’t take for granted having a well-stocked larder and fridge.
By the late 1950s, with more access to imported exotic ingredients, cooking Mediterranean food was all the rage; but when I had to cook I stuck to the good old-fashioned foods of my childhood like pies, puddings, and roasts.
It was a brave child who turned his nose up at Nanny’s cottage pie! So many children and adults lived on relatively little throughout the war and certainly didn’t have the luxury of choice, but everyone got by and no one starved. Be grateful for the food on your plate, for you are lucky it is there at all.
Maybe I sound old-fashioned, but sticking hard and consistently to these principles has always improved children’s behavior in my care and in a short space of time, too.
The biggest thing I think I learned from the Norland, and which I hope I brought to every home I passed through, was to encourage the mother to spend time playing with her child.
A child needs love and attention. Even if it’s a thirty-minute game once in a day, every child just wants to spend time with his or her mummy, basking in her sole attention. I do wish parents would put down their cell phones and laptops and make their children the sole recipient of their time and love for a part of their day.
Some mothers, of course, are simply too tired or busy and have forgotten how to play with their children. I wouldn’t tell them what I was doing but by demonstrating, I was secretly showing them how to play.
Every day I read books to children. Reading creates such a lovely routine and helps a young mind to blossom. Or we’d let our imagination run wild. Any old box can be a pirate ship or a sheet draped over two chairs a secret den.
Let them create secret worlds. Give them your undivided attention; laugh and join in, and they will love you for it. Their childhood will last that much longer, too.
After so many years in other women’s homes, it was inevitable that I would come across a mother who resented me. But I like to think it was just the one home.
Mrs. Lillian Schaffer and her husband, Neil, were wealthy and lived in a large open-plan house in North London with all the latest mod cons including a fridge and washing machine.
When I arrived, it took me all of two minutes to realize that their oldest child, Jennifer, had a ferocious temper and was horribly spoiled. “Take her off somewhere and give her sweets,” snapped Lillian to her husband. “She has been screaming so loudly all day I can’t hear myself think.”
Jennifer was dragged kicking and screaming to her bedroom.
“She’s a terribly behaved kid,” she told me, sighing. “I don’t know how I’m going to cope when this one arrives.”
With that she placed a hand on her large bump. “She’ll just have to get used to it, I suppose.”
Annoyance bristled inside me. Kids are baby goats. Jennifer was a child. It showed such a lack of respect.
I didn’t have a terribly good feeling about this appointment.
Suddenly, we both became aware of a commotion overhead.
I stared up to a large mezzanine balcony overhead, and my jaw flopped to the ground.
A door had flown open and there was Mr. Schaffer, striding stark-naked along the corridor without a care in the world … and I had a bird’s-eye view. “Oh gracious,” I said, averting my gaze.
A second later he was in the bathroom and the sound of the shower went on.
I looked flabbergasted at Mrs. Schaffer, but she didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow.
I could see this was going to be a most peculiar house to work in.
A few days later Mrs. Schaffer was taken into hospital to give birth, and I was left alone with the stripping husband and their truculent child.
Jennifer was like most naughty children. She needed discipline and more love, not the hearty slap Mr. Schaffer would have me issue.
With some gentle coaxing and firm encouragement I had soon engaged her and gradually she began eating all her tea and playing a little better.
One night I had just retired to bed when Mr. Schaffer burst into my bedroom. I pulled the bedsheets up around me, quite alarmed, but he plonked himself down on the end of my bed like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’ve just got back from the hospital,” he said. “My wife’s not very happy with you.”
“But why?” I gasped.
He smirked. “I told her how well behaved Jennifer’s being now that you’re here.”
Oh thank you very much.
That was quite sure to enrage her. Sure enough, when she returned she was very frosty toward me and when my two weeks came to an end I was most relieved to go.
With each passing job I quickly realized though, with the exception of Mr. Schaffer’s blasé attitude toward nudity, very little shocked me.
Women were changing and transforming. By 1960 the wealthy ones that I worked for had luxuries I could only have dreamed of.
So many labor- and time-saving electric appliances had been invented in the 1950s, the decade of domesticity: washing machines; stoves, toasters, kettles, vacuum cleaners, and—oh glory of glories—the electric iron. No more wrestling with a hot flat iron that needed heating over an open stove.
I thought back to my days of training at the Norland in Pembridge Square and how all the girls in my set and I had sweated and toiled on laundry days.
As I watched mothers in the 1960s glide their new steam irons over their husbands’ shirts and have them pressed in a jiffy, I could only shake my head in amazement. If only they knew.
I always bit my tongue of course—no one likes to hear someone harp on about what it was like in their day—but there were occasions when I found it hard to resist.
Especially when I heard a new mother grumbling about changing her child’s diaper. Thanks to modern technology, women had been freed from the backbreaking task of scrubbing countless soiled terry cloth nappies, now that disposable ones were so readily available.
“You should have seen the ones we had to wash when I was training,” I said with a chuckle when I saw a young mother wrinkling her nose in disgust. “At least you can just throw them in the bin.”
In many ways, women didn’t realize how good they had it. They had freedom and choices.
Some called it the greatest scientific invention of the twentieth century. I don’t know about that, but there is no doubting the pill changed the lives of women forever.
The contraceptive pill became available worldwide in 1961. Suddenly, women could have their cake and eat it, too. They weren’t confined to the home and raising an ever-expanding family. They could choose to start their families later and pursue further education and a career on their own terms.
Gradually, I began to realize that many of the women I worked for were leaving the nursery to go back to work or start interesting careers. I saw them fly planes, run businesses, begin exacting
jobs, or even in one case have a planned cesarean so she could go off on a skiing holiday for a fortnight, leaving her baby with me. They were liberated in a way my mother’s generation could never have dreamed.
My father witnessed all this, too, but increasingly this new modern world just washed over him. He moved about as if in a dream world.
As we feared, he never recovered from Mother’s death.
I visited him as often as I could but increasingly found him sitting sadly on his own. It was as though he was just going through the motions.
He still went to his office as often as he could, but even there he couldn’t escape Mother’s memory. “You won’t believe what his secretary told him,” hissed Kathleen, when I visited her one afternoon. Kathleen looked terribly upset and whatever it was it had clearly rattled her.
“She told him that she was a clairvoyant and she’d been contacted by Mother with a message she simply had to pass on.”
“What on earth?” I blustered.
“Yes, apparently she said that Father’s not to worry about the silver thimble. She has one now.”
I stood silent as I allowed her words to sink in. We knew that some time ago Father had had a terrible job finding Mother a silver thimble that she had wanted. “Does he believe it?” I asked.
“Yes, I think so,” she fumed. “I mean, it’s outrageous saying things like that to a widowed man. It’s not natural to dabble in things like that.”
I didn’t know what to make of it, but it left me with a strange feeling in my tummy.
Soon after, and two years after Mother’s death, I was working for a family in Micheldever in Hampshire. It was slightly strange, as the man of the house had a hook instead of a hand. I never asked why—it would have felt most impolite. He and his wife were lovely, though, and had two beautiful children and a new baby. The hook did nothing to curtail his life and he managed to drive, dress himself, go to work, and cradle the baby with his good hand.
The call had come one Sunday morning and I was due to drive over and see Father and Kathleen later that day. A nagging feeling of unease had stalked me all day.
Had Father really received a message from beyond the grave? Was he to believe a so-called message from Mother about a silver thimble?
When Kathleen called, I knew what she was going to say before the words were even out of her mouth.
“I have to tell you,” she said quietly, “Father’s died.”
“I know,” I said simply.
“How do you know?” she gasped.
“I don’t know—I just do,” I replied.
Funny how in our society death is much feared, discussed, and obsessed over; but in my father’s case everything continued just as before. Time didn’t stand still.
By the time I reached his bungalow, Kathleen, ever the professional nurse, had called everybody and the funeral parlor had even come and collected Father’s body and taken him to the local mortuary. She was so organized and efficient. There was nothing left to do except sit down and talk.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Father went out to mow the lawn after lunch,” she said. “The first I realized that something was wrong was when I saw the lawn mower go past the window on its own.
“I rushed outside and found him dead on the ground. “Too early to tell yet but a suspected heart attack,” she went on. “It would have been quick.”
We sat in silence as I digested the information. Father had been seventy and had lasted twenty-four months without his beloved wife.
The kitchen clock ticked, next door’s cat strolled across Father’s half-mowed lawn, the kettle flicked on for the cup of tea Father liked after gardening came to a boil.
I could feel pain clawing my heart—first Mother, now Father—but I suppressed it.
“Well.” I sighed. “It was a glorious death.”
Kathleen nodded in agreement.
I don’t mean to sound flippant. My father avoided being blown up, shot, or going insane in the trenches in World War One, and served his country again throughout countless enemy raids during World War Two.
A peaceful and mercifully quick death among his beloved roses was the best he could have hoped for.
“He’s with Mother now,” said Kathleen softly, “the reunion he had been dreaming of.”
I nodded. “Bet they’re both up there now.” I smiled sadly. “Mother knitting a baby’s bonnet, Father sipping a stout, Henry Hall playing in the background.”
Suddenly, I realized, and one by one the hairs on the back of my neck had stood up. Father had died on a Sunday afternoon.… Mother and Father’s hallowed time together! They had always insisted on having Sunday afternoons on their own together, with us children sent out to play.
Even when they were caring for evacuees during the war, nothing had interrupted this tradition.
Father had gone to join Mother during “their time.” Now they would be together for eternity.
TESTIMONIAL
Nurse Brenda has been with us for five weeks in charge of our twin girls. She has been a wonderful help in every way and we are very sad she’s leaving. Her very high professional skill has been coupled with a great ability to fit in with the ordinary day-to-day life of the family. It is with a great sense of regret that she’s leaving.
—MR. GORDON
Nanny’s Wisdom
KEEP A HARMONIOUS HOME.
I know it’s hard in this fast-paced, frantic, modern world, but I do wish people would try harder not to let stress and anger into the home. If families treated their homes as a sanctuary, then the people in it would remain calmer. I could never believe it when I heard people bickering in front of their children. Why, oh why, would parents subject them to that? Children learn so much from their parents, so when they hear arguing, it normalizes it and teaches them that shouting is perfectly acceptable behavior. It is just so damaging for children. I never heard my own mother and father raise their voices to each other, not once, and as a result we respected them. If they said no, we listened and we did what they told us. We grew up knowing the difference between right and wrong.
FOLLOW A ROUTINE WITH NEWBORNS.
All newborns need a routine. The correct equipment supports that routine. As a rule of thumb this is what a newborn requires: four nightgowns, four vests, four matinee jackets (cardigans), diapers, one dozen muslin nappies, large shawl, two blankets for pram, and cot covers, three pairs of bootees, two fitted waterproof sheets, four cotton sheets, pram cover, cotton wool, two soft towels, nappy rash cream, baby soap, baby hairbrush, nail scissors, baby sponge, bucket for soiled nappies, baby feeding equipment, bottles, sterilizer, six bottles, brush for cleaning bottles, nipples, dried milk for bottle-fed babies.
I aimed to feed baby every four hours, not on demand. If a baby screamed for food between those feed times, I would try to give cool boiled water. Hungrier babies will need to be fed every three hours To help keep track of feeding times, I jotted them down in a notepad. Newborn babies tend to sleep a lot, and I always encouraged that. Daytime naps should be taken where possible outside in the fresh air in a cot or pram. I discouraged their sleeping past 5:00 PM and always tried to keep baby awake with a little kickabout play on a mat. If they are still napping past 5:00 PM, they will not fall asleep at 7:00 PM.
In many ways newborn babies are very straightforward.
They cry if they are hot, cold, hungry, wet, or overtired. I always considered all the possible causes when I had a baby who was crying a lot and not just assume he or she was crying for milk.
I’ve noticed that a lot of new mothers panic and use milk to try and soothe a crying baby, when most of the time the baby needs a change, a burping, or even just a little walk round the garden. Too much milk can be a bad thing for a baby’s tiny tummy.
All children are different, so I always told mothers not to be scared to use their intuition and let the baby guide them. Watch and listen carefully and try to work your child out. Have a routine in mind, but
don’t be a slave to it.
Some babies I cared for suffered from dreadful colic and screamed the house down. Unfortunately, this usually coincided with the return home from work of father. If gripe water didn’t work, then I drove baby round in the car, as motion settles colicky babies, or otherwise a pacifier helped. I don’t really encourage the use of a pacifier, but babies who suffer with colic or reflux, or a terribly sucky baby—one who is very oral—will on occasion need it.
INCLUDE NEW FATHERS.
I do so feel for new fathers when a baby comes on the scene. Often they are quite forgotten in the flurry of excitement that a new arrival brings. Everything, quite rightly, is focused on the mother and baby. But when I saw an anxious new father hovering at the nursery door, I welcomed him in and tried to include him in the duties. Fathers need time and space to bond with their babies, just as much as new mothers do, in fact sometimes more so. A mother can feed her baby and do so much for him, but a father can quite often feel like a spare part and if not included can grow resentful. Some of my favorite times were showing new fathers how to change diapers and seeing the wonder in their eyes when they realized they had done it all by themselves. I do wish people would remember that a father is a vital cog in the wheel and as such every effort should be made to include him.
CHAPTER 13
COMING HOME
THE GORDON RESIDENCE
SURREY, ENGLAND
[1965, AGE FORTY-FOUR]
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man,
Bake me a cake as fast as you can;
Pat it and prick it, and mark it with B,
Put it in the oven for baby and me.
—NURSERY RHYME
Schedule
7:00 AM: Got twins and Susanna up. Twins washed and dressed themselves while I fed Susanna her bottle.
7:30 AM: Twins have breakfast.
8:00 AM: Twins got ready for school while I changed Susanna.
8:45 AM: Twins to school. Put Susanna down to sleep, outside in fresh air if fine, inside if wet.
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