No Easy Road

by Patsy Whyte

  I felt more settled in the job during my second week which seemed to fly past. All the packing went smoothly, without too many hitches, and was all but finished as moving day finally neared. Mr Cameron drove me home again on the Friday and after handing me my wages, told me what the arrangements were for the move to Arbroath the following day.

  I was to make my way over to the house by midday and then we'd collect the boys from their grandmother and all drive over to the hotel. For the first time, as he was telling me this, it all began to sink in. I really was moving away from Aberdeen, starting afresh, where no one knew me or knew anything about my family.

  It was hard to sleep that night knowing it was my last night at the home where I grew up for so many years, protected, naive, smothered, barely noticing the world as it passed me by. Earlier, I went outside on my own, walking around the empty playground for one final time, wondering if anyone would remember me or care I was ever here.

  I was filled by an overwhelming desire to do something to mark this moment. Wandering over to the garages and the high wall that hemmed me in for so long, I picked up a stone. While holding it gently in my hand, feeling its smoothness, its timelessness, I said to myself, I will remember you. Then I picked a spot at the bottom of the high wall and carefully buried it.

  It was a strange thing to do. It was my goodbye to all the children I knew, to all the laughter we shared, the good times and the sad times, to those who had come and gone. And, like them, there was nothing official to mark my passing. But by touching the stone, I was now a part of it, connected with it. The stone was part of me. No matter what lay ahead of me in the future, some part of me would still be here, remembered, not forgotten. Often, I wondered, if the stone was still there and if it remembered me.

  I must have tossed and turned in my bed for hours, playing out all kinds of scenarios in my mind, seeing myself as a nanny and making lots of new friends in strange, exciting surroundings. Thoughts and scenes followed one after the other until tiredness eventually overtook me. When I woke up, the sadness and melancholy of the night before was gone. I felt recharged, positive, looking forward to the start of a new adventure.

  No one said anything at the breakfast table which was unusually quiet. All the children knew I was leaving them soon and I could see in their faces how sad they all felt. But they couldn't tell me. They didn't know how. So their heads remained bowed, fearing any eye contact, concentrating on the bowls of lumpy porridge in front of them. I was glad to leave the table and go to my room. On the way there, I told Jennifer I needed something to put my clothes in. So she went to the second hand cupboard to find me a suitcase.

  In my room, I took the few belongings I possessed out of the chest of drawers, neatly folded them and placed them on my bed. The children were now outside playing, so the home was quiet except for the familiar sound of plates being washed and then stacked back in the kitchen cupboards.

  Jennifer walked in and handed me a small battered brown suitcase. But not having very much in the way of clothing, it was all I needed. She looked sad helping me pack. I saw see she was wishing it was her instead of me leaving, but that could never be. Jennifer was trapped by circumstances, with nowhere to go and no family to turn to. She had no choice in accepting the job as staff, and in my mind, I hoped things would get better between her and the house mother. I hoped one day she would find the courage to stand up for herself or find a way to leave.

  When the packing was finished and the lid of the suitcase firmly pressed down and fastened, Jennifer told me she would miss me. I felt the tears well up as I told her I would miss her, too. Together, we made our way down the stairs where I said a final goodbye. After buttoning up my jacket, I walked through the empty kitchen and out the back door, heading for the front gate.

  As I looked back towards the home for the very last time, I saw the house mother standing by her car which was parked in the driveway. She was deep in conversation with a member of her family. Although she noticed me, her head quickly turned away as I walked the few remaining steps out of the home to the bus stop.

  There were no wishes of good luck from her, nor even a single goodbye. But I wasn't expecting any. Minutes later, I was gazing out the window of the bus as the busy streets slipped by. They were packed full of Saturday shoppers. I felt scared as I realised I was truly on my own.

  When I arrived at the Cameron's home, Mr Cameron was loading a large suitcase into the boot of his car and Mrs Cameron was just stepping out the front door carrying a small blue vanity case. After handing it over to her husband to place in the boot with the rest of the luggage, Mrs Cameron turned to greet me.

  "Are we all set?", she said, obviously happy to be moving at last.

  "Yes", I replied, handing over my suitcase to Mr Cameron who somehow managed to squeeze it in between the rest of the cases and bags.

  A short time later, we all got in and were on our way to collect the boys. Their grandmother's house turned out to be only a short distance away. As the car entered the long driveway, I was amazed at how big the house was. I was expecting some little bungalow, not the mansion that dwarfed the car.

  The building was old and beautiful and solid with purple flowers climbing up the front wall. The driveway was awash with colour from different varieties of flowering plants and shrubs growing either side, all adding to the richness of the large and well maintained lawn nearby.

  As I looked out the car, I noticed a small boy's face at a downstairs window, peering out from behind white net curtains, waving like mad and smiling as his mother made her way to the front door. Not long afterwards, two young boys charged out heading towards us and after opening the door, dived into the back seat alongside me. The oldest boy was about eight years old and didn't seem to have a bottom to sit on. He fidgeted and bounced on the seat and talked constantly, hardly pausing to take a breath.

  "My name is Thomas", he said. "I have leukaemia."

  I didn't know at the time what leukaemia was and neither did Thomas, judging by the mater of fact way he said it. Mrs Cameron forgot to mention at the interview he was seriously ill.

  "Are you the nanny?", he added in a rather posh, upper crust sort of voice.

  Without giving me a chance to reply, he said, "This is Morgan. He's five!"

  Thomas hogged the conversation, never allowing his brother a moment to speak for himself. I only managed to slip in the odd word or two, nothing more, until his father told him sternly to settle down and wave to his grandmother now standing outside the front door. It was obvious the children were very happy to be reunited once more with their parents and excited about moving to their new home.

  But was I taking on more than I could handle? It was going to be a hard job looking after them. As we pulled out the driveway and into the main road, baby James was fast asleep in his mother's arms, the only one unaware of the new adventure ahead.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It took us less than an hour to reach the hotel which was situated in the middle of the town. Mr Cameron took me up to my room and told me to take the weekend to settle in and get used to the place before starting work on the Monday. It felt odd having a room of my own. The peace and quiet was a bit unnerving. But I quickly began to enjoy the feeling of privacy.

  The room was fairly big with a single window. It was simply furnished with two double beds and a chest of drawers for my clothes. But with the two beds, there was not a great deal of space left to move around. The room was built into the roof so was at the very top of the hotel. It formed part of the private quarters used by Mr and Mrs Cameron and the children

  Directly underneath lay some dozen rooms for the guests. The rooms were evenly split between the first and second floors. A wide staircase led down from the room corridors to a large dining area and a bar area on the ground floor. The hotel, with a history going back more than 200 years, was decorated with flowery wallpaper. Deep luxurious red carpeting covered the floor throughout. Small tables with pot plants and ornaments on top
filled the hotel's many little nooks and crannies. Subdued lighting added to the homely comfortable atmosphere. I loved the place.

  As I emptied out my suitcase and placed the few clothes I possessed into the chest of drawers, I was distinctly aware of being watched, by an old man. The impression was strong and powerful and unmistakable. But when I turned around, there was nobody there. Although I felt slightly uneasy, I wasn't at all frightened by the strange feeling. I experienced the same thing many times over the weeks and months ahead.

  Towards the end of my stay at the hotel, I shared the room with a waitress who hated being in there on her own. When I asked her why, she said the room creeped her out. It felt as if there was always someone else in the room. I told her I had the same feeling, which made her a lot happier because she thought she was going mad. It confirmed that what I was experiencing was real and not a figment of my imagination. But beyond that, I didn't question or think too deeply about it all. The presence was there and not out to harm me. So I just accepted it.

  * * *

  I was alone in the upstairs quarters, finding the silence difficult to come to terms with. There were no guests in the hotel yet and the Camerons were all out for the afternoon, shopping for school uniforms for the boys. I was bored, too, so I decided to explore the streets and shops outside. Passing by a tobacconists, a cigarette advertisement in the shop window caught my eye.

  When I was young, I often imagined myself as the famous Hollywood actress Bette Davis. I slinked about the home acting all grown up and sophisticated, blowing imaginary smoke from the pencil held between my two fingers. Now I was old enough to buy a packet of cigarettes for real, and there was nobody to tell me I couldn't. There was also money in my purse. So I bought a packet of 10 menthol cigarettes and walked over to a nearby park and sat on a bench. I was determined to savour this moment.

  Unwinding the cellophane wrapper and opening the packet, I pulled off the silver paper covering the top of the cigarettes and crumpled it into a small ball. Casually, I tossed it away. Taking a cigarette out slowly, enjoying the firm feel and texture of the paper surrounding the tobacco, I gently placed it in between my two fingers. This was the real thing, not some childish pencil. I felt grown up, an adult, the mistress of my own destiny. Bringing the cigarette up to my mouth and placing it in between my lips, I struck a match and lit up, drawing in a long deep breath.

  Suddenly, the world coughed and spluttered to a grinding halt. I struggled for breath. My whole body heaved and shook in uncontrollable fits. The park spun round and round. I felt sick to my toes. Naive childhood fantasies lay shattered. I threw the packet on the ground and angrily stamped it into the dirt until it turned into an unrecognisable mess. When the bitter acrid taste swirling about in my mouth finally subsided a little, I made my way back to the hotel vowing never to smoke another cigarette in my life.

  * * *

  Monday came quickly and because I didn't have an alarm clock, I was wakened up by Mrs Cameron. While she looked after the baby, I helped the boys get ready for school and then spent the next hour sorting out their clothes and tidying up. When Mrs Cameron disappeared downstairs, to work in the hotel, I took over looking after baby James.

  He was around eight months old, sturdy with blonde curly hair, blue eyes and a cheeky loveable smile. James was a happy baby and hardly ever cried. I fed him and changed him and then took him out for a walk in his pram. When the boys came home from school, I also looked after their needs, so evenings were always very busy for me until their bedtimes. Only then did I have a few moments to myself.

  Weekdays were easy by comparison to the weekends. The hotel was particularly busy on a Saturday and the Camerons were tied up downstairs all day and late into the evening. So I never saw them. All the responsibility of looking after the children fell squarely on my shoulders. It was a huge responsibility for someone just turned 15.

  Sometimes the older boys played together nicely. But most times, they were at each others throats, arguing and shouting and I found myself in the middle trying to sort things out while still having to watch the baby. At the end of the day, I felt exhausted. I was always thankful when Sunday dawned. It was my only day off in the week, the only time I felt I could relax a little.

  About a month into the job, Thomas became very ill because of his leukaemia and was rushed into the hospital in Aberdeen. Later on that day, I noticed Mrs Cameron sitting in Thomas's room on his bed looking very down. The bedroom door was wide open. As I entered the room, she looked up at me and we started talking.

  She told me giving birth to Thomas nearly killed her when she lived in South Africa. There was resentment in her voice which I couldn't help but notice. It made me wonder if that was the reason why she never seemed to give him much affection or have very much time for him. I was certainly taken aback by what she said. It made me feel awkward. I didn't know what to say to her. So I made an excuse and left to go downstairs.

  When I walked into the dining room, I was surprised to see an old lady standing there. On the floor beside her was a small suitcase. She looked unusual to say the least, dressed in a plastic flowery raincoat and a matching plastic hat. The flowery pattern was repeated on her plastic Wellington boots. I didn't know what to make of her. The heavy white powder covering her face made her look deathly pale and accentuated the bright red ruby lipstick plastering her lips.

  "And who might you be?", she demanded, in a rather loud aristocratic English sounding voice.

  "I'm the nanny", I replied, rather meekly.

  "Well, I'm the children's grandmother. I want you to go upstairs and tell my daughter I've arrived. Tell her to come downstairs. I want to see her."

  With a flick of her hand, she shooed me away. She was a rather bossy old lady whose fingers were covered in gold and diamond rings. Even I could see she was used to getting her own way. I met her again later on as we all sat down in the dining room for the evening meal. She told her family she was flying from Aberdeen to London to do some shopping in Carnaby Street and then planned to take in a West End show. So she was only staying the one night.

  As I looked at her across the table, I thought to myself her dress style was so over the top for an old lady. The chitchat was all about holidays and parties and society and only underlined the wealth and circles they all belonged to and moved in. I already knew the family was extremely rich and that I was working for millionaires. Now, for the first time, I began to see the sort of lifestyle they all enjoyed and took for granted.

  The evening meal was a struggle for me. I felt so out of place, coming from such a humble background and having nothing in common with them. So most of the time, I sat quietly, hardly touching my food, never taking part in the conversation.

  As the days and weeks passed, my sense of isolation and unhappiness only grew. I felt desperately lonely and realised I was missing the kids from the home. Eventually, Mrs Cameron noticed how much weight I was losing and how uncomfortable I always appeared sitting at the table. So she asked me if I would be happier eating my meals with the staff in the kitchen. I said I would.

  * * *

  One day, out of the blue, a young waitress at the hotel started to chat away to me. She hadn't been in the job very long and like me, was struggling to know what was expected of her. She told me her name was Elizabeth and this was her first job since leaving school.

  Elizabeth asked me if I wanted to go to the dancing with her and her friends and I jumped at the chance. So we arranged to go on my day off and agreed to meet outside the front entrance of the hotel. The dance was held in what looked like an old community hall. As we entered, there was deafening music and flashing coloured disco lights. The small dance floor was so packed with teenagers there was hardly any room to move.

  The music and the atmosphere and the sheer joy and fun of the occasion went straight to my head. Before I knew it, I was dancing and jumping about all over the place. One after the other, boys came up to me and started dancing and the evening flew by in a f
lash.

  Suddenly, I was brought back down to earth by a sharp kick up the backside. I spun around furiously to see a girl wearing a smirky grin. Then she laughed at me and I wanted to punch her face in. Before I had the chance to, Elizabeth intervened, dragging me away, calming me down. It was nearly ten, she reminded me. Time to go. Mrs Cameron warned us to be back at the hotel by then. So we left the dancing.

  As we walked back, I kept thinking about the incident, trying to understand why the girl kicked me for no reason. Although I couldn't figure it out, I felt more disturbed by my own reaction. This was the first time I realised what a temper I had. But it was all forgotten about by the time we reached the hotel.