Bath Times and Nursery Rhymes

by Pam Weaver

  As I continued with my training, they taught me to recognise the various ways a child would react to being placed in care. Some, especially older children, would be very upset. We might have to be put up with the child screaming or desperately trying to get away by biting or kicking. This usually only lasted a while because no child had the physical strength to keep it up for long. We would talk quietly and soothingly and try to build bridges but it was always distressing. We also had to be aware that a quiet child may be hurting just as much as the one who acted aggressively. That child might even behave as if he or she had accepted the situation. The same child could carry on for days, weeks or even months, playing with toys and complying with the routine of the nursery, but never having given up the hope that their mother might walk through the door at any moment. When the penny finally dropped that Mother wasn’t going to come and take him home, the child probably wouldn’t react in the same aggressive way as the first child might have done. He’d be more likely to sob from within. It was important to be loving and understanding and to make sure that each child had room to grieve. We had to be there when they needed us and even though we had a lot of work to do in the nursery, we would rather risk being in trouble than rush anyone who needed us. The welfare of the child was of paramount importance. Whereas the defiant child might be destructive, resort to bullying, refuse to conform or spitting, the more submissive child might resort to head banging, rocking or masturbation. Some children who had been fully toilet trained when they came into the nursery might have a lapse and we learned the importance of being patient and understanding.

  Mark Cooper hadn’t been neglected nor had he been ill-treated in the usual way but he had almost been killed with kindness. He was born a healthy seven-pound baby (3.18 kg) but Mark had been left in his cot for long periods and every time he opened his mouth, someone stuffed a bottle in it. As a result, when he came into care at six months old, he weighed a staggering twenty-three pounds (10.4 kg). His bottom was very sore, so sore that as the staff nurse removed his nappy, his skin came away as well. For all that, Mark was a happy little soul. His mother simply couldn’t cope and because he had remained in the cot for long hours, he had been unable to explore a wider surrounding. His huge weight hindered him but eventually he managed to move further afield. Once he was put on a diet, or perhaps I should say more precisely, a normal diet, his weight began to stabilise. I never remember Mark’s mother coming to see him – I think it may have been because she was relieved that somebody was looking after him and she didn’t want to be persuaded to take him back. The people from children’s committee (the governing body which actually sent out the child care officers) only shared what was absolutely necessary for us to know, and although Matron would have had all the facts, she took the same view. This probably sounds odd nowadays, but I think it was a kind of respect for someone’s privacy. No matter what they had done or how spectacularly they had failed, unless it was deliberate cruelty, their dirty washing was never aired in public. We didn’t ask and they never said.

  Every nursery had its share of pets. At my previous nursery it had been a rabbit. The children would take it for walks around the garden on its harness. It was a fairly large animal and difficult to handle but if the child was sitting down, it was quite happy to be put on a lap for a while. We had to take it to the vet regularly to make sure its claws were clipped in case anyone got scratched. The rabbit was kept in a large hutch in the garden and the girls working in the Toddler room had the responsibility of feeding it and cleaning it out. Although the children were never allowed to help with cleaning the hutch, they did take it in turns to change the water or put in the rabbit pellets. The kitchens kept it well fed with lettuce and other vegetables.

  In the nursery where I trained the children had a guinea pig.The purpose of keeping pets was to teach the children respect for animals and we were always careful to make sure who was in charge of them. We had heard a horror story about a nursery where the pet canary had died of thirst because the girl who normally looked after it was on holiday. Nobody wanted a repeat of anything like that in our nursery. The older children felt very ‘grown-up’ when they were given the opportunity to take it in turns to feed the animals. I can’t help thinking that for some of them, that sense of responsibility would have gone some way to compensate for the feeling of helplessness they may have felt: they couldn’t change their own situation but they could make sure another living creature was loved and cared for.

  The choice of pet was always down to the Matron. My friends in college worked in places where they had hamsters, mice or fish. Hamsters were okay but mice usually attract wild mice and because they have weak bladders they urinate as they move. Fish cannot be handled, only be watched, and whereas they may be attractive, I would find it difficult to get excited by a fish. That being the case, I was glad my nurseries had a more child-friendly pet. Guinea pigs can be interesting. Ours was a tough little creature and didn’t seem to mind clumsy handling, although we took care to make sure no one was too rough. The children enjoyed scouring the garden for dandelions to feed it and the kitchen kept it well supplied with free vegetables.

  To sum up life in care, the authorities were doing their best to give the children everything they needed in a physical way to survive and it was our job to try and lessen the scars they would inevitably gain from the trauma of being separated from their parents. The council acted in loco parentis and we were the softer part of that touch. It was far from ideal of course, but it was the best we could do.

  Chapter 7

  The winter of 1962/63 was one of the hardest winters on record. It began on Boxing Day and snowed continually until March, the bitingly cold winds bringing blizzard conditions and huge snow drifts. By the middle of February, every news bulletin on the radio was gloomier than the last. Water froze in firemen’s hoses, and the plumbers were doing a roaring trade fixing burst pipes. The Thames froze right over and they recorded 36ºF of frost at Heathrow. Along the south coast, the sea froze as well. We heard about milkmen doing their deliveries on skis, old people, particularly those living alone, dying of hypothermia in their own homes and livestock being been found frozen to death in the fields. The nursery had plenty of coke and was well stocked with food, which was just as well as prices rocketed with eggs doubling in price to four shillings sixpence a dozen (twenty pence) and potatoes reached a record seven pence a pound (two pence). Hospitals were bulging at the seams with patients with broken legs and broken hips all with complications, caused by people falling in the icy conditions.

  Surprisingly, although it was extremely difficult to get around, the country didn’t come to a total standstill, but at one point the nursery was completely cut off. Four of us were sent down into the town to get some milk. We wrapped up well and set off with two crates of empty bottles. It was okay going because we took it in turns to carry the crates and they didn’t weigh very much, but the snow was so thick, walking was hard work. In some places, it had obliterated the road signs. You might place one foot but as you put weight on it, you’d go knee deep before you could lift the other. It was hard to find the path and in some places, the drifting snow had buried vehicles up to the car roof.

  Coming back home was even harder. By now we were very tired and the crate of milk was too heavy for one person to carry. We made little progress trying to carry it between us because we kept falling over but then we had the brilliant idea of threading our belts through the crate and making a rope to pull it. I got slower and slower and when I turned around, I found that I’d ended up dragging an ever-increasing snow drift behind me! That twenty-minute walk took us two hours. We consoled ourselves that when we got back, at least we’d have the evening to ourselves, but not a bit of it. As soon as she saw us, Dickie told us to have a cup of tea and go back to work!

  The South of England was bad but not as bad as the North. I still managed to get to college every three weeks and better still, home to West Moors on the Royal Blue coach and then the loc
al bus. Only one journey was disrupted. I caught the bus from my parents’ village to Ringwood and usually had about twenty minutes to wait until the Royal Blue coach came. There were about eight people waiting at the coach stop with me. We had been there about an hour when someone came from the bus station to tell us the coach had been cancelled due to the adverse weather conditions. There was no alternative but to go back home. The only trouble was, I had just watched my bus leave and I would have to wait another hour before I could get another one. On top of that, there was no guarantee that it would come. Those same adverse weather conditions might mean all buses were stopped but thankfully, I was in luck. The bus came and I headed home. When I got indoors I nearly collapsed. I had never been so cold in the whole of my life. It felt as if the very core of my body was frozen and my mother was really worried that I had hypothermia. Dad got out the brandy bottle and I was plied with hot laced tea and given a hot water bottle then sent to bed to get warm. The next day, Mum rang the home from the local call box to tell Matron that I had been stranded and that I would come back as soon as I could. I caught another coach halfway through the day. Thankfully, although I had walked from town, I arrived at the nursery in the early evening and guess what? My day off had been changed. Instead of having the following Friday off, I’d just had my next day off travelling back to the nursery in the coach!

  Going back a bit, when Mum and I got back home the day we’d been into Bournemouth looking for garden knickers, the backyard of our two-up, two-down cottage was littered with old doors, wooden window frames and chicken wire.

  ‘What the …?’ Mum began.

  A head peered round the shed and Dad, all covered in sawdust and enthusiasm, beamed. He lifted his hand in protest as soon as he saw Mum’s look of disapproval.

  ‘Now before you say anything,’ he began, ‘hear me out. This idea will work – I know it will. Just give me a year and we’ll all be rich.’

  Mum and I glanced at each other and I gave her a half smile. She pursed her lips and shook her head. Just give me a year and we’ll all be rich … How often had we heard that line?

  My dad spent his whole life looking for the big thing that was going to make him rich. He’d always lived in the village, apart from a spell in the army during the Second World War. He was sometimes laid off from the building work because of his bad back and although Mum was content with her lot, Dad wasn’t and there were times when his entrepreneurial ambitions knew no bounds. The problem was, they never seemed to work but ever the optimist, Dad was always convinced his latest project would change our lives.

  Mum drew herself up to her full indomitable five-foot nothing and took in her breath noisily. ‘So,’ she said coldly, ‘what’s it to be this time?’

  ‘Rabbits,’ said Dad.

  Mum and I looked at each other and chorused, ‘Rabbits?’

  ‘What do you think people want these days?’ The question was rhetorical. He didn’t wait for the answer. ‘They’re half-starved. They’ve got no money. What they need is something to look forward to.’

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  ‘That’s why I’ve decided to breed rabbits. Just what the doctor ordered … rabbits. Easiest thing in the world to breed rabbits. I’ve got it all worked out. First I’ll make the cages, then I’ll get a buck and a doe and, they’ll … they’ll … breed like rabbits!’

  Mum was having none of it. She harrumphed and stalked off indoors.

  I don’t know why. Of all his zany ideas this one sounded quite a good one to me. I liked rabbits. But Mum had every reason to be upset: Dad didn’t have much of a track record when it came to his entrepreneurial skills. Take, for instance, his money-saving envelopes. He spent the whole of one Sunday afternoon cutting out a metal template. The next time we went into Bournemouth, he bought three rolls of drawer lining paper and some strong glue from Woolworth’s. The Sunday after that found him folding the paper, then I watched him trace around the metal shape with a pencil. I was eight years old at the time and my thirst for knowledge knew no bounds.

  ‘What are you doing, Dad?’

  ‘Making envelopes.’

  He began to cut the paper with a Stanley knife. ‘After this, it’s simply a question of fold and stick. Easy peasy.’

  But it wasn’t quite as easy as he thought to get the bits that had to match together. His rejects mounted up and up, but the thing about Dad was that he wasn’t daunted. By the time his first envelopes came rolling … well, limping, off the production line, he could already see himself as a tycoon, and Mum and me in flouncy pink dresses.

  ‘Envelopes today,’ he said proudly. ‘Brown paper bags and cardboard boxes tomorrow. The sky is the limit.’

  The Stanley knife probably wouldn’t have cut butter and Dad didn’t have a very straight eye. Actually, he was blind in one eye, so maybe he had the wrong one shut. He had paper everywhere and the dog thought it was a great game. I was virtually up to my knees in offcuts by the time my bedtime came but he had eight perfect envelopes and one with a kink in it.

  ‘Ernie!’ said Mum in acid tones. ‘For goodness sake, just look at this mess.’

  Dad glanced up at the clock. ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I’ll do the rest next Sunday – I’m off to the pub.’ Needless to say, he didn’t make any more envelopes but at a time of an acute paper shortage, I had a lovely lot of drawing paper.

  You can’t keep a good man down. After the envelopes came the knitting phase. Actually Dad didn’t knit himself. He was a man of his time, a product of the Thirties and Forties when men didn’t do ‘women’s work’, as they called it. This time he fancied himself as supervisor of a cottage industry and Mum was press-ganged into being his first outworker.

  ‘It’ll be a doddle,’ he told her. ‘You love knitting, don’t you? All they want is a size ten, short-sleeved jumper in double knitting wool in twenty-one days. You do it and I’ll pay you ten bob. I can’t say fairer than that now, can I?’

  Somehow, Mum managed to do it in between all the housework (we didn’t have labour-saving devices like a Hoover back then) and cleaning the local doctor’s surgery, and fetching me from school, and weeding the garden and a few other little jobs she had. The jumper was finished and Dad sent it off. The firm was delighted. Two weeks later, Mum got ten bob. She was well chuffed. Dad was quite pleased too although I’m not sure if she knew that he had a ten bob note as well. Mum’s next assignment was a twinset in four-ply wool. I got a bit fed up with it – she was always knitting. When she met me from school, sometimes she used to take me over to the swings. She didn’t any more.

  ‘I haven’t got time for all that!’ she snapped. ‘I’ve got to get that knitting done.’

  She was grumpy too. Trying to listen to Educating Archie with Mum click-clacking away was almost impossible. If I looked her way, she’d glare back at me. ‘And you can shut up about it too!’

  ‘What?’ I protested indignantly. ‘I didn’t say anything!’

  ‘Any more nonsense out of you,’ she snapped, ‘and you can go to bed!’

  No one was more delighted than me when two weeks later she had another ten bob and the knitting stopped.

  ‘The next order has come through,’ said Dad, opening a letter one morning.

  Mum didn’t look too thrilled. ‘What, already?’

  ‘You’re a great little knitter,’ said Dad. ‘They love your work.’

  Mum’s cheeks flushed with modest pride.

  Dad read aloud. ‘They want you to do a man’s forty-two inch sweater in three-ply wool to be done in ten days.’

  Mum swiped Dad with her apron. ‘For just ten bob!’ she snapped. ‘Bloody sod it!’ and Dad’s cottage industry died there and then.

  Well, now it was rabbits.

  It took an awful lot of Sundays before Dad had created enough hutches for his new outworkers. I was living and working in the nursery by the time he was ready for his first buck and doe. The rabbits came from the market in Ringwood, five miles away. Mum wasn’t too
happy about it. She wrote and told me that Dad had carried them home in her best shopping bag and it was ruined by pellets and pee in the bottom.

  When I was at home recovering from my spell in hospital, helping with the rabbits was very therapeutic. I loved to watch them but when the first of the babies came I wasn’t allowed near in case the doe ate them.

  It wasn’t long before Mum and Dad had rabbits everywhere and Dad had to build more hutches. As I recovered from glandular fever, I helped clean them out, gave them water and food and sometimes held one of them.

  There were pet rabbits in my first nursery but the nursery warden guarded them jealously. The children got to stroke them or walk them around the garden on a lead but so far I hadn’t been allowed to be part of that.

  Mum began to get orders. ‘So far,’ she said, ‘I’ve got eleven and the butcher wants another four.’

  ‘At five bob a time,’ Dad said, his eyes sparkling, ‘that’s almost four quid.’

  ‘Remember to keep one for our Sunday lunch,’ Mum beamed.

  I was used to eating hand-reared livestock. We had kept chickens for years and once Dad won a pig at skittles. The chickens supplied eggs and as broilers, Mum cooked them slowly. The pig went to market but I think Dad lost out on that one. He didn’t have a car and by the time he’d given his mate petrol money and a pint, he was out of pocket.

  The next day, Dad – dressed in an apron and wearing rubber gloves – took all the rabbits into the shed and closed the door. He was gone all morning.

  At lunch time, he came indoors looking pale and shaken.

  ‘A well-deserved four quid,’ said Mum, giving him a peck on the cheek. ‘Where are they?’