by Pam Weaver
‘Tell your mother,’ Matron snapped angrily, ‘that you are only allowed telephone calls on Tuesday and Thursday. I can’t imagine why the silly woman can’t understand that.’
The telephone was still in Matron’s sitting room (she hadn’t put it outside on the jack) and her television was blaring. Maureen struggled to hear what her mother was saying. It was only as she broke down that Mrs Harrison turned around and realised something was wrong. She switched her television off. It turned out that unexpectedly Maureen’s father had just died. At least Matron had the decency to apologise and Maureen was immediately sent home.
When we heard what had happened we were very upset.
‘Pity the poor man couldn’t have waited until tomorrow,’ one girl remarked dryly when Maureen had gone home, ‘and then his daughter might not have got into trouble.’
Sometimes we heard stories about other nursery nurses on the grapevine. One such girl was Wanda. Her father had died when she was still at school and she had two other younger siblings who were struggling with health issues. When she moved to the nursery, it was over a hundred miles from her home and as time went on, her mother was finding things increasingly difficult. When Wanda went home for a week’s holiday, they discussed the problems and it was agreed that she would give in her notice when she returned to the nursery.
At first Matron was very angry and accused her of wasting a two-year training course which someone else could have taken. Wanda painstakingly explained the situation and Matron reluctantly accepted the special circumstances, but by way of ‘punishment’ she was immediately put on night duty to work out her one month’s notice. It’s worth pointing out that Wanda was only seventeen years old and in anybody else’s book, an absolute heroine giving up her opportunity for a qualification because of her loyalty and love for her family!
The day Wanda left the nursery, she went into Matron’s office to say her goodbyes, wearing her Guildford College scarf.
Matron snatched it from her neck. ‘You’re not entitled to wear that!’
Wanda had paid good money for it. They cost thirty-five shillings (one pound, seventy-five pence in today’s money) which was quite a chunk out of our meagre wages so she took it back and walked out of the office. As she walked down the long drive leading to the nursery, Matron came to the front door to see her off the premises. It was a bit of a mystery as to why she did this but as Wanda shut the gate, she turned around, put down her case and carefully put her college scarf back around her neck. Matron’s shoulders heaved with indignation and she took in a deep breath. Wanda waved and Matron’s hand moved slightly. Clearly she was unsure of what to do but then Wanda picked up her case and stuck her tongue out before turning to leave, with her head held high! We loved to hear stories like that.
It was when I was at this nursery that I took the first tentative steps towards something which was to change my life forever. I used to go to church every once in a while, and although I was often bored by the services, I felt the need to show my face. I found a church with six old ladies, the vicar and me, and whenever I was at a loose end, I would go there on a Sunday evening. One very cold night, the snow was on the ground and I still had about half a mile to walk when I passed a Baptist church. It sounds corny but as I went past the gate, the door opened and two people went inside. They were bathed in a yellow light and I heard someone say, ‘Come in. Welcome.’
I walked on for a few steps but then something drew me back. I went in and received the same warm welcome. The place was very full and as I sat in my seat, everyone rose to sing. I had never heard such singing – they sang as if they meant it! They were so enthusiastic. I remember little about the rest of the service but I know I enjoyed it. I began to go regularly and I met a couple, who invited me for meals at their house and took time to befriend me. I was impressed by their lifestyle and their commitment and although I wasn’t yet ready to make the same decision, at long last my friendship circle was widening and I had interests outside the nursery.
It was July 1965 and my time in the nursery was almost at an end. I could have stayed on if I had wanted to, but I was desperate for a change so I began to look for another job. I would miss Evie and Ros but we promised each other that we would keep in touch. By this time Evie had met the man who was to eventually become her husband. A little later on Ros began going to the same church that I had been going to and became so close to the pastor and his wife she was almost an adopted daughter. I joined a nanny’s agency and after a brief stay in York with a friend, all my savings were gone, but it didn’t take me long to find my first job in my career as a private nanny.
I went to London for an interview with a Mrs Bancroft. She had a little boy called Rupert who was not quite old enough for kindergarten. According to the job application, my duties would solely be to look after the child. Mrs Bancroft had a housekeeper, Ruth, to do all the cooking and housework. I would live ‘all found’ and she would pay me eight pounds a week, a fantastic wage at that time. I was told to take a taxi from the station and I found myself in a very posh neighbourhood in North London. The house had white stone steps up to the front door and the housekeeper showed me into a luxurious sitting room on the first floor. Mrs Bancroft was charm itself. An elegant woman, she was in her early thirties, still beautiful and wore very expensive-looking clothes. She’d been widowed at a young age. She had a cat called Blackie who sat on my lap throughout the whole of my interview. I was used to pets – we’d always had a dog at home – so as we talked, I sat and stroked Blackie’s back. Much later Mrs Bancroft told me that it was her cat that got me the job.
‘A cat is a good judge of character,’ she said. ‘When he sat next to you all that time, I knew you were a good person.’
Mrs Bancroft asked me about my experience and qualifications and eventually I met Rupert. He was a rather plain child, which surprised me considering what a beauty his mother was, but we took to each other and I was delighted when Mrs Bancroft offered me the post. After four years, I had finally reached the pinnacle every nursery nurse talked about. Working in private was supposed to be the best kind of job you could get. Good wages, privileged living and the chance to travel the world at someone else’s expense; the contrast from working in cash-strapped council-run nurseries couldn’t have been more marked. The day I went to work there I unpacked my suitcase and I felt as if I had finally arrived. I was a private nanny!
It turned out to be a very lonely occupation. I had peaches out of season in November (they had more food than they knew what to do with) and I was living in the lap of luxury but Rupert was spoilt and could be difficult. He was just a toddler but I was the eighth nanny he’d had. For all that luxury, he displayed some of the same symptoms I’d come to recognise in a deprived child and demanded attention all the time.
The house was beautiful but it wasn’t really a suitable place to bring up children. There was no outdoors and the living space for two adults, one child and a pet was small. The lounge was huge, with oak panelling and a massive stone fireplace. Mrs Bancroft had two long settees with what seemed like hundreds of little cushions on them. There was a drinks table, which was well furbished, and a round table under the window. There was always a large floral decoration on the table and someone came in every week to replace it. The kitchen was large as well. There was an Aga cooker and the biggest fridge I had ever seen. The housekeeper, Ruth, kept the place looking pristine and cooked the occasional meal, but most days Mrs Bancroft went out for her meals. Ruth was married, so she often left with what she had cooked in her shopping bag. It was far too much for Rupert and me and I hated to see a lamb roast or a chicken pasta going into the bin.
Just off the kitchen was a small sitting room which doubled as my room and Rupert’s playroom. There was a television and two comfortable armchairs. Upstairs there were only two bedrooms, so I had to share with Rupert. Not ideal, but we managed. The bathroom was straight out of a glossy interior design magazine and I had never before seen such a place. It
was fabulous, with mirrored tiles and a creamy thick carpet. I had to use Fenjal bath oil when I bathed Rupert and whenever I smell it, it takes me back to that bathroom. I had my own bathroom downstairs in the utility room next to the kitchen. It wasn’t as beautiful as the one upstairs, but it was warm and nicely decorated.
The room belonging to his mother was dominated by a king-sized bed and Mrs Bancroft had a walk-in wardrobe for all her beautiful clothes. Apart from a small wine cellar off the stairs leading to the sitting room, there was no other space.
We lived not far from a lovely park. I settled on a routine which meant that Rupert and I went into the park twice a day. I got to know some of the other nannies who walked there. Most of them were Norland nannies, easily recognisable by their distinctive tan coloured uniform and white gloves. The whole ensemble could only be bought at Harrods and it cost in excess of one hundred pounds. Their salaries were an eye-watering one thousand pounds. The Norland nursery was in Berkshire and the nannies’ parents were usually well-to-do because it cost a lot of money to train there. For all that, none of them were snobby and they recognised Rupert. I gained more than a little sympathy when they knew who my employer was, which was a little disconcerting. I tried fishing to find out why, but they wouldn’t be drawn. There was one nanny known as Nanny Alexander, who was apparently an absolute saint. She remained faithful to her families for years but she had only worked for Mrs Bancroft for ten months.
‘If Nanny Alexander couldn’t stick it, it must be hard,’ someone told me sagely.
I quite enjoyed meeting the others in the park because I was hungry for friendship. For all its faults, the council-run nurseries were full of girls like me and I missed the fun we had had.
Blackie ate only best steak even though it cost twelve shillings sixpence a pound, and he had the most appallingly bad breath as a result.
‘You can tell her,’ my dad said when I told him, ‘I’ll come and miaow for a week if she’d like to give me best steak.’
Rupert used to go to music and movement which was held in a school hall a short walk from where we lived. It was run by a woman who had once taught the mothers of the children who came. I admired her greatly because she treated all the mothers, grandmothers and nannies alike. She would come in halfway through the lesson and walk along the walls where we were all seated, bidding us ‘Good afternoon’. The classes were actually taken by her daughter and I sometimes saw the children of TV stars and famous singers.
Rupert was usually difficult when it was time to go home. He often played up, refusing to put on his shoes or his gloves or making a scene about something. When the class ended, the children would stand in a long line, the boys making a deep bow and the girls a curtsey. One day as they lined up to say goodbye there was a small scuffle between the children about who was going to hold the teacher’s hand. Rupert managed to get there first and as we got ready to leave, for once he was as good as gold. I noticed that one child was very upset and I thought it was because Rupert had managed to hold the teacher’s hand and she’d been disappointed.
On the way out, the instructor called me into her office. As soon as the door closed, she said in a stern voice, ‘Rupert, you pinched that little girl, didn’t you?’
I nearly died of embarrassment. I apologised and the teacher made it very clear that she would not tolerate such behaviour in her school. Rupert was completely unrepentant and seemed to have no idea why this kind of behaviour was unacceptable. It was only as we were on our way home that he realised the full import of what he had done. He casually said, ‘You won’t tell Mummy, will you?’
When I explained that I would have to because his teacher was going to telephone his mother anyway, he threw a tantrum and screamed all the way home.
Needless to say, Mrs Bancroft was not best pleased, although thankfully she didn’t heap all the blame onto me. I knew some mothers had the tendency to keep all credit when things go right but at the slightest hint of something unpleasant and it was all Nanny’s fault. Rupert was scolded and then the incident was put behind us.
A week later when we went to music and movement class, I was accosted by a woman in a large fur coat and dripping with diamonds. ‘Your little boy pinched my little gel,’ she announced.
I apologised and with great difficulty managed to get Rupert to apologise as well. I still felt dreadful about it. Even after a week the poor child had a pinch mark on her arm which, although it had changed colour, was still clearly visible.
Rupert’s mother spent a lot of time doing her own thing. Rupert was sometimes visited by his uncle. Mr Valentine was in his mid-forties and had a reputation as a ladies’ man. He didn’t have much experience with children and it showed. Once when Mrs Bancroft was away and the three of us spent the whole day in my little sitting room and I recall feeling increasingly awkward as the day wore on. I remember encouraging him to hold Rupert on his lap and setting up some game so that he could play with him. Rupert had a favourite story about a giraffe with a short neck that made friends with a bird that couldn’t fly. When the giraffe got his head stuck down a hole while playing hide and seek, the bird flew to get help. The other animals pulled the giraffe until his neck grew long and then his head popped out. I knew he would sit still and enjoy the story so I persuaded Mr Valentine to read to Rupert. Although he did, he seemed awkward and embarrassed.
To my mind, my employer did some very extravagant and crazy things. She once ordered a new car and took her favourite nail varnish with her to the showroom and asked them to spray her car the same colour.
Mrs Bancroft loved practical jokes. A friend of hers turned up one day and was very eager to give Ruth a present. ‘Open it!’ he said. As she did, it gave out a farting noise and Mrs Bancroft thought it was hugely funny. Ruth didn’t, but what could she say? They practised the ‘trick’ on everyone, including me, and when they all went out to a restaurant that evening, they took the ‘present’ with them. The next day, Mrs Bancroft told me that they had used it in the restaurant and that her friend the Baron had even given it to the waiter. Apparently the waiter and the management took a very dim view of it and they were asked to refrain. I know I was expected to laugh along with her but I simply couldn’t. It really wasn’t at all funny, and Ruth and I had discussed the matter and how humiliating it was. It all seemed very childish and embarrassingly so.
The doorbell never stopped ringing, nor did the phone. Mrs Bancroft had open house and people dropped in all the time. Occasionally she would send for Rupert and I would have to take him into the sitting room. The poor child must have felt like he was part of a peep show because after a few ‘oooh’s’ and ‘aaaah’s’, everyone lost interest in him and he was sent to find Pamela. Her mother could never part from him without some word of criticism. ‘Why did you put those socks with these trousers?’ or ‘Tell Pamela to brush your hair’. In the end, I had to say something. I had to explain that by saying it in front of Rupert, her son was constantly being told that he didn’t measure up, or that he was a failure. We agreed that if she had any complaints, she would tell me and me alone. It worked for a short while.
One of the most fascinating characters Mrs Bancroft entertained was Webster Diggory-Clements.
To all intents and purposes, Webster Diggory-Clements was the archetypal perfect English gent. Always immaculate, he dressed in Savile Row suits and had a fresh carnation in his button hole. Webster was an old Etonian and was seen at only the best places, like Royal Ascot, Hurlingham and even the occasional garden party. He didn’t always have an invitation, but he was always in the best company. I honestly believed he hadn’t got a penny to his name and that he’d lived on his charms for years.
I was once returning to the flat with Rupert from an afternoon walk when Mr Diggory-Clements stepped out of a taxi. I let him in and he swept into Mrs Bancroft’s sitting room with a large bottle of champagne. ‘Jennifer, my darling,’ he announced to Mrs Bancroft just before the door closed. ‘I was just passing one of those new wine
shops when I saw this in the window. My dear, I’d swear it tapped on the glass and cried out, “Buy me. Buy me for Jennifer.” How could I resist? This comes from an excellent vineyard and deserves only to grace the lips of an exquisitely beautiful woman like you …’
I hid my wry smile behind my hand and ten minutes later, he left, blowing kisses and smiling happily. The unopened bottle remained on her sitting room table.
A week later Mrs Bancroft had invited a few hand-picked guests to have drinks at the house before they left for an outrageously expensive restaurant in Knightsbridge, where she had booked a table for lunch. Uninvited, Mr Diggory-Clements, in his usual effervescent mood, swept into the room just as the party was about to leave and almost immediately spotted his champagne. No one had remembered to put it in the wine cellar.
‘My God!’ he cried. ‘Just look at that! It’ll be ruined. It should be in a cool, dark place.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Bancroft told him, ‘It‘s my fault. We’ll take it to the cellar right away.’
‘But it’s been standing on this table next to the window with all the traffic thundering by for days. It will be undrinkable.’
They argued but he was having none of it and insisted that he take it away. Some twenty minutes after they had gone, he knocked on the door again. Ruth told him that Mrs Bancroft’s party had already left for the restaurant so he climbed back into his taxi. When she got back home, Mrs Bancroft told us that some fifty minutes after he’d first arrived at the house, he’d turned up at the restaurant with an even larger bottle of champagne. Everyone was so impressed and so of course, Mrs Bancroft felt obliged to invite him to stay for a meal, although the restaurant charged them more than the price of the bottle for corkage.