A Spoonful of Sugar
Copyright © 2013 by Brenda Ashford
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
www.doubleday.com
DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Unless otherwise indicated, all photos are courtesy of the author.
Jacket design and illustration © Jessica Hische
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Ashford, Brenda, 1921–
A spoonful of sugar : a memoir / Brenda Ashford. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Ashford, Brenda, 1921– 2. Nannies—Great Britain—Biography.
3. Child care—Great Britain—History—20th century. I. Title.
HQ778.7.G7A84 2013
362.70941—dc23
2012022432
eISBN: 978-0-385-53642-4
v3.1
To my mother and father,
for giving me the most wonderful gift ever:
a long and gloriously happy childhood
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1 | HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
Chapter 2 | THE CALLING
Chapter 3 | NANNY BOOT CAMP
Chapter 4 | CARING FOR SICK CHILDREN
Chapter 5 | NIGHT, NIGHT, SLEEP TIGHT
Chapter 6 | MY FIRST FAMILY
Chapter 7 | YES, YOUR LADYSHIP
Chapter 8 | STOLEN KISSES
Chapter 9 | WAR NURSERY
Chapter 10 | SAINTS AND SINNERS
Chapter 11 | THE CIRCLE OF LIFE
Chapter 12 | TROUBLESHOOTING NANNY
Chapter 13 | COMING HOME
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
About the Author
Photo Insert
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS BOOK CAME ABOUT (out of the blue), via the Norland College, at a time when I was getting very tired of being confined to my flat following a hip operation. I was asked if I was interested in writing about my time as a Norland nurse before and after World War Two. My immediate reaction was one of excitement, but I also felt very daunted at the prospect. I needn’t have worried. Kate Thompson, whose help has been invaluable, came to see me soon afterward, bringing her six-week-old son, Stanley. I had the privilege of giving him a bottle throughout our first meeting. Right from the start Kate and I got along so well together. My sincere thanks go to her for the hard work, research, and dedication to the making of the book. I am truly indebted to her.
I am grateful to my two brothers Christopher and David, who have been so encouraging all along, and to the friends who have allowed me to write about the time I spent with them and their families. We have changed names and some locations for confidentiality.
My sincere thanks go to my agent, Diane Banks; the editors at Doubleday/Random House; and also to the Norland College, for all their help, encouragement, and friendliness throughout the writing of this book. Without them it would never have made it into print.
Last but not least, I would like to thank the warden Julia and my friends in sheltered accommodation where I now live, and also my many friends in the Baptist church where I worship, for their prayers, encouragement, and support.
Above all, I thank God for his love and care for me throughout my ninety-two years.
—Brenda Ashford
PROLOGUE
CLIFTON COURT RESIDENTIAL HOME
OLNEY, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND
[2011, AGE NINETY]
Sunday Schedule
7:30 AM: Wake up, wash, and dress.
8:30 AM: Eat breakfast of cereal with banana and cream.
9:00 AM: Receive my daily call from my little brother David.
9:00 AM TO 1:00 PM: I used to get out and tend the residents’ communal garden until I suffered a fall, after which I could no longer tolerate the physical strain of gardening. The morning is punctuated by visits from the warden or friends from the church who pop in for coffee. If fine, I always try to get out for a walk. When people hit ninety they seem to stop walking. Well, that’s not going to happen to me. I shall never give up; and even if it’s a small walk in the garden, I try to get out every morning.
1:00 PM: Eat hot lunch, followed by a pudding in the residents’ lounge.
2:00 PM: Watch the news on the television.
3:00 PM: Bake a chocolate cake or biscuits.
5:00 PM: Take phone calls from former charges, asking after me, or from church members.
6:00 PM: Have a light supper of homemade sausage and mash or chicken casserole.
7:00 PM: Watch television. I love One Born Every Minute, a real-life documentary about babies and childbirth; Downton Abbey; and Upstairs, Downstairs.
9:00 PM: Wash and undress slowly. Read proverbs from the Bible, then lights out by 10 PM.
THE TIME IS 7:30 AM; the date is Christmas Eve, 2011.
I smile as I pull back my bedroom curtains. A little warm glow that starts in my toes soon tingles up the length of my spine. I simply adore Christmas Eve. No other day on the calendar promises quite so much joy and magic.
Right on cue a light dusting of snow falls from the white skies and settles on the chimney tops outside. A breath of wind picks up a white feather from the ground and I watch transfixed as it dances, floats, and flutters into the air.
“A white Christmas,” I murmur. “How perfect.”
I know it will never be as cold or snowy as the winters of my past. I will never forget the snows of 1940. Do you know, that was the coldest winter on record? The snowfall buried cars and we had to travel by sled everywhere. But still, even now aged ninety, nothing thrills me like the sight of a white Christmas.
Hugging my dressing gown tight around me, I potter to my little kitchen, flick the kettle on, and spoon tea leaves into a pot. While I wait for the kettle to boil I reflect on the day ahead.
With any luck my tiny one-bedroom flat will be filled with a steady stream of well-wishers, from family and friends to members of my church. I expect my kettle shall barely be off the boil as people pop in to share a cup of tea, drop off a card, or simply pass on their season’s greetings. I shiver with excitement. It really doesn’t matter how old you are, the magic of the buildup to Christmas never fades.
I’ve baked, of course. Just a few mince pies, a pudding, and a fruitcake. My shelves are also groaning with chocolate biscuits for eager little hands. Well, I have to have something to share with my guests, young and old, don’t I? Besides, I do so adore the rich, warm, spicy smell that fills a home when you bake.
On Christmas evening nothing says welcome better than a warm mince pie and a piping hot mug of tea.
And I want my home to be as toasty warm, open, and inviting as possible because what else is there in life?
After I have dressed and said my prayers, the warden Julia, who looks after all the residents at the sheltered housing where I live, knocks on the door.
“Only me, Brenda,” her cheerful voice calls out.
I fling open the door and shake my head. Even after all these years I still find it a surprise to be called Brenda and not Nanny.
“Merry Christmas,” I cry, giving her a warm hug. “And what have we here?”
“I swear you get more cards each year.” She chuckles, placing a thick wodge of cards on my coffee table. “You could give Santa Claus a run for his money, dear.”
“Oh thank you.” I smile. “You will stop for a cup of tea, won’t you?”
We share tea and swap stories, an
d after Julia has left I pick up my cards and start to open them.
Soon my eyes are filled with grateful tears.
Card after wonderful card is from all my “babies.” They come from all over Britain, but they all have one thing in common, they were all looked after by me, Nanny Brenda.
“Dear Nana, we can’t wait to see you at Christmas, hope you are taking care of yourself as much as you did us.… Love, Felix.”
And another …
“Dear Nana, we can’t wait to see you.… Love, Susanna.”
And another …
“To my favorite nana, merry Christmas.… Love, Jemima.”
Gently I pin each card to the wall on a length of red velvet ribbon. Soon the walls of my little flat are covered with colorful cards from all my former charges, each expressing gratitude and festive wishes.
But it is I who should be thankful, thankful that I am in their thoughts. Each card is truly a joy to behold. For each and every single one of the one hundred plus children I have cared for over the past sixty-two years is very much in my heart. It is they, beautiful children who have blossomed into wonderful adults with lovely families of their own, who have filled my heart and life with love.
Being a nanny—some might say Britain’s oldest and longest-serving nanny—has been a privilege and an honor for which I count my blessings daily.
Opening the last card, I smile as I read: “To our oldest recruit, Merry Christmas, Nurse Ashford. Love from everyone at the Norland Institute.” Norland is now known as Norland College, but back when I first started training, it was known as the Norland Institute, changing its status in 1946 in order to sound more modern.
The Norland Institute is where it all began, where I took my first nervous steps as a fledgling nanny back in 1939. What a wondrous journey of discovery I have been on since then.
Pinning the card up with the rest, I turn my gaze back to the window and I am spellbound by the falling snowflakes. Suddenly, I find myself transported back to the magical winters of my blissful childhood.…
Here I am with my siblings, left to right: Michael, Kathleen, Christopher, David, me, and Basil.
CHAPTER 1
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
HALLCROFT HOUSE
SURREY, ENGLAND
[1930, AGE NINE]
Lullaby, hushaby, hasten away
Little pink pilgrims, till dawn of the day.
Slow swings the cradle, but swift is the flight.
Lullaby, hushaby, baby, good night
—NINETEENTH-CENTURY ENGLISH LULLABY
Sunday Schedule
7:00 AM: Woke up and dressed in our special church clothes.
8:00 AM: Took turns helping Mother make the beds.
8:30 AM: Ate breakfast of boiled eggs and toast soldiers, the toast all placed in a rack and the eggs with little cozies on top.
9:15 AM: Politely asked if we may leave the table, which Mother insisted we do at the end of every mealtime.
9:30 AM: Washed faces and brushed teeth.
9:45 AM: Mother popped potatoes to bake in the oven so they’d be ready for our return, and then we set off for the four-mile walk to church.
1:00 PM: Home for lunch, which was always leftover cold meat, salad, and baked potatoes.
3:00 PM: After lunch Mother and Father always insisted on having a couple of hours alone, and we children were expected to entertain ourselves.
5:00 PM: Had afternoon tea of jam sandwiches and a glass of milk.
6:00 PM: We always got round the piano Sunday evenings without fail, Father playing and Mother singing. We were all encouraged to join in.
7:00 PM: Bedtime started at 7:00, but bedtimes were staggered with the youngest going up first. Boys were always washed together and then Kathleen and me. You never had boys and girls in the bath at the same time: always separate baths, for decency’s sake.
7:30 PM: Father read us all Rupert Bear as a bedtime story.
8:00 PM: Said our prayers before Mother and Father tucked us up and kissed us good night.
I HAVE SUNG THE LULLABY that begins this chapter thousands of times throughout my life and each time is as sweet as the last.
In sixty-two years of being a nanny I have lost count of the number of children I have cared for, but it must be approaching one hundred. Which means I am inordinately proud to say that, despite never having given birth, I have one hundred children and my families are spread far and wide.
Children are born uniquely vulnerable and with a need for love that they never outgrow. A baby has a special way of adding joy every single day and can flood your heart with love like nothing else. How strange I find it that some people claim you can never truly love a child that is not your own. This defies every instinct that runs through me, for I have loved children born to other women all my life, and never had my own family.
Even the little terrors (which every spirited child can be at times) I have adored with all my heart. Many I would have laid down my life for; in fact, on some memorable occasions, when I have had to flee to air raid shelters clutching my charges to my chest, I nearly have.
The outbreak of World War Two catapulted me headlong into some of the most bewildering, exhausting, frightening, and challenging moments of my career; but I, like every sensible British woman I knew, never allowed terror to take hold. We had no choice but to go about our business—running the home, shopping, cooking, and keeping the nation’s children happy, healthy, and as well fed as rations allowed—while chaos erupted around us.
There is little I haven’t come up against in the years since I began my training as a Norland nanny in 1939. Colic, bed-wetting, bullying, absent mothers, sick children, freezing winters, disease, adultery, deserters, scandal, inspiring evacuees and their memorable cockney mothers, all have conspired to make my life interesting. I know that few people get to experience the adventures I’ve had in my life, and I’m very grateful for the cards that were dealt to me.
When you’ve trained in Britain’s oldest nanny school and by draconian matrons of 1930s hospital wards, Hitler and his army hold no fear. Every fiber of my being was focused on the welfare of the children in my care. Nothing was more important than being the most loving and professional nanny that I could possibly be.
Much has changed since World War Two ended, and the dangers facing our children today have drastically altered. Back then, it was bomb blasts and malnutrition. Now there are threats posed by the Internet—things we could never have imagined. But I believe the fundamentals for bringing up happy children haven’t changed.
I don’t intend this book to be a child care manual. I doubt I should even have the brains to qualify as a Norland nanny today and I haven’t a clue which child care trends are in vogue. I do know this: if your heart sings with love for little children, you can’t go far wrong.
Where did this all-consuming love come from in my case? I have asked myself this on many an occasion, and I think it stemmed from the moment I met my baby brother when I was nine years old.
THE SENSE OF EXCITEMENT WAS TANGIBLE in the air at Hallcroft House in Lower Farm Road, Effingham, Surrey.
Every corridor, nook, cranny, and crevice in the vast house hummed with anticipation. Our cleaner, Winnie, an ageless, round woman who sang as she worked, had come up from the village and polished and scrubbed the house until every surface sparkled like a new penny.
Winnie was flushed red from her efforts. “Got to get everything just right for the new arrival,” she’d said, winking, when she’d spotted me watching her.
Winnie had done us proud. The oak floors gleamed like freshly churned butter. Every room smelled of lavender polish and carbolic soap, the leather thong handles on the doors glistened with beeswax, and pretty pink roses had been picked from the garden and dotted round the house in glass vases.
King George V himself, who was on throne at the time, wouldn’t have gotten such a rapturous reception had he showed up at Hallcroft that sunny spring morning. Little wonder the birt
h of my baby brother or sister was more exciting than every birthday and Christmas rolled into one.
My poor mother. From the moment she first told me she was expecting, I had pestered her daily. “Is the baby coming today? Where is she? She’s taking so long.”
I said she because I was certain the baby would be a girl, a real-life doll for me to dress up in pretty clothes and push around in my pram alongside my favorite actual doll, Constance.
And now the great moment was here.
I had been sent off to stay with my aunt Jessie. My elder sister, Kathleen, and my younger brothers, Michael, Basil, and Christopher, had been packed off to various other relatives, but now, finally, the call had come to say the baby had arrived and my mother, Doris, was at last ready for our return home.
My father, Arnold, was duly dispatched to collect us all and bring us home.
As was customary in 1930, my mother was expected to give birth at home. That was quite the norm in those days. The poorest of the poor right up to aristocracy and royalty made their entry into the world in the surrounds of their own home, attended by a local maternity nurse.
If that sounds backward to you, I should put it in context. The Midwives Act had been passed only in 1902, after a group of inspiring women fought to have midwifery and antenatal care recognized as a profession. Prior to that, any woman, or for that matter man, could deliver a baby.
Usually babies were delivered by a woman from the local community called the handy woman. Some were good at their job, others less so. Some were apparently prostitutes who were reputedly paid in gin.
Fortunately the act became law, the Royal College of Midwives was born, birthing standards soared, and infant deaths dropped.
My mother was extremely lucky not to have died giving birth to me, since I came four weeks early. There was no time for pain relief for her, not that it would have helped that much in any case. The only respites from the agony of childbirth were chloroform and forceps to speed things up if the baby got stuck.