The West End Nannies, page 8
The kitchens in the nursery had all mod cons but the kitchen in her home was from a bygone era. No hot water in the tap – she had to boil the kettle. No refrigerator – the milk bottles were put into a bucket of cold water and left on the stone scullery floor, and the meat was kept in a meat safe. The milk on the doorstep was frozen solid, the cream poking out of the top of the milk bottle like a bent candle. It was a good job she’d got to it before the birds. The meat safe was empty.
When her father came downstairs, Jenny gave him a fried breakfast using the last two eggs in the bowl.
‘We need to do some shopping, Dad,’ she said, putting the plate in front of him. ‘There’s not much food here.’
Jenny had only had a couple of slices of toast for her breakfast.
‘There’s money in the tin,’ he said, jerking his head towards the mantelpiece.
‘I’m afraid not, Dad,’ she said. ‘I looked before you came downstairs. It’s empty.’
Her father frowned. ‘But I put ten quid in it yesterday,’ he protested.
Jenny poured his tea.
‘That bloody Maurice,’ murmured Neville.
When he’d finished his meal, her father thanked her and shuffled outside to the yard.
Just after eight thirty, Jenny tied on her mother’s apron and put the kettle on. It took her two hours to get the small kitchen looking presentable again. By the time she had finished, the kitchen cupboard with its drop-down lid and enamel table had been cleaned from top to bottom; the flour, sugar and dried foodstuffs behind the mesh door had all been sorted and put into air-tight tins. She’d cleared up the mouse droppings and laid down a couple of traps. The shelves on top of a small cupboard, which were little more than up-ended boxes, had been thoroughly cleaned, as had the plates and dishes inside; her mother’s Pyrex dishes with their snowflake design had been washed and put on top of the rack over the hob; the saucepans had been washed and hung from hooks on the wall; the old stone sink was empty and grease-free and the wooden draining board had been thoroughly scrubbed.
Maurice appeared at around eleven. Jenny was sitting at the table having a well-earned rest and a hot drink. He didn’t bother to acknowledge her but after a hunt round for some food, he complained that most of the bread had gone and that there were no eggs. Jenny shrugged. ‘I would do some shopping but the tin appears to be empty,’ she said innocently.
Maurice glared but made no further comment as his girlfriend came into the kitchen. Jenny had never met her before and she was slightly surprised. Far from being an ‘old bat’, as Susan had once described her, Norma was an attractive woman. She was what her grandmother would have called ‘buxom’, with large brown eyes and dark hair. She still wore the vestiges of last night’s make-up and she smelled a little ‘stale’, as if she’d been smoking, and of course she hadn’t washed yet.
‘Hello, Norma. Nice to meet you. I’m Jenny.’
‘Hello.’ Norma plunked herself down at the table and, pulling a packet of cigarettes from her dressing gown, she lit up. ‘Got anything to eat? I’m starving.’
‘Sorry,’ said Jenny. ‘The cupboard is a bit bare.’
‘What yer mean?’ Norma demanded. ‘Isn’t there anything?’
Jenny shook her head and turned her eye towards Maurice, who was munching on the heel of the loaf. ‘I’m afraid Maurice is eating the last of the bread.’
‘I’m not surprised we’ve run out of food now that you’ve come home,’ Maurice retorted, and, jerking his head towards Jenny, he said to Norma, ‘She always was a pig, that one.’
Deeply offended, Jenny rose to her feet and walked away from the table with as much dignity as she could muster. She was furious but she would not give Maurice the satisfaction of starting a row in front of Norma. Alone in her room, she could hear the two love-birds arguing. Eventually Norma stormed back upstairs and Maurice wasn’t far behind. What a dreadful homecoming this was turning out to be. Jenny was so tempted to have a cry but she had to stay strong for Dad’s sake.
When the pair of them left the house, Jenny changed the sheets on Dad’s bed and put them in the twin tub. She cleaned and tidied her father’s room but didn’t bother with Maurice’s room. One peep round the door told her it would take a month of Sundays to get it into some semblance of order and besides, there was nothing wrong with Norma. Let her do it.
Downstairs, as she put the washing through the spinner on the twin tub, she could hear arguing in the yard. When she looked out of the window, her father was having a row with a man who was a stranger to her. Anxious that her father may be vulnerable, she hovered near the back door.
‘I thought better of you, Neville,’ the man was saying. ‘I always had you down as one of the best but that lorry was a bloody death trap. I was lucky to get home in one piece.’
‘Cyril, I can only say again that I’m sorry,’ her father said. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘Too right it won’t happen again,’ Cyril retorted. ‘This is the last time I hire anything from you, mate.’
Her father’s shoulders sagged. ‘Look, I’m sure we can come to some sort of an arrangement…’
Cyril laughed sardonically. ‘You’ve got to be kidding, man!’ he said, waving his hands in a gesture of finality. ‘I lost a pretty good contract because of that broken-down old heap. No, just give me my money back and that’ll be the end to it.’
Neville shook his head. ‘I don’t keep that kind of money on site.’
Cyril moved a step closer to him. ‘I want my money,’ he said deliberately.
Her father looked beaten. ‘I can give you a cheque.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Cyril, calming down at last.
The pair of them went into the office and Jenny relaxed. Cyril left as she finished hanging the sheets on the clothes horse in front of the fire. No point in putting them outside. They’d be as stiff as a board in no time.
‘All right, Dad?’ she said, walking into the office.
Her father was sitting at the desk with his head in his hands. He looked up with the ghost of a smile. ‘Fine, love.’
Jenny hovered by the door. Fine. But it wasn’t fine, was it? ‘Dad…’ she began.
Neville shifted some papers on his desk. ‘Leave it, Jenny, there’s a good girl.’
She stood for a minute weighing everything up in her mind. She’d never seen her father looking so dejected… so troubled… so demoralised.
‘I can’t do that, Dad,’ she said quietly. ‘What’s happening? Why are you like this? Something is wrong and I want to help.’
When he looked up, it came as a shock to see that his eyes were teary. What on earth was going on? Her father’s generation never cried. They were tough. They had been through the horrors of World War II, for heaven’s sake. One time when he was on leave, her father had dug bits of people out of the rubble in London after a night of bombing in the Blitz. She’d heard the story often enough. He told it with compassion and sadness but never once had he given way to his emotions.
‘Is it Mum?’
‘I can’t talk about it, love,’ he said brokenly.
‘Why not, Dad? It affects me as well you know. She’s my mother.’
He froze. He was staring at her now, his eyes fixed, and apparently unseeing, on her face. A lone tear rolled from his eyelid and down his cheek. ‘I’ve let you down,’ he said brokenly. ‘I let you all down.’
Jenny was on her feet immediately. She walked around the desk quickly and put her arms around him. ‘No, Dad,’ she said gently. ‘You haven’t let anybody down. You’re a good man. I love you.’
She felt him tremble and pulled her arms tighter.
The room suddenly darkened and she looked up to see Maurice standing in the doorway. Taking in the scene, she saw his mouth forming a sneer.
‘What’s all this, then?’ he said coldly. ‘Is Dad telling you his dirty little secret?’
Her father stiffened then straightened himself up and gently pushed her arms away from him. When she looked at him, Jenny was appalled to see that his face was ashen.
He rose to his feet. ‘You shut your mouth, Maurice,’ he spat. ‘Don’t you dare.’
Her brother laughed. ‘Or what?’ he challenged. ‘What will you do… old man? Come on, tell me, what will you do about it?’
But he was already talking to her father’s receding back as Neville got up and walked out of the room. As the door closed behind him, Jenny rounded on Maurice.
‘What is it with you, Maurice?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you have to be so nasty?’
‘And you can get off your high horse,’ Maurice sneered. ‘If you only knew the half of it, you wouldn’t be acting so superior.’
‘So go on, then,’ Jenny snapped. ‘Tell me!’
He paused for a moment or two as if he was deciding what to say, then he smiled. ‘Just came to say that me and Norma are going to Bournemouth. I’m going to the match and she’s doing some shopping. Don’t bother getting us any tea. We’ll eat out then go to the pub.’
As he sauntered off, hands in his pockets and whistling, she knew it would be pointless to pursue the matter any further. Maurice always did like being mysterious and he gained some sort of kick out of keeping people hanging about waiting for him to say something. As frustrating as it was, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of running after him and begging him to tell her. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t curious. Dad had a ‘dirty little secret’? What on earth could that mean?
Chapter 11
Ten green bottles hanging on the wall
But if one green bottle should accidentally fall
There'll be one, two, three, four, five,
six, seven, eight,
Nine green bottles hanging on the wall…
Traditional Nursery Rhyme
After her week in college and her stressful weekend at home, Jenny was glad to get back to the routine of the nursery. She had been half asleep when Rita and Carole came in and couldn’t be bothered with conversation. They obviously thought she was genuinely asleep and respected that. She heard them speaking in hushed whispers and they put the light out quite quickly.
In the morning, as soon as the night nurse put on the big light, Carole rolled over in bed and got up very suddenly. They heard her rushing to the bathroom. The night nurse put a cup of tea onto Jenny’s bedside locker.
‘Thank you.’ Jenny yawned. When she sat up, she had a huge surprise. Rita always looked fashionable but now she had a hairstyle that was straight out of Woman magazine.
‘You look amazing!’ Jenny gasped as Carole came back from the bathroom.
‘I went to that hairdressing school you told me about in Baker Street,’ said Rita, ruffling her fringe. ‘The student I got was only a week away from working in a proper salon.’
‘It looks so different.’
‘It’s called a geometric bob,’ said Carole, who was also sporting a new hairdo but one that was more in keeping with the usual bouffant style. ‘I wish I’d been brave enough to let him do that to me.’
‘You all right?’ Jenny asked anxiously.
‘Woke up feeling queasy,’ said Carole. ‘Must have been something I ate.’
Because of the lack of time, Jenny and Rita took it in turns to have a strip wash using the sink in their room while Carole grabbed her wash bag and went back to the bathroom. Getting ready for the day’s work was always manic.
‘Better get a move on,’ Rita said suddenly. ‘It’s almost seven o’clock.’
The three of them hurried to the children’s bedrooms to start getting them up.
* * *
When Matron brought in the post, she said nothing but she gave Rita a sour look when she saw her sitting at the breakfast table. As soon as she’d gone, everybody dissolved into a fit of the giggles.
‘Really, Nurse,’ said Belinda in exactly the same tone as Matron used when she was annoyed and that set them all off again.
Jenny had two letters: one written on airmail paper from Roger and another with handwriting she didn’t recognise. There was no time to read them so she slipped them into her pocket.
On the way back to the toddlers, Jenny noticed William standing near the front door. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said, ‘what are you doing here?’
William put the toy frog he was holding up to his chin. ‘Waiting for my mum.’
‘Why not come back in the playroom for a while,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s sure to ring the bell when she comes.’ And with that, she gently coaxed him away from the door to join the others.
Mavis Collins was the nursery warden in charge of the playroom, a middle-aged woman who was ‘old school’ when it came to the way she dealt with the children. At her insistence, everybody in the home called her Miss Collins and there was a general consensus of opinion that even Matron was intimidated by her. She could be harsh, demanding and rude and whenever she shouted, she brought the whole room to a standstill. Jenny was convinced that some of their small charges were terrified of her.
‘Are you working in here today?’ she boomed as Jenny walked through the door.
‘Yes, Miss Collins,’ said Jenny as she ushered William towards a group of small boys playing on the road mat. A few minutes later, the little lad had put his frog (something he had brought into the nursery with him as a precious contact with home) on the floor beside him and was happily playing with a small car.
Jenny went to get her instructions from the nursery warden.
‘Why was he so long in the toilet?’ Miss Collins asked.
‘I found him by the front door, waiting for his mother.’
‘Huh.’ Miss Collins laughed mirthlessly. ‘He’ll have a long wait, then. She was coming last Friday but she got arrested.’
‘Arrested?’ Jenny gasped.
‘Drugs, or some such thing,’ said Miss Collins. ‘They’re all the same. It’s either drugs or they’re caught in some alleyway lying on their backs with their legs apart.’
Jenny was so annoyed, she wanted to say something but she knew it would be pointless. People like Miss Collins were too opinionated to listen to another point of view. Even if William’s mother did behave like that, there was probably a reason. What had driven her to such a place of despair? Miss Collins had no sympathy whatsoever. Jenny took a deep breath. ‘What would you like me to do today?’
‘The children can play until ten o’clock and then we’ll all go out in the garden,’ she said. ‘You can help Monica get them ready and then I want the toy cupboards wiped clean and everything put back. Any broken toys can go in the basket for Mr Wellman to mend.’
By lunchtime, Jenny felt as if she had done a full day’s work, but the children had enjoyed running around in the garden and the toy cupboards had passed muster. Lunch was fish fingers, always a sure favourite, followed by jam sponge and custard. After the meal, everyone went to the toilet while Jenny put out the stretchers. All the children were required to lie down for an hour after lunch. Some slept but the older ones, those aged four or five, were allowed to look at a book.
It was Jenny’s turn to be the monitor today. She would sit with them for that hour and have her lunch when all the other girls came back. Once again, William was missing. Fortunately, Miss Collins had already gone for her lunch so she called Monica over.
‘Can you watch the children for a minute?’
Monica looked down her nose. ‘No, I can’t,’ she snapped. ‘You’re the monitor; you do it.’
Liz happened to be passing as Monica walked off. ‘What’s up with that stuck-up cow?’
‘I just wanted someone to keep an eye on the children while I go and look for William,’ said Jenny. ‘I don’t want him getting into trouble.’
‘Okay,’ said Liz. ‘I’ll do it.’
Jenny hurried off. ‘Shan’t be a minute.’
He was back by the front door again. ‘Listen, sweetheart,’ said Jenny, getting down on her haunches. ‘Mummy is very sorry but she can’t come today. It’s not her fault and she’s all right but she wants you to have a good time with the other boys and girls.’
His eyes pooled with tears so Jenny said, ‘I’m sure she’ll try and come another day. Okay?’
He nodded grimly and went back into the toddler room with her.
‘You shouldn’t give him false hope,’ Liz whispered as she left.
‘I didn’t,’ said Jenny, but inadvertently perhaps she had. William cuddled his frog and finally dropped off to sleep about twenty minutes later.
It was hard to know what was best for children like him. The reasons for them being in care were so varied. Some were from single-parent families and their mum was ill or having another baby; some like William had a parent in trouble with the law; other parents were homeless, desperate to find a place to live, but without a job that was impossible. A few children had, quite simply, been abandoned.
The authorities did their best to create a homely atmosphere for the children. Jenny’s uniform, like the rest of her fellow nursery students, was a gingham dress with a Peter Pan collar. They didn’t wear sleeve cuffs or aprons as did hospital nurses. As for the building itself, apart from the playroom, a valiant attempt had been made to give the place a relaxed atmosphere, which was all well and good but how could it be a home from home when it was a totally female environment with a matron and sister and nursery warden?
Some of the girls at college said that their nurseries had adopted a new idea of creating ‘family’ units. It was generally felt that children needed consistency and security, so the powers-that-be put together small groups of children of various ages who would live together in a kind of sibling set-up under the leadership of the same nursery nurse. It sounded a good idea, but with the high turnover of staff, people were quite rightly reluctant to form solid relationships with the children in their care because they would soon be moving on. That meant that right from the start, the idea was doomed to fail. Also, from the child’s point of view, the pseudo-brother or sister you had grown close to might ‘disappear’ overnight, leaving you feeling rejected all over again. It was a conundrum.
