Forged with Flames

by Ann Fogarty

  The examiner, however, was an approachable middle-aged woman with an obvious sense of humour, who took great pains to put us all at ease—not at all ‘teacherly’, as I imagined she would be. Perhaps sensing my dread, she even teased me a little at the beginning of my talk when I stumbled over my words. Although I was panicky, I read beautifully and the talk went quite well, but this in no way ameliorated the overwhelming effect the incident had on me. Every time something like this happened, I hoped the shyness might miraculously go away. It never did. It was my own private agony and I couldn’t begin to explain to anyone else the excruciating pain it was causing me.

  7

  A LONDON NANNY

  The year before I completed my training, my family had moved to another Lancashire village called Ribchester. I hadn’t been at all sad to leave Barrowford for Ribchester—my friends had already left—and departing Lancashire permanently wasn’t a wrench either. So, at eighteen, I left home for London without any regrets and my first job as a nanny. I found the position in an upmarket English magazine called The Lady. It was wonderful trawling through ads for jobs all over England and selecting one—like shopping for a new life. You applied by letter and if successful, the parents would phone you to sort out the time of arrival and where they’d meet you, then send money to cover the fare.

  I dressed carefully that cold January morning, making sure my winter woollies were all nicely matching: woollen skirt and jumper, long tights and polished shoes (buffed twice to make a good first impression), topped off by a beret in the same red as my scarf and gloves.

  ‘Make sure you behave yourself,’ my father said, awkwardly, as he walked out the door to go to work. That was his farewell.

  Jill, who’d just finished her breakfast too, gave me a little hug, picked up her bag and left for school. That just left Mum who was trying hard not to become upset. We both wanted to get the goodbye over, making fluffy small talk as we walked to the bus stop, avoiding any mention of what we really felt and leaving much unsaid, as was the way in English families then. ‘Oooh, it’s bitterly cold today, isn’t it?’ or ‘I hope the train down to London won’t be too crowded.’ It was a relief for both of us when the bus drew into the kerb and I hauled my suitcase onto it, giving Mum a last hug.

  As soon as I sat down, I felt a great surge of excitement welling up in me. Exiting a small country village where everyone knew all about me and travelling to a huge unknown city was thrilling, the possibilities endless. I’d never been to London before and thought that if I distanced myself from home life I could be different, able to change. I had become shy even with my family, as if I were keeping this big secret to myself. Other young people left villages to escape the confines and predictability of smalltown life. I left to shed the parts of me that I didn’t like and which at times felt almost too unbearable to endure.

  Julia, also on her way to her first nannying job, was waiting for me at the station in Preston, the nearest town where the trains to London departed. We looked at each other and smiled at the adventure of it all as we lugged our cases up to the ticket window and bought our one-way tickets. That trip south whizzed past in a blur as the train clunked then clattered over the miles, and we leaned across the seats chatting breathlessly to each other about what we’d do in London; where we’d go out, how we’d spend our first week’s wage, what our new families would be like. It was completely potluck as to what family you found yourself working in because you didn’t know until you got there what they’d be like. And you were going to live with these people!

  We disembarked from the train amid the clamour of voices and trains at Victoria Station. Men in coats and bowler hats, holding umbrellas, pushed past in a determined way; people waited beside the numbered arches at the end of each line checking their watches as others peered at departure times on the overhead board. A grimy old man with a furrowed face and rheumy eyes stood looking vacantly, barely registering as people brushed past and around him. Overhead, a weak English sun shone wanly through the huge domed roof, a lofty distance from the hubbub below. The children’s mother, Mrs Hyman, was waiting on the platform, on the lookout for a girl with a red suitcase. An attractive woman with lustrous dark hair and an assured friendliness stepped forward to greet me, as poised as Jackie Kennedy. Julia was with me when we met her and we exchanged looks that said, Yes!

  And so began my new life as a nanny.

  The house in Totteridge, a salubrious part of London, was a chocolate-box English mansion—two-storey, dark brown brick with latticed windows. It sat amid grounds with foliage so neat it looked as if it had been trimmed with nail clippers. As I walked in I had to stop myself from staring at the glittering chandelier suspended above a winding staircase. You could stand at the top of these stairs and look down at the elegant entrance, feeling like a film star. Gilt-framed mirrors, lush oil paintings and the occasional portrait of a humourless-looking ancestor hung ponderously throughout the house. Porcelain vases filled with fresh flowers sat on elegant, carved side tables, their arrangements replaced before the first petal curled brown. Entering the children’s rooms was like stepping into miniature fairylands filled with cleverly built child-sized furniture and toys everywhere you looked: darling pink furry toys for their daughter and a collection of beautiful hand-carved rattles, tin soldiers, cars and trucks for the son, and a bookshelf full of hardback picture books.

  Mrs Hyman showed me to my tasteful, rather small bedroom which looked out through a diamond-paned window over floral garden beds to the road. I had my own television set in one corner and, she indicated, a green padded chair for any visitors I might have. Entertaining friends in the family domain was clearly not an option.

  The children’s father, a businessman, was welcoming, too, that evening, but more aloof. The couple, who looked to be in their thirties, exuded elegance. I never saw them looking anything other than smart. I wasn’t sure about their four-year-old son, John, at first—he seemed rather like a mummy’s boy. As it turned out, he was, but it was not a problem. I fell in love immediately though with Emma, a chubby-cheeked, easy-going infant.

  My days at Totteridge were structured, with a clear routine established for the children from the start. My duties were to look after Emma and John, do the laundry, iron their clothes—Mrs Hyman was most impressed with my ironing skills—and prepare the children’s meals if she wasn’t home. She used to get out a bit with her friends though I was never sure where she went—we didn’t discuss our private lives; there was no overlapping ground to our existences other than the children. She thought it was important that they be taken for a long walk each day, usually in the afternoons. John’s favourite destination was a shallow pond that iced over in winter where we would slide about, laughing. John could be a rather serious little boy so I loved playing games with him that made him squeal with laughter. Mrs Hyman liked me to take him to one of the cafés nearby occasionally, both as a treat and to teach him to behave politely in public.

  Whenever I had some spare time—which wasn’t often—I met Julia to go shopping. This was 1968, the height of ‘swinging London’ and the shops were like nothing we’d ever seen before. We loved going down Carnaby Street, poking around the boutiques and looking at the way-out gear being paraded on the footpaths, even if we never bought anything. Carnaby Street in the late sixties was a kaleidoscope of fashion and people, all colour and movement, and always congested. It was like being in another country. There were posters plastered everywhere advertising bands, and blasts of loud music coming out of every shop. This was the time when the Beatles, Rolling Stones, the Kinks and The Who were on the rise, and when pirate radio stations started to hit the airwaves. I loved listening to Radio Luxembourg and the pop music on Radio Caroline—operated from a ship offshore—on the radio my parents had given me the Christmas before I left home.

  I always felt like an interloper from the provinces when I trawled Carnaby Street, though, passing all these young people in mod and hippie gear. There were women wearing
dresses with loud patterns and bubble hats, men wearing frilly, satin shirts, and numerous long waistcoat-type garments with fur trim for both sexes. The mini skirt was definitely the go—even I wore one—as was long, hippie-style hair and Afros. Backcombing and the beehive were popular—some of the women added inches to their height with their beehives. I was fascinated, wondering how they’d done it but preferred the look of the short, Twiggy cuts—neat with sharp, straight lines.

  On one of these shopping trips, Julia and I lashed out and had our hair cut at Vidal Sassoon’s salon, just for the experience. There were some amazing hairstyles going on as we glanced around but because my hair was long I just had it shaped and trimmed so the overall effect wasn’t that noticeable—a pity really, given that I spent most of my week’s wages, about six pounds, on it. The real treat wasn’t the cut so much as having it washed and conditioned beforehand. I’d never had my hair washed and cut wet and was completely unaware that anyone did this. We both loved it, but decided we’d only do it once, as it didn’t really seem worth it.

  We also spent our wages on new outfits, though mine were always pretty straight compared to those of other people my age walking around London at the time. Sometimes I thought it would be wonderfully liberating to be the kind of person who had the confidence to wear whatever they liked, but I just couldn’t bring myself to throw over the traces of my previous life.

  And so the London party scene of the sixties completely bypassed Julia and me, as did drugs. I never saw anyone taking them let alone be offered any. The closest I came to illicit substances was hearing at Springfield House that a young staff member at one of the nursery schools was experimenting with them. We were all shocked. Another example of how innocent we country girls were in so many ways was my total lack of fear about travelling home alone at night after our days out shopping. It was quite a long walk from the tube station at Totteridge and one night a police car drew up alongside me. The constable insisted I get in and then drove me right to my front door. I was most impressed by this service, not realising until much later that it was to make sure I got home safely!

  The Hymans treated me well and appreciated my services, but as time went on—weeks spent feeding, changing, washing, wiping and walking the children—I became quite lonely; sometimes whole days felt dreary and endless. It didn’t help that it was winter and bleak, with darkness descending around four o’clock. Even when it was clear, the sun shone so half-heartedly that the day seemed never to wake up. I would look out my diamond-paned window and wonder what I’d got myself into. I suppose I’d been hoping to experience a warm sense of family with the Hymans where I could contribute something, but I was really an aside to their lives. The long hours and little free time weren’t conducive to making many new friends and, pleasant as the children were, I missed adult conversation. Most of the time, the parents ate downstairs in their well-appointed dining-room—naturally they wanted time to themselves—while I ate my meals balanced on a tray in my bedroom.

  To avoid sitting by myself at night, I began to go out after I put Emma, then John, to bed at seven o’clock. At first, I would just walk about, meandering through the neighbourhood under the street lights, filling in time, pausing by the lake’s edge at Totteridge Common to watch the ducks, then wandering on. On these rambles I couldn’t help sneaking the occasional glance into the lit-up lounge-room windows of homes that always looked so warm and enticing.

  One evening, I ventured into a little Anglican church close by. St Andrew’s was grainy and dark inside, empty and tranquil in the way churches are. I’d been to Sunday School when I was young but we weren’t particularly religious so there was no reason other than curiosity, and an open door, to walk in. The scent of wood enveloped me, the smell of an institution that had been there solidly for years and years. I sat down in a pew and picked up a small pamphlet left for visitors. The message was simple and direct, with a picture of Jesus sitting surrounded by children. It talked about how God cared for everyone and wanted us to turn to Him for help with all our difficulties. I felt as if it were speaking directly to me. In the circumstances, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse—at that stage anything would do it!

  In the weeks that followed, I went back to the church at night and sat talking to God, awkwardly at first, then pouring out my soul, especially about my debilitating shyness. This was the first time I’d verbalised it out loud and the relief was immediate and profound. Suddenly, I saw a glimmer of hope. And so began a relationship that would come to mean everything to me as the years went by.

  Although the first nanny position turned out to be disappointing, it did have one outstanding advantage for an impressionable eighteen-year-old: Cliff Richard lived across the road. Cliff had been my idol for a long time and I had a huge collection of his records—that’s what I spent most of my wages on. I loved his soulful ballads. The Hymans had a record player that I was allowed to use, so whenever the parents were out I’d play the albums as loudly as possible without waking the children. I could hardly believe it when I found out from our housekeeper that he was a neighbour. I’d become friendly with another nanny nearby and discovered that we could see directly into Cliff’s back garden from her bedroom window. Our own private viewing area! We’d often just stand at the window hoping, vainly, as it turned out, that he would come outside to cut the lawn, or to enjoy the garden with its many flowers.

  Just catching a glimpse of him would make my insides churn. The first day I saw him at close quarters I had Emma in the pram and John alongside. He had just arrived home and looked at us from his car and waved. He was quite young then and handsome with that cute crop of dark hair, dark eyes and flashing smile. He looked exactly like a heart-throb should—fabulous.

  One day, when I was talking with the housekeeper about Cliff again, we devised a plan. She knew I was smitten and desperate to see him face-to-face, so we, mistakenly, decided that it wouldn’t be too much of an invasion of privacy for me to go across the road to his home and ask him for his autograph. It seemed a better idea than asking for a cup of sugar. I couldn’t really make the request for myself but reasoned that it would be perfectly acceptable if I pretended it was for my sister—he’d think it was such a nice thought and happily sign it. Then, who knows, he’d say hello whenever we saw each other in the street or ran into each other at the shops.

  I dressed groovily, right down to my bright red knee socks (I’d progressed from the white ones I wore as a sixteen-year-old!), choosing a smart coat—short, dressy and with a red collar that matched the socks. I washed and brushed my hair so that it looked sleek, patting it into place once again before taking a last look in the mirror. Drawing in a deep breath to steady myself, I walked across the road.

  Cliff lived in a two-storey, freestanding house with a big front door. To me, the house was grand, but there were certainly bigger ones in the neighbourhood. My heart was thumping as I knocked—it was hard to believe I was actually standing there doing this. An older woman, dressed dourly in a straight skirt and cardigan, opened the door. She didn’t look too happy as she listened to my request. A sense of disapproval hung heavily in the air as she pulled the door shut and disappeared inside with the record I’d brought to be signed. ‘Oh bother’, I thought. ‘Cliff will sign it but she’ll bring it back out to me. What could I be thinking, expecting him to answer the door?’ Later, I realised what an invasion of privacy it really was.

  After waiting a short while, the door opened again. Cliff Richard was standing there with my record in his hand. He had this big smile as if he were really happy to see me. He said hello and although he didn’t really say much else, he was everything I’d imagined. He spoke pleasantly as he handed back the newly-signed record. I babbled something before the door closed and he was gone.

  Years later as I lay recovering from my burns in the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne, Australia, I received a signed photo, handed to me by one of the nurses. It read: ‘To Ann, Get well soon. Lots of luv! Cliff Richard’. He was i
n Australia doing a concert at the time and friends of mine in London, who knew I liked him and who were friendly with him, had asked him to sign a photo and send it into the hospital for a burns patient they knew. He was just doing something kind for a victim of the Ash Wednesday bushfires. How surprised he would have been had he known that fifteen years earlier, on his side of the world, I had stood on his doorstep in red knee socks and asked nervously for his autograph.

  8

  A FATEFUL ATTRACTION

  The attraction of Cliff Richard living so close wasn’t enough though to keep me in that first job. After four months of living what was a very lonely life for a teenager, I realised that I needed to work in a household where I was really part of the family. It was sad to contemplate leaving John and little Emma, and difficult to broach the subject with their parents, who didn’t want me to go, but I was determined. In an attempt to get me to change my mind, Mrs Hyman promised to hold a big party and invite Cliff. Surprisingly, even that prospect couldn’t entice me to stay. There was disappointment on both sides that it hadn’t worked out.

  I found my second job in The Lady, too—nannying jobs were plentiful so you could pick and choose. This one was in Edgware, another suburb in London’s north, with an older Jewish family, the Maybaums. (The Hymans were Jewish, too, but not religious.) There were four children to care for: Miriam, aged ten, Simon, eight, Naomi, three and Rebecca, just six weeks old. The children were boisterous and fun, and embraced me with enthusiasm right away. Mr and Mrs Maybaum were down-to-earth and warm. Right from the outset, I felt a part of the family and Mrs Maybaum, in particular, was someone you could talk to about anything, someone you’d enjoy having as a mother. I felt as if I were thawing out.