My heart hammering, I followed Miss Whitehead into her office and sat down opposite her on the other side of a grand mahogany desk.
I listened intently as she filled me in on the history of the Norland. The institute was founded in 1892 by Emily Ward. Inspired by the alternative theories of teacher Friedrich Froebel, who likened children to plants that needed nurture and love in order to flourish, she set up a training institute for ladies “of genteel birth” to become nannies. Her aim was to overthrow the tyranny of the Victorian nursery and train nannies who rejected the need for spanking and used love and encouragement instead to raise children.
On hearing the inspiring story of Emily Ward’s life’s work, my heart felt like it was about to burst. I practically shot out of my seat as excitement bubbled over.
But this was me … this was the way I felt about children.
I felt like the sun had just come out from behind the clouds. The world was suddenly a far, far bigger place than Bookham. Sitting in this smart London house, I had an epiphany, a lightbulb moment if you like.
This was my calling in life.
I wasn’t clever enough to be a teacher or a nurse like Kathleen, but I did love babies and children. If Norland was a glove, then it fit me perfectly. I, too, could help bring the dreams of children to life.
Suddenly, I felt better about the fact that I could no more do what Kathleen was doing than fly to the moon. To learn how to deliver a baby, change dressings, administer medicines, and tend the sick was out of my league—my head spun at the mere thought—but place a baby in my arms and, well, that was another matter. I could love, cherish, protect, and care for a baby with more heartfelt passion than anyone I knew. To nurture a baby into a child and then help it on its journey into adulthood was an honor and a privilege as far as I was concerned.
I thought of my poor mother, sitting outside in the corridor, willing me on. She never got the chance to follow her dreams, but I could do this. I could do this for me and for her.
Ignoring my mother’s advice not to talk, I started to chatter away ten to the dozen. When I get nervous I start to babble, and I was very, very nervous.
“I love children, Miss Whitehead, I really do,” I blurted. “I’ve helped raise my brother. I was no good at school, not at all clever … not like you. My father has no money, well, he did have, but he lost it all, you see. Then I nearly fell off a horse.… We got the train up, you know … terribly nervous.”
On and on I rambled.
Miss Whitehead raised one eyebrow a fraction and finally my voice trailed off to a whisper.
“… and so here I am.”
Silence.
“I see,” said Miss Whitehead in a clipped voice. “We’ll be in touch.”
That signaled the end of the interview. I slunk out the room to rejoin my mother.
“Well?” she said, on the edge of her seat.
“I don’t suppose I shall get in,” I whispered, biting my lip to stop myself from crying.
I’d well and truly fluffed it.
The journey back to Amberley seemed to last forever. I gazed out the window so Mother couldn’t see the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. Despair gripped my heart. I’d let Mother and Father down. I’d let Mrs. Ravenshere down.
But worst of all, I could see my dreams crumbling to dust.…
Nanny’s Wisdom
ENCOURAGE CHILDREN’S STRENGTHS AND
NOT THEIR WEAKNESSES.
While I was floundering at school and feeling so inferior to Kathleen, my mother, quite rightly, explained that I was just as clever as my sister but that I had different talents and skills. Hers lay in academic pursuits; I was more practical and better with my hands. Don’t focus on what your children can’t do. Instead, find out what they are good at or enjoy and encourage them in that.
MAKE TIME TO TALK.
Put aside thirty minutes out of every day to sit and ask your child how her day was and then listen to what she tells you. It’s not long, but that thirty minutes spent with your attention focused solely on her will have an enormous effect on her life. Mrs. Ravenshere did, and her boys grew up to be confident and happy individuals. They loved her for it.
CHAPTER 3
NANNY BOOT CAMP
NORLAND INSTITUTE
PEMBRIDGE SQUARE, NOTTING HILL, LONDON, ENGLAND
[1939, AGE EIGHTEEN]
A wise old owl lived in an oak.
The more he saw, the less he spoke.
The less he spoke, the more he heard.
Why can’t we all be like that wise old bird?
—NURSERY RHYME
Schedule
7:00 AM: Woke when the bell rang. Washed, and dressed in our uniforms. Made our beds perfectly with corners tucked down, and checked our dorms were squeaky clean. Placed slippers under the bed; wiped toothbrushes clean with no trace of toothpaste anywhere.
8:00 AM: Breakfast of cereal, bread and butter, and tea.
9:00 AM: Lectures—either on housewifery, child care, moral tone—or ironing and washing in the laundry room.
1:00 PM: Lunch. All the children came in to join us for lunch with the other more advanced nurses and their charges. You ate everything on your plate whether you liked it or not.
2:30 PM: More lectures. Afternoon lectures were more practical: sewing, smocking, darning.
5:00 PM: Students’ tea. Bread, butter, and pudding, washed down with milk.
6:00 PM: Two-hour homework revision in lecture room, or sometimes we were given tasks such as making toys for the children.
8:00 PM: Free time in our dorm. We changed into our own clothes, read, wrote letters home, or chatted with our set. It felt a bit like boarding school and there was a lot of giggling.
9:00 PM: Washed, changed for bed, and said our prayers.
10:00 PM: Lights out and bedtime.
IT WAS MOTHER WHO OPENED the letter.
For days I’d been moping round the house like a wet weekend, utterly desolate and quite convinced I’d fluffed my interview.
We were sitting at the breakfast table, drinking tea, while Mother sifted through the morning’s mail. I looked up when I noticed that she had frozen in her seat, staring intently at the letter in her hand.
“You’ve done it, Brenda,” she cried, nearly knocking her teacup over with excitement. “You’ve been accepted by the Norland.”
Father’s face paled. “But how, darling? There’s no money to train.”
“It’s all right,” Mother went on, reading excitedly from the letter. “Says here that at first you were considered for the maiden’s scheme, but upon reflection you are suitable to start immediately as a student, and the training will be funded with a bursary.”
“A what?” I asked, puzzled.
“It means they pay the cost of your training, darling.”
I later found out what the maiden’s scheme was. In 1904 Norland introduced the scheme with the intention of helping those girls who were eligible but could not afford the fees. They were to give their services in the domestic work of the house for a year, and in return for cooking, cleaning, and housework they would receive the training and uniform for free. During their year of maiden’s work, they were required to forfeit their Christian names and be known under the name of Honour, Mercy, Prudence, or Verity; wear a special uniform while on duty; and sleep in a cubicled dormitory on the top floor.
This may seem strange and perhaps even a bit offensive, but the thinking was that when girls had completed their year of service, they could then enter as a student, revert to their Christian name, and be accepted on an equal footing by their fellow students. It was so popular a scheme that there was a waiting list.
Turns out I had narrowly escaped being named after a Victorian virtue, after Miss Whitehead decided I was suitable enough to qualify for a bursary from the Isabel Sharman Fund. This was set up after the death of the institute’s first principal with the intention of helping fund training for suitable ladies of slender means.
Euphoria fizzled up inside me. I’d done it. I’d really, really done it. I wasn’t a complete dummy after all. I’d been accepted! I clutched the letter to my heart and felt so happy I could burst. I was so grateful to the Norland. I knew if it took me the rest of my life I would pay back every penny.
“Oh, thank you, oh, thank you.” I laughed, dancing round the kitchen, kissing everyone in sight.
There was much rejoicing in the Ashford household that day. Mother walked around with a little smile on her face and Father just looked thrilled to bits.
“Just think,” he said, kissing me on the head, “our Brenda’s going to be a Norland nanny. I’m proud of you.”
If he felt any shame at having his daughter’s education means-tested and funded, he kept it to himself. He was a proud man, but he only ever wanted the best for his children and could see I was over the moon.
THREE WEEKS LATER, THE MORNING OF March 23, 1939, dawned bright and clear. My first day at the Norland Institute. Today was the first day of the rest of my life, and of one thing I was certain: I was going to be the best nanny I could possibly be.
Upon our reporting to Pembridge Square, Mother left me at the doorstep. I could scarcely believe it. The last time I stood on these steps I was certain I was destined for failure. Now here I was. An actual Norland nurse. Well, a nurse in training.
My stomach was in knots.
“Well, darling,” said my mother, briskly drawing herself upright, I suspected, to stop herself from crying. “This is it. Do me proud.”
“Oh, I’ll try, Mother. I really will,” I said.
“I know you will, darling.”
She gave me a sweet, sad little smile, kissed me on the cheek, and then was gone.
Mother had the softest velvety down on her cheek, and as she turned and walked up the road I could still feel its sweet sensation on my face. The smell of the Lux soap that she washed with hung in the air, and I felt a lump form in my throat. Suddenly, the enormity of my situation hit me. I was eighteen years old and all alone in the Big Smoke. I knew no one here except the terrifying Miss Whitehead.
I crept upstairs and nervously pushed open the door to my modest dorm room.
A girl stood unpacking.
“Hello,” I said timidly. “I’m Brenda.”
“Mary Rutherford’s the name,” barked the tall, confident brunette, bounding over to shake my hand enthusiastically.
“That’s your bed over there. Look lively, we’ve to report to Miss Whitehead in the lecture room in five minutes.”
“Oh … oh, right,” I said, impressed at Mary’s efficiency. Wouldn’t do to be late on our first day.
On my bed was an immaculately starched and folded bundle of clothes: my Norland uniform.
I changed into the fawn long-sleeved dress with stiff detachable white collar and cuffs, a white apron, petersham belt, and brown petersham bow to tie at my neck.
I hung up my wool cloak and felt hat in the small wardrobe beside my bed. My real pride and joy, though, was a beautiful blue silk dress with a cotton apron with lace insertion across the bib and round the hem. The lace was especially made in Belgium. It was exquisite. No wonder the dress was for use on formal occasions only and children’s parties.
“Rather special, isn’t it?” said Mary, beaming as she watched me.
I took it out of the tissue paper like it was made of butterfly wings and hung it up carefully.
As I was smoothing down my skirt, two more girls came in as shyly as I had.
“Hi, I’m Joan,” said a young girl, blushing. “I’m from Devon, my first time in London.”
Instantly I warmed to Joan. She was followed by a beautiful Scottish girl. Her kind green eyes twinkled beneath a halo of fiery red hair.
“I’m Margaret from Dumfries.”
Her warm Scottish accent endeared me to her instantly.
Margaret was followed by Yvonne. Yvonne was a very well-to-do French lady, which made her incredibly exotic in my eyes. Her dark eyes and expertly styled shiny black hair spoke money. She had the most exquisite clothes, all arranged beautifully in her leather case.
As she started slowly removing her things I noticed that she was utterly bewildered. She held up clothes like they were foreign objects and tugged at her bedside drawer like she’d never unpacked before.
It was then that I realized. She probably never had unpacked.
“We have servants who do this for us,” explained Yvonne, when she spotted me watching her.
“Here,” I said, smiling. “I’ll help.”
Helping Yvonne to unpack her clothes, I reflected on what a mixed bunch we were, all from different backgrounds and with very different characters. I resolved there and then to try my hardest to get on with everyone as best as I could. In later life I always advised my charges to do the same. Put aside your prejudices and always accept people at face value. Don’t listen to their accents or obsess about their clothing. Try to get to know the person beneath, for only then will you find true friendship.
Many different friends from all walks of life will enrich your life far more than people you assume to be “just like you.” That belief has paid off in my life as today I count myself lucky to have a very mixed and wide range of friends.
Poor Yvonne was a good person; just because she had servants didn’t mean that her heart wasn’t in the right place.
“Thanks, Brenda,” she said with a smile, as we folded away the last of her clothes. “You’re spiffing.”
“Come on, girls,” ordered Mary, rounding us all up. “We can’t keep Miss Whitehead waiting.”
We all hurried downstairs to the main lecture room. The arctic blast of air hit us all at the same time.
“Gosh,” I said with a shiver. “It’s freezing in here.”
“Aye, not a patch on Dumfries,” said Margaret, grinning, “but perishing all the same.”
Wanting to ingratiate myself with the twenty or so girls assembled in the room, I hurried over and shut the window.
Minutes later, Miss Whitehead marched into the room.
Some people have an air of authority about them that commands respect. As soon as she strode purposefully to the front of the hall, twenty heads snapped to attention and you could have heard a pin drop.
Miss Whitehead, wearing a navy dress with a white apron and white, pleated cap, put down her books and looked long and hard at each of her trembling new recruits.
She took off her navy cloak lined in red silk and carefully and deliberately placed it over the back of her chair.
“Stand, please,” she ordered.
The sound of scraping chairs filled the room as we jumped to attention.
Her lips pursed disapprovingly.
“Your first lecture will be on hygiene,” she barked. “Will the student at the back please open the window?”
I wanted the ground to swallow me up. Trust me to do the wrong thing on the first day.
Mary dashed over and flung open the window.
“Fresh air makes for healthy living,” announced Miss Whitehead.
Never again would any of us dare to close a window.
Miss Whitehead quickly became a legendary figure in our eyes. She had been appointed principal four years previously in 1935, after working as a trained nurse and midwife, but was fast making her mark as a draconian guardian of the uniform. She was adamant that her nurses would be seen as superior nannies only if they were dressed and behaved impeccably at all times.
Gone with the Wind was playing at the cinema and was captivating audiences. All over the Western world, women clamored to dress like Scarlett O’Hara with romantic full-length skirts over crinolines. Others raised temperatures with silk stockings or were prone to lift one perfectly groomed eyebrow from under a little velvet hat tipped over one eye, à la Greta Garbo in Romance. To get the Hollywood look, women flaunted their assets by wearing brassieres that pushed their breasts up and out under tight sweaters and finished the look off with a slick of pill
ar-box red lipstick.
No such daring for us Norlanders. Miss Whitehead would have had a blue fit if we’d sauntered in wearing any such feminine outfits.
Inside these hallowed walls there was no room for silk stockings or makeup. Cosmetics were strictly banned from the nursery, and stockings were made of sensible and comfortable lisle fabric.
“I am a stickler for a properly worn uniform,” she went on, surveying us all as she spoke.
Immediately I looked down at my own and tried discreetly to straighten my skirt and smooth out the material under my belt.
“Mrs. Ward once said, ‘It’s such a pity that we could not give only the good nurses a uniform and take it away from the others,’ and I do endorse this. In fact,” she said, her voice rising an octave, “I might think of having a roll of honor of the nurses who really do wear a properly kept uniform, but I am afraid it would not require a large frame.”
She paused to let her words sink in.
“You are given the uniform, having promised to wear it that you may demonstrate to the world that you are a member of this institute, which has the highest ideals. Among them is an awareness of the great responsibility it is to bring up little children to be true and good, to enable them to be men and women of the highest character.”
Quite what Miss Whitehead would have made of today’s nannies’ wearing jeans and sweatshirts I can’t even imagine! I’m not sure I would relax the uniform to such an extent. A smart day dress or smart trousers and blouse speaks volumes and says that you are the person in charge and also that you take care of your appearance and respect the position of authority that you are in. Having said that, I do feel the uniform back then was possibly over the top. At least nannies today in jeans can get down on the floor and play easily, something we always struggled to do.
What you wear speaks volumes about you, and sadly people can make snap judgments about you purely based on your clothing. In later life I found people made unflattering assumptions about my nannying based on my uniform. Some assumed that Norland nannies were above their station or didn’t want to get their hands dirty. Nonsense of course, but such is the power of clothing.
A Spoonful of Sugar Page 5
