“I could hardly forget, seeing that’s where I first met you, Flo. That head cook, what an ogre she was! ‘No followers in my kitchen,’ she’d say, when I made the deliveries. You were what–sixteen, seventeen? She couldn’t stop us meeting, right, Flo?”
“That’s enough, Jack,” Mother says.
“What did I say?” Father asks innocently.
I look down at my plate so as not to laugh.
“Well, Lou, I could not be more pleased,” he says. “Mind you, I’ll miss you when you leave.”
Emily gets off her chair and comes over to twine her arms around my neck. “Don’t go, Lou,” she sobs.
Kathleen slams the scullery door, drops her boots on the floor, and comes running in, out of breath. “Sorry I’m late–I thought Madame would never let me put the CLOSED sign up tonight. Every lady in London wants a new hat for the coronation.” She collapses onto a chair. “My feet are blistered from running and fetching all day! Did you get the position, Lou? What’s the matter, Emily?” she asks.
“I don’t want Lou to go,” my little sister says. Her chest heaves.
Kathleen jumps up and hugs me. “You got it! Oh, my clever, clever Louisa, I’m so proud of you!”
“I’m to start next week, after the coronation. And I’m to sleep in a room of my own.”
There is a short pause, then Kathleen says, “I’ll have the bed to myself, won’t I?”
I have not really thought about what leaving home will mean. I will not be living in this house any-more…not sharing a room with my sisters–whispering, laughing together, and being comforted after a bad dream! Kathleen and I look at each other and burst into tears. Emily joins in. Mother wipes her eyes on the corner of her apron.
Upstairs, George hears us and calls out. Emily runs up, still sobbing, to settle him.
Father can’t bear to see any of us in tears and goes out into the garden to smoke.
“It’s too far to walk home on my evening off, Mother, but I’ll be home for Christmas and for a day once a month. It won’t be so bad, will it? And a week’s holiday every year–that’s good, isn’t it?” I say.
“Did you leave me any supper, Mother? I’m famished,” Kathleen says, her arm around my waist. “Lou, once you know which evening you get off, I can meet you halfway. We can have a walk.” Kathleen is still making plans for us, the way she always has. How I am going to miss everyone!
6
Nanny Mackintosh
I, who have never known what it is to be homesick, must wait a whole month before I can go home! On this first evening, seated at the table in the servants’ hall, everyone seems to be looking at me–the new girl–and I can barely keep from crying. I try to remember which name goes with which face. My cheeks grow hot when I’m spoken to.
Roberts, who does not hide her dislike of me, sniggers. “Look at the new girl blush,” she says.
What have I done to upset her? She doesn’t even know me.
Mr. Briggs clears his throat. Heads turn to him, deferentially.
“Mrs. Porter, I am reminded that when I started out as a young footman, my hands shook so much, I spilled the port wine I was serving at dinner. I was certain I would be told to pack my bags,” he says, with the glimmer of a smile.
“Why, that’s nothing compared to what I did, Mr. Briggs. The day I was promoted to assistant cook, I over-salted the soup and it was sent back to the kitchen. The staff put me in my place, make no mistake! They teased me unmercifully. ‘Don’t forget the salt, Porter,’ they said for days, before I sent another dish upstairs.”
Mrs. Porter is kind. Nevertheless, it is all I can do to swallow my bread and cheese. The lump in my throat refuses to go away.
When it is time for me to go back upstairs and bring Nanny Mackintosh her cocoa and biscuits, it is almost a relief. Nanny takes one sip before handing back her cup.
“The cocoa is cold. Bring up a fresh cup and make sure it is hot this time, if you please.”
I go down and ask for another. “I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Porter.”
She makes no comment, but tells Roberts to wash her hands and be certain the milk is scalding hot. Roberts mutters under her breath, and Mrs. Porter gives her a look, which I pretend not to see.
Nanny Mackintosh’s idea of training me in the running of her nurseries is to correct everything I do. She manages to find fault from morning to night! Each day she checks the windows, and if they don’t squeak with cleanliness, I must do them again. She runs her fingers along the mantel, looking for dust. Heaven help me if I forget to put a toy away the second it has been played with. Her favorite refrain is: “That is not the way we did things at Norland College!” There is no end to what Nanny will not tolerate. On the evenings she takes her supper with Mrs. Ransom, she changes into a black silk dress, which makes her look sterner than ever.
I am given a list of instructions to do before I go to bed.
The first time I accompany her to the park, and before I am permitted to push Miss Alexandra’s perambulator, Miss Portia holding on to the side, I have to show Nanny my hands. She tells me, “Nanny Gilbert and Nanny Pritchard are most particular whom their charges mix with, as indeed am I. You must always remember, Gardener, that we represent Lord and Lady Milton. His lordship sits in the House of Lords, and the highest standards must be observed at all times.
“Miss Portia and Miss Alexandra are permitted to play within a short distance of the bench, where we nannies sit. You will remain close by and watch that the girls do not become overheated or chilled, depending on the weather. They may at no time raise their voices, push the other children, or touch anything lying on the ground!”
I feel sorry for Miss Portia. She spends too much time forced to sit at the nursery table, staring at her cooling porridge, or being told to eat her crusts or clean her plate. No one at home wastes food–we can’t afford to–and the boys never leave a crumb. They are always hungry. But could Nanny not bend just a little and give Miss Portia smaller portions? She is not five yet and small for her age.
Nanny will often begin a sentence with “When I was your age, Miss Portia, I’d have been more than happy to see a bit of honey on my porridge. Eat up now.” And I watch the child’s eyes fill with tears.
Once, I cut up her bread into fingers to persuade her to eat her crusts. “Shall we count how many guards there are at Buckingham Palace?” I asked her. I counted slowly, to give her a chance to eat one up, so that I could say, “I was sure there were six. Where can that guard have gone?”
Well, Nanny just about exploded. “Food is to be eaten, not played with, Gardener. You forget your place.” One thing for sure, Nanny will make certain I never have a chance to forget mine!
When I finally get to see Mother and the children on my first day off, I feel as if I’ve been away for a year, not four weeks! I have all sorts of stories to tell them and never let on how much I have missed them all.
Mother tells me to keep clear of Roberts: “There’s always one troublemaker in every household. Unhappy at being overlooked, maybe, bearing a grudge, or with troubles in her life outside the house. It’s nothing to do with you and none of your making.”
Mother always says the right thing. “There’s going to be a storm tonight, look at that sky! It’ll clear the air a bit.”
“It’s not only the weather that needs to change, Flo,” Father says. “I’ve never known a summer to be this hot! I tell you, if this dock strike goes on much longer and the trains don’t start running again, the country will come to a halt! Men out of work for weeks, mines closing, and no money coming in to feed hungry families. What am I supposed to sell on the stall? Vegetables are drying up in the fields.
“Don’t mind me, Lou, I am pleased to see you. Are they treating you fair? Getting enough to eat, are you?”
“I am, Father. Nanny Mackintosh is overstrict, but from the little she’s said, I think she had a hard upbringing. Some of the servants are nicer than others. Mr. Briggs read us the obituary c
olumn last night–four more deaths from heatstroke. Do you know that he irons the Times every morning? We are to go to the country in two days’ time to stay with Lady Milton’s mother.”
I don’t mention that I might have to go to the seaside for a few days. It doesn’t bear thinking about, what with Miss Alexandra liking to wander off if she’s not watched all the time. Suppose she falls into the water?
I look up and see Mother’s face. She seems a bit sad. Is it because I’m going away, or because of all she has to do, or because of her worries about money, or is the heat getting her down?
“You will enjoy the countryside, Lou, all that lovely green grass and shady places to rest.”
I don’t expect Nanny will let me do much resting, but I have so much now–my own room, food served up to me three times a day, and pay at the end of each month!
All of a sudden, hailstones, round and hard, rattle the window, followed by great drops of rain. We rush to close the door before the scullery floor is awash.
“That’s what we need, days and days of rain,” Father says, a pleased smile on his face.
“I’d best be on my way. I’ve to be in by nine o’clock.” I kiss them all and give Emily and the boys a penny each from my first wages. Then I put some coins in the housekeeping jar.
“I’m sorry you missed Kathleen, dear. She had to work late tonight.” Mother kisses my cheek.
“I’ll send you a picture postcard from the country, Emmy!” I say as I hurry out.
The rain’s easing off a bit, but the wind comes up, blowing my cape around me. I almost crash into Kathleen, who is just turning the corner into our street, her hair stuck in wet wisps to her cheeks. We hug each other, and I wish we had time to talk.
“I’m late, Kath. Mother will tell you everything. We’re going away in two days, but I’ll be back at the end of August. See you then! I get in trouble if I’m back late.”
“I’ll save all my news for you then, Lou. Miss you!” My sister blows me a kiss, and I run off, my shoes squelching through the puddles.
For the next twenty-four hours, I don’t have time to think about anything except the packing. Nanny makes me start over twice, so she can show me how she wants the children’s clothes folded. You’d think we were going across the ocean, not on a short journey to the country! Mr. James Harris, his lordship’s valet and chauffeur, is going to drive us down. He drove Lord and Lady Milton last week, so they could spend time with her mother, Lady Portman. Mr. Harris wears an elegant uniform, dark blue with gold buttons.
Miss Portia and Miss Alexandra are excited at the hustle and bustle, and I am quite worn out from running errands and fetching and carrying for Nanny. As usual, whatever I do is not enough to please her!
Last night, Miss Portia was sick and I had to change her bedding twice. I will say this though: Nanny got up as soon as I called her.
“There is no need for the doctor. Miss Portia has always been high-strung,” she says and goes back to bed!
I’m almost sick with nerves myself–another big house and staff to get used to, and Nanny tense and irritable in case the children are not on their best behavior. Miss Alexandra has a back tooth coming in and is whiny. She sucks her thumb for comfort and I haven’t the heart to stop her, though Nanny insists it is a bad habit that must be broken. The place she trained at must have rules and regulations as long as my arm!
The great day arrives at last. I sink into the backseat of the motorcar, which Nanny informs me is a RollsRoyce. It is almost big enough to live in. Mr. Harris has polished the chrome and glass to mirror brilliance, and the black paint shines so much, it sparkles. I have never been inside an automobile before.
The servants come out to wave good-bye. I feel like a queen, setting off in her carriage. How I wish Tom and Harry were here to see me!
Nanny Mackintosh sits in front, next to Mr. Harris. The children are in the back, one on each side of me. Nanny fans herself and sighs deeply.
“I have no great faith in the motorcar,” she pronounces, as if she were going to her doom. She takes the smelling salts out of her oversized bag.
“It will be cooler once we get outside London,” Mr. Harris says.
I would like the journey to last forever. Miss Alexandra falls asleep, happily sucking her thumb, and Miss Portia leans against my arm and dozes.
Amersham, England
1911
7
A Moonlit Garden
We arrive at the outskirts of the village of Amersham and soon reach Lady Portman’s home. Tall trees and ornamental hedges surround the entire grounds. On either side of the wrought-iron gates, massive stone lions stand on guard. Mr. Harris drives up the long and winding driveway to a spacious, gabled, white house. The grounds are as beautiful as a park, with their flower beds a riot of colors. A gardener and his boy raise their caps, and the children, both wide-awake again, wave back happily. The front door is open. The butler waits on the steps to usher us in.
The housekeeper greets us and leads the way upstairs, to the nursery wing. “How very nice to see you again, Nanny. You do remember where everything is, don’t you? Ellis will help you get settled, and tea will be brought up when you ring. Lady Portman and Lord and Lady Milton will see the children in the drawing room after tea.”
Our luggage follows, carried up by a footman and a maid. It is all very grand, but gracious and welcoming. I feel comfortable immediately.
In no time at all, the children are tidied and seated at the nursery table. With the maid’s efficient help, I have put most of their clothes away. I am informed I will share a bedroom in the night nursery with the girls. Nanny’s room is on the far side of the day nursery.
All the nursery rooms are bright and sunny. The windows overlook the extensive gardens and the fields beyond. I point out a swing to Miss Portia, which hangs from the thick bough of a sturdy oak tree. She looks up pleadingly and I smile at her, wondering if I, too, might…no, Nanny would frown and think it unseemly!
“Open the door, Gardener. Are you dreaming? I rang for tea; it has arrived!” Nanny is out of sorts from the long drive.
The footman and a maid bring in our tea, setting out plates with a variety of tiny sandwiches. There is brown bread and butter, a cut-glass dish filled with homemade jam–from strawberries grown on the estate, the maid informs Nanny–scones, thick cream, biscuits, and a perfectly iced sponge cake!
Nanny’s face registers her disapproval of this lavish spread. The door has hardly closed before she says, “There is far too much rich food! Quite unsuitable for the girls.” Nanny rolls her r so that the word sounds like girrls. “And what is it that you find so amusing, Gardener?”
“I was thinking how prettily the table is set, Nanny,” I say, trying to placate her.
“I predict that we will have two spoiled little girls to deal with when we get back to London. However, as it is only for a month, I’ll say no more. Miss Portia, there will be no cake or jam until you have finished your piece of bread and butter. Both jam and butter, unheard of for children, even for a Sunday tea in my day!”
I tie a serviette around Miss Alexandra’s neck and take a sip of the good strong tea, but not before I hand Nanny Mackintosh her cup. I know exactly how she likes it: a generous helping of milk and two heaping teaspoonfuls of sugar, though she says sugar is bad for children and growing girls, meaning me! She stirs her tea, tastes it, and moves the cake stand out of the children’s reach.
“Most welcome, I am sure,” Nanny says, pushing her cup towards me to be refilled. For once, she has no more complaints.
I just have time to wash the children’s faces and hands before the parlor maid tells Nanny that the family is waiting to see the girls. “Lady Portland wishes Gardener to accompany you, Nanny Mackintosh.”
We follow her down the back staircase and into the drawing room, decorated in the palest blues and greens. Glass doors lead onto the terrace, where the family is gathered. Lady Milton opens her arms for the children to run to her. I le
t go of Miss Alexandra’s hand, and she toddles towards her father. Lord Milton lifts her high in the air.
Behind me, Nanny says, “Not after tea, your lordship, if you please.”
He immediately sets his daughter back on her feet. She clings to his legs. “More, want more!” she shouts.
Nanny looks daggers, and I draw Miss Alexandra aside and whisper that she must not be so loud. Lord Milton asks his daughter if she has been a good girl and then tells her she may sit on his knee.
I am quite taken aback to hear Lady Milton say, “I do believe we have finally found a nursemaid who lives up to your high standards, Nanny Mackintosh. You may leave the girls with us for half an hour while you settle in. Gardener will bring them upstairs for their baths. We will come to the nursery later to say good-bye before dinner. We shall be leaving early in the morning to fetch Master Roger from school. He will spend his holiday abroad with us.”
I stand a little way apart, but close enough to remove the children when their parents wish me to. They are exceptionally well behaved this afternoon, and Miss Portia leans fondly against her grandmother’s knee. But after a while, Miss Alexandra begins to cry. Her tooth bothers her and the thumb is back in her mouth.
“Upstairs to Nanny, please, Gardener,” Lady Milton says. “I will bring Miss Portia up presently.” I bob a curtsy and carry Miss Alexandra upstairs. I can’t help wondering what Lady Milton would do if she had to look after six children, without help, as Mother does. But then, we’d all be out of work.
“Miss Alexandra seems a little feverish, Nanny Mackintosh. My mother always swears by chamo-mile tea for sore gums.” The moment the words are out of my mouth, I wish I had not spoken them.
“Indeed, Gardener. Do not imagine that because you overheard one compliment, this entitles you to run my nurseries, or to give me the benefit of your advice!” Nanny bristles.
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