Bath Times and Nursery Rhymes: The memoirs of a nursery nurse in the 1960s

‘Actually,’ I confessed, ‘I think Miss Carter might have mentioned waking the night nurse.’

‘Who cares,’ Isolde laughed.

‘Serves her right,’ said the girl cutting her toenails. Her voice was toneless. ‘She always was a stuck-up old cow!’

‘Miss Carter?’

‘No, you goon! Audrey Adams.’

I was too upset to comment. ‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ I said, slinking out of the room.

Oh Lord, what had I done? I had signed myself up to a year in this place, then two years training in another nursery and finally a further year somewhere else when I’d finished my training. Alone in my room, I undressed and lay my head on my pillow. I wept silent tears as I wondered just how much of the money my dad would have to pay the council if I turned up on the doorstep tomorrow. Should I go and see Matron in the morning and tell her I wanted to go home? But even as the thought entered my head, I knew I wouldn’t do it. Somehow, I had to stick this out.

The person in charge, Matron Thomas, lived in a flat within the building. Matron was a highly-strung woman, who constantly complained about ‘having a dreadful head’. We didn’t see a lot of her except perhaps when there was a new admission, or the parents came to visit. We would hear her coming, her blue nylon overall with its pleated skirt rustling as she walked into the nursery, usually to complain that the children were too noisy or somebody had left something where it shouldn’t be. She was a little aloof but came down on us like a ton of bricks if she saw something she disapproved of.

Life in those nurseries was hard. A lot has been written about the injustice done to the children, and quite rightly so. It’s heartbreaking to hear about children being beaten and abused, especially in a place which is supposed to be a place of care, but I have to say that in the nurseries where I worked, everybody did their best to give the children a happy experience. Sometimes the girls, myself included, took a child out on their days off. We would buy an extra toy out of our own money for the children who were upset and we were always there for a quick cuddle when it was needed. The rigid routine was hard for the free- spirits like Isolde but equally difficult for people like me. I didn’t mind being told what to do, but sometimes it felt as if I was owned body and soul by those in charge of the nursery and it was hard to please everybody.

At sixteen I was only a few years older than the oldest child, and we nursery assistants were all treated like dogs. We worked a twelve-hour stretch, with two hours off during the day. Off duty was either 9.30–11.30, 2–4 or best of all 5–7, because tea was at 4.30, so it meant you had an extra half hour and a lovely long evening to yourself. Having that afternoon break was a definite advantage in the summer, but the evening was great if you were going out. We were only allowed to stay out until ten p.m., or if you had a ‘Late Pass’, you could stay out until 10.45 p.m. It made having a social life hard because by the time you’d come off duty at seven and got ready, you were lucky to have two hours away from the Home. Matron Thomas didn’t seem to understand that dances went on until 11 p.m. and had hardly warmed up by the time you had to leave and catch the bus. It was tough if you were going to the pictures as well. You didn’t always get to see the end of the film because you had to make the bus stop in time for the last bus up the hill. I saw most of the films of the day in two halves. You could walk into the pictures any old time so I would get there in time to see the end of one showing and then stay for the beginning. Whistle DowntheWind, A Taste of Honey, Carry on Regardless … I saw them all, back to front. And when you got back to the nursery, if you rang the doorbell to get in after 10.45 p.m. you would forfeit some of your precious off duty another time.

Anyone out after 10.45 p.m. was, according to Matron Thomas, ‘up to one thing and one thing only.’ She was probably right. We would be up to one thing and one thing only – running like mad up the hill because we’d missed the bus and we wanted to get to the door before 10.45 p.m!

We did ‘Lates’ two evenings a week and everybody had to take turns to do ten nights of night duty, which lasted from 9 p.m. until 8 a.m. After the ten nights on duty, the bonus was that you got two days off together. Normally we had one day off a week but you could never guarantee when it would be. You might get Monday off one week and then Saturday the following week, which meant you’d work eleven days on the trot. Because of the uncertainty, it was hard to commit to anything outside the nursery or to join a club.

Not only did we work long hours but we also had very low pay. My first salary was nine pounds, four shillings (nine pounds, twenty pence), which in today’s money worked out at two pounds, thirty pence a week! That was for six weeks’ work because we always worked ‘two weeks in lieu’, as they called it. That meant when you left a post, you would get the extra two weeks pay in your final wage packet. And when I started my training a year later, my salary actually went down because the council took back some money to offset the cost of training me. As a result, for two years, from 1962–64, I had an average of six pounds, fourteen shillings a month. At that time, a shop girl would be on three pounds, five shillings a week – i.e. thirteen pounds a month, but of course she would have to pay her living expenses out of that. Our wage was what they called ‘all found’, which meant all living expenses had already been taken out.

Life in the nursery was also very insular. With so little time off duty, the rest of the world passed us by. Of course we saw the news on TV, but the milestones of history meant little to us at the time. But perhaps that’s always the case – you only realise the importance of an event with the passing of the years. Hence, the inauguration of President Kennedy in January 1961 was only worthy of note because he was relatively young at the time. By comparison Harold Macmillan, our own Prime Minister, seemed like a dinosaur. Personally, I found listening to The Shirelles singing what I considered the best song ever written, ‘Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow’ on my Dansette radio far more exciting.

Back in my room after upsetting Nurse Adams, I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling as I chewed over the events of the day. The room itself was a mishmash of conflicting colours. The walls had two completely different wallpapers, both floral, but neither of them complemented the other. One was a very busy flowery pattern in predominantly yellows and browns while the other three walls had pink flowers on a bright blue background. The candlewick counterpanes were both purple but not matching and the furniture – two bedside lockers, two chests of drawers, one with its own built-in mirror – were a heavy dark brown. There was a kitchen chair painted white in one corner and an easy chair with wooden arms and mustard yellow fabric covering the seat in the other. The curtains were yet another floral pattern. Above the door was a plain glass window, which let in the light from the corridor.

When I had arrived at the nursery the week before, I was told I would be sharing my room with another girl but as yet, I hadn’t met her. She’d been on holiday when I arrived but the others had done their best to fill me in.

‘Her dad’s a vicar,’ said Margaret.

‘And she’s very religious,’ Isolde informed me. ‘She sings hymns all night. And of course,’ she went on, ‘she’s an awful lot older than you.’

I could just picture her. She was bound to be an ancient po-faced religious bigot, who would spend all her time trying to force me to join in with her holy activities. Oh boy, I could hardly wait to meet her! I switched off the light and sometime later, she crept in, but after my brush with Nurse Adams I didn’t feel much like singing hymns, so I rolled over and pretended to be asleep.

When the night nurse brought us our early morning cup of tea at six, Hilary and I peered gingerly at each other over our bedclothes. Her appearance was quite a shock. She was older than me, but only by a couple of years, and she was slim and attractive with dark curly hair and an engaging smile. It turned out that her dad was indeed a vicar, but she never let that deter her from doing exactly what she wanted.

When we got to know each other we discovered that the others had good-naturedly done their best to wind both of us up. Apparently I was from the deepest part of Africa and my father had been a missionary-eating cannibal! They had been so convincing, she was really nervous about sleeping in the same room as me.

Hers was the first really friendly face I’d seen at the nursery. She was working with the toddlers and I was in the baby room, but the house wasn’t that big. We’d wave to each other, or meet at meal times and have a chat and she promised that if we could both wangle the same day off, she would arrange to take me to her house. From the moment I met her I began to feel a whole lot better. She was lively and fun to be with, but she also had a dare-devil streak. Hilary wasn’t afraid to try new things and with someone to lead the way, I wasn’t either! I began to feel that perhaps being a nursery assistant wasn’t so bad after all.

The home had about thirty children altogether. They were in care for many different reasons. Homelessness was the main one but some had a sick parent who had no one to look after them while they were in hospital; some had been ill-treated or were living with parents who couldn’t cope with small children; some parents were alcoholics or had no job and no income; others were in the process of being adopted. Some stayed for only a few days while others were in the home for long periods of time, perhaps years. Apart from the times when we all met in the garden, the children were totally segregated by their ages. The rooms were divided into Babies, Tweenies and Toddlers. The Baby room took the little ones until they were a year old, the Tweenies were aged one to two years old and the Toddlers room was for the three to fives.

As a direct result of this policy, it would churn me up to see brothers and sisters clinging desperately to each other when they met. No one had, as yet, realised the devastating effect this kind of separation had on the children. The poor kids must have felt punished for something they didn’t understand and at times the feelings of loneliness must have been unbearable. Cut off from a mother and sometimes a father too, your brother or sister might be somewhere in the building but you’d only catch a glimpse of them once in a while. You would be put in a room full of strangers behind a closed door and it must have been very hard to adjust. We were all taught to obey the routine at all costs, which was hard enough when you’re sixteen and you’ve made your own choice, but when you were only three, how bewildering life must have seemed. The whole routine in Tweenies seemed to revolve around potty training. The basic philosophy appeared to be pot them every half an hour and they will be trained! As a consequence we gave them breakfast and went to the toilet. The children played for half an hour, either in the Tweenie room or in the garden, and then went to the toilet. We took them for a walk and then they went to the toilet, etc. etc. all through the day.

For all its faults, routine brought stability into the children’s lives and we never ill-treated anybody. It may have seemed a little cold at times because very close attachments were frowned upon. The staff would probably move on in life, whereas the child would have to remain; the thinking was that the child had to be protected from another sense of loss and bereavement when you left. The trouble is, we all crave relationships and this edict left a lot of children feeling unloved and unwanted. Yes, the system was misguided but for all that, I remember lots of laughter and plenty of cuddles.

I began my career in the Baby room. It was a light airy room with six little babies in six little cots. It was considered a great privilege for a nursery assistant like me to be allowed to even touch a baby and in those first few days I certainly wasn’t permitted to hold one. First, I had to prove my worth. This meant endless floor polishing, bin changing and nappy washing. The floors were like mirrors, and as my mother would say, ‘you could eat your dinner off them.’ Every day it was part of the routine to sweep, wash and polish them. The sweeping and washing was done by hand and on your knees, as was the application of the polish. The nursery had an electric polisher to get a decent shine, but it was a real skill learning how to use it. Press the control on the handle a little too hard and you’d be flying around the room and banging into everything. Press too lightly and you couldn’t get a decent shine off the linoleum floor. The whole exercise was a back-breaking and thankless task.

Before I was allowed to handle the babies, my other job was nappy washing. Funnily enough, bearing in mind my squeamishness about bedpans, I didn’t mind doing it and besides, they taught us how to make an art form out of it. All the nappies were sluiced in the nursery, and then rinsed in cold water in the laundry. The laundry itself was outside the main building and cold, freezing cold in winter. It was also dark and damp. After the nappies had been boiled for what seemed like forever in huge boilers like vats, they were pulled, scalding hot, over to the sinks with wooden tongs. (I wonder what today’s Health and Safety regulations would make of that!) Then we rinsed them twice by hand and spun them in an industrial spin-dryer. When I arrived at the nursery, the industrial spin-dryer wasn’t working so we had a domestic one. There was a loose connection on the lid so you had to sit on it in order to make it work. It really shook your bottom but one girl reckoned she’d lost pounds by sitting on it, so nobody minded too much. Soap powder was strictly rationed and Matron Thomas watched us like a hawk. We were constantly suspected of using the washing powder for our own clothes but poor as we were, none of us wanted to wash our clothes in those stinking soapsuds. They smelled like Jeyes Fluid (a very pungent disinfectant with a distinctive smell of its own) and stale lavender all rolled into one.

The hand-knitted baby cardigans and other delicates were washed in soap flakes but they were the industrial type and the devil to get to melt in the water.

If the weather was too damp or wet to dry the clothes outside we used to hang them in industrial driers, which were lit by gas. It was little wonder that the laundry had its own unique smell but the one blessing of laundry duty was that it gave a homesick sixteen-year-old a few moments to cry alone without being castigated or ridiculed. I was embarrassed to be seen to be upset and felt I should be grown up enough not to want my mother, but it was a struggle.

The person directly in charge of the Baby room, Sister Weymouth, had a staff nursery nurse and a nursery assistant to help her look after six babies. Sister Weymouth was an older woman, perhaps in her fifties. She was a skinny woman with a stooped back and spindly arms. Although a little distant, she was fair. She wore a navy coloured sister’s uniform but without the cap and cuffs. With such a high level of staffing it’s easy to understand how we managed to keep the place looking so spick and span and the reason why the type of children’s home I was working in became a thing of the past. That number of employees would cripple today’s councils with their ever-tightening budgets.

Working in the milk kitchen was like being in a pure white space capsule. We wore masks and gowns. We were taught to wash our hands between each feed preparation and the whole milk kitchen was washed from floor to ceiling every day. Incidentally, all the babies were fed on National Dried Milk, a government issue basic milk powder. I had been in the nursery for three months before I was allowed in the milk kitchen and even then I was strictly supervised. Sister Weymouth peered at me over the top of her facemask. ‘Level each scoop exactly,’ she said. ‘Too much and the baby will overdose on his vitamins and may become very ill. If you don’t fill the scoop right to the edge, the poor baby will starve.’

I was still so scared of putting a foot wrong, it never occurred to me she might be exaggerating. Three grains of National Dried Milk powder too many and I’d blow the kid up. Three grains too few and I could be accused of running a concentration camp … oh Lord, what a responsibility!

The system of child care by today’s standard was very old fashioned. For instance, meal times were rigidly adhered to for even the tiniest baby. If a baby had to be fed at six o’clock, that’s exactly what happened. I was once made to sit with a crying baby on my lap, willing the stubborn hands of the clock to move from 5.50 to 6 p.m., but not daring to put the teat in his mouth until the appointed time. If I had been caught feeding the baby before 6 p.m. it would be back to the nappy bins and floors for me. Of course it was totally ridiculous for the baby. If he had been crying for twenty minutes, he was often too exhausted to take his bottle anyway, but the rules were the rules.

My turn for being on ‘Lates’ came around again and Nurse Adams was still on night duty.

‘Don’t forget to wake the night nurse this time,’ smiled Isolde and I went to get my early supper.

She had to be kidding. After the fiasco of the week before, that was the last thing I would do. My supper was steamed cod roe on toast. It looked horribly grey and was swimming in milk, which had made the toast all soggy again. I had never experienced such ‘delights’ before but first of all I had a job to do. I took a cup of tea to Nurse Adams, making absolutely sure it was just the way she liked it, milky with no sugar. My hands were trembling slightly as I walked up the back stairs to the pokey little room in the attic where the night nurse slept. At the top of the stairs, I steadied my nerves, tipped the small spill in the saucer back into the cup, knocked lightly on the door and walked in.

‘Good evening, Nurse Adams,’ I said.

At exactly the same moment as I walked in the door, her alarm clock went off. She stirred slightly, reached out and switched it off but she said nothing. I stood still, waiting for her to sit up and take the cup but she didn’t.

There was a small locker on the opposite side of the bed. The room itself was so small I would have to squeeze my way past her clothes at the end of the bed to get round there so I decided to lean over her to put the cup on the table. It seemed to be the path of least resistance. And after all, she was still half asleep.

But wouldn’t you know it? At the precise moment the tea was halfway across the bed, she flung her arms up to stretch and yawn. There was a loud clatter as the cup and saucer parted company and the lukewarm tea fell onto the bed. ‘Oh! I’m sorry …’

‘You!’ she shrieked, opening one bloodshot eye. ‘Get out, get out!’ A soggy pillow followed me out of the door and I had gained the reputation of being the village idiot.

Chapter 2

Mr Swinnerton was a man with deep-set eyes and a serious expression. He’d married late in life but to his great joy his Hungarian wife had presented him with a baby girl. They called her Geraldine and she was the light of his life. Mona, his wife, loved her daughter but since the birth of the baby, she had changed. She found it stressful, particularly when Geraldine cried at night. Mr Swinnerton did his best to help, but he had a full day’s work ahead of him and needed his sleep. The baby was what they called ‘colicky’. They tried home remedies and Mona took her to the health clinic for advice, but she still struggled with the complexities of English.

The Swinnertons lived in a small flat surrounded by lots of neighbours. At first, they welcomed the little baby but their joy soon turned sour. She disturbed their afternoons and their evenings with her continual crying. Mona became more and more depressed. They had no family that could help them. Mr Swinnerton’s mother had died some years ago. Mona’s family still lived in Hungary, or at least they had done until the Hungarian Revolution of 1956. Mona had escaped the troubles but her family stayed behind. She had never heard from them since and she supposed they were among the two hundred thousand people who perished when the Soviets crushed the rebellion. Then one evening Mr Swinnerton came home to find that his beloved wife had killed herself. Nowadays we understand a lot more about post-natal depression but back then, a mother would be told, ‘you’ve got a beautiful baby girl and a loving husband, what more do you want? Pull yourself together and get on with it.’ Geraldine was taken into care and came to live in the nursery where I worked. Her father had to pay a percentage of her childcare costs but she got over her colic and began to thrive. Visiting hours were only on a Sunday, but Matron Thomas felt sorry for the quiet man. He used to cycle to the nursery after work to see his little daughter, who grew into a serious-faced toddler and the spitting image of him. Eventually Geraldine moved from the Baby room to Tweenies (the rooms where the children between the ages of one and two were looked after) and still he kept coming, riding up the hill on his battered old bicycle. Social workers tried to persuade him to let her be adopted, but he just couldn’t do it: he loved her too much to let her go.

I was on duty when Geraldine was admitted. All the children’s clothing came from a central store and so the same jumper often popped up in various sizes throughout the building. However, the one redeeming factor was that everything was labelled, so no child actually wore somebody else’s outfit. We scratched the child’s name onto white tape with a rusty old pen dipped into indelible ink and sewed it inside each garment. It was a long and tedious job, doing every single item of clothing.

At first, Mr Swinnerton found the ‘no personal things’ rule a little hard to take. The children had no private space of their own but they had their own individual combs and hairbrushes, etc. Geraldine was allowed one personal toy, which was usually kept on the bed. He didn’t make waves, but he would give you this ‘injured’ look which made me realise the pain he was going through.

At the time Geraldine came to the nursery the children’s personal pegs were identified by a picture of a teddy or a spinning top or something similar. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but the practice was stopped after some visiting dignitary knelt in front of a child and asked a child, ‘and who are you?’

‘I’m the golliwog,’ came the reply.

Once she’d settled down, Geraldine was a contented little girl, although she never lost that serious expression. When I left the nursery, she was still there and her father still cycled up to see her. I’d like to think that he eventually found another wife and made a home for his little girl but maybe that is only a pipe-dream. Back then, bringing up a child as a single parent was even more difficult for a man because the woman was always considered the primary carer.

On Sundays some of the parents came to visit. This was a mixed blessing; the children who had nobody to visit them must have envied those who did. It was wonderful for the visitors who came to be together as a family but then everyone had the grief of parting again. They would linger as long as they could to have a protracted farewell but we had to persuade them to say goodbye and leave at once. Everybody would be upset but it only made it a lot worse if we allowed the child to become hysterical and cling to the parent so hard that we had to drag them off. The parents had no privacy when they came to visit either. Sometimes that was deliberate. If they were suspected of being cruel to their children, nobody wanted to leave them alone to repeat the offence. Others felt embarrassed by their own tears when they saw their children, or self-conscious with all of us hanging around the room. Most of the parents had their children taken into care because of homelessness or maybe an illness had incapacitated them for a while. These people loved their children and they were grief-stricken to be separated. For that reason, I hated ringing the four o’clock bell, which signalled the time to say goodbye.