Read Online Forged with Flames by Ann Fogarty, Anne Crawford - Free Book Online Page A

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.
    â€˜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