Au-pair

In the late sixties of the last century, my aunt got me an au-pair position with a wealthy family living a short drive from Oxford, in rural Oxfordshire, somewhere between Abingdon-on-Thames and Dorchester-on-Thames.  

The family owned a historic house with a thatched roof and leaded windows (made of small diamond-shaped panes with lead casings to hold them together). Quite a gem! The rooms downstairs had beamed plaster ceilings, gothic dark wood paneling and wainscoting. There was a spacious kitchen with a long rustic wooden table with wooden benches on each side, copper pots and pans hanging above it, a tall cupboard to keep the tableware and a pantry. A shelf of decorative plates adorned the beamed walls, and there were lace curtains at the windows. A medium-size living room (or a “drawing room”, as they call it in England) consisted mainly of a large sofa and matching easy chairs arranged in front of an old-fashioned hearth. The dining room had an18th-century feel to it with its long dark oak table and chairs, and sideboard; on the walls hung framed lit paintings or prints of English hunting scenes—horses, hounds and colorfully dressed riders in pursuit of fox or hare. The solemn, dark interiors and the smell of furniture oil reminded me of a museum. 

In contrast to the stately downstairs, upstairs was light and bright.There were three small bedrooms (gable rooms overlooking a pretty garden), one small bathroom, the master bedroom with an ensuite bathroom, and a nursery.  

This impressive house, which I  think the family had acquired by purchase rather than inheritance, stood in the proverbial “middle of nowhere”: as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but gray fields and a dusty rural road disappearing into the horizon.There was  hardly a tree or shrub. As much as I loved the house, I couldn't make myself admire the bleak surroundings. 

My employer, Mrs. Sanderson, was an attractive woman in her late twenties or early thirties with shoulder-length sandy blond hair, who dressed stylishly in pastel clothes. Her physical appearance, however, did not match her voice. Although she looked refined and dignified, and moved with the elegance of a dancer, her voice sounded unbearably squeaky. Her handsome and taciturn husband Michael, a couple of years older than she, was a businessman of some sort. He would leave home every morning after a breakfast of a glass of orange juice (freshly squeezed by Mrs. Sanderson) a soft-boiled egg (which was wearing a tiny knitted hat to keep it warm), half of a slice of buttered toast and a cup of coffee, while she only had coffee in their big dining room. They sat at opposite ends of the long table which had been laid the evening before. (I must interject here that laying the table was my chore which I enjoyed tremendously. I loved playing with all the elegant plates and cups, expensive silver cutlery and fancy cloth napkins secured with silver napkin rings. My favorite gadget was an antique silver milk jug in the form of a cow; the bee on the cow’s back had to be lifted to fill the jug with milk which poured out of the cow’s mouth.) Mr. Sanderson would not be back until late at night, usually past my bedtime - which explains why I don’t remember whether they ate anything in the evening. He was not  around much on weekends either.

The couple had two little girls, Tanya and Alexa, who were cared for by a professional nanny. Stephanie (I think her name was) wore a uniform: a dark dress and a white apron, like a maid or Mary Poppins. The domestic staff was completed by Mrs. Sage, a heavy woman from the village. She used to come once or twice a week to polish the furniture and the floor. Stephanie cooked for the girls and herself, and for me when I was with them. The plates and dishes arrived from the kitchen in the dumbwaiter. While Stephanie was preparing the food downstairs, my job was to play with Tanya and Alexa, who constantly laughed at me, and ridiculed my English. Stephanie was not a great cook; she lacked culinary imagination, but her meals were at least nutritious. At times Mrs. Sanderson would join us for lunch, which consisted of steamed green beans or peas, mashed potatoes, stewed chicken or boiled beef, milk to drink, and tapioca pudding or custard pie for dessert. She and Stephanie would talk about the girls, what Stephanie was going to cook the next day, and what groceries she needed. (Mrs. Sanderson bought the food.) After lunch we all usually went for a long walk in the fields, with little Alexa toddling in the rear  closing the procession. I accompanied them, although walking in the windy fields wasn't my cup of tea. The paths were muddy, we had to wear galoshes or wellingtons, as the English would say.

Mrs. Sanderson did not seem to me to be a happy person. Every now and then, when she was having a particularly bad day, she would take me and her two dogs for a wild ride in her sporty Jaguar on the desolate rural roads. I’m not sure how fast she drove, but I could feel the force of the speed pushing me into my seat. She never said a word, lost in her sad thoughts. Sometimes we would stop for coffee at the neighbor’s that lived down the road from us, a rich farmer and his wife. A chat with her friend would calm Mrs. Sanderson down, and on the way back to the house, she would drive more slowly.  Once a week, when the nanny had her day off, Mrs. Sanderson would drive the girls to their ballet lessons; she liked me to go with them. Mrs. Sanderson and I would sit on a bench and watch Tanya practice,  while Alexa - also in a pink tutu and ballet slippers, but too young to stand en pointe and keep her balance - played on the floor attempting to unlace her shoes. 

When in the mood, Mrs. Sanderson, would share the slides of her fabulous honeymoon trip to Italy with us. One of the slides showed her dressed in a semi-sheer negligee on the  balcony of a luxury hotel; she looked particularly beautiful that morning. Mrs. Sanderson used to contemplate the image with sad longing. Once she took off her wedding band, played with it for a while, as if trying whether it would fit better on another fingers, then stuffed it in the cushions of the sofa. On another occasion, she looked sadly at her wedding ring, took it off, and slipped it into her pocket. Did she regret marrying Mr. Sanderson?

Occasionally Mr.and Mrs. Sanderson hosted dinner parties and other social gatherings. On these occasions, they would hire a professional cook and waiter. In the Spring, Mrs. Sanderson threw an Easter tea party for her daughters and their friends. After sweet treats had been eaten by the kids at the table while the grown-ups stood behind the kids, tending to their needs, the egg hunt and other games would be held in the garden, after which the kids would be invited to see a puppet show which usually ended the party.

Both Sanderson girls were pretty, but quite dissimilar in looks and temper: Tanya had brown eyes and dark curly hair like her dad, while Alexa was blonde with blue eyes like her mother. Tanya was skinny and tall; Alexa was a sweet, plump toddler; with dimples in her cheeks and knuckles. Tanya was a naughty, mischievous little rascal: she would pinch Alexa’s arm when nobody was watching, and she was very sneaky about it. Of course, Stephanie would spank her whenever she caught her, but it made no difference - she continued to pinch her sister’s arm. (In 1969, spanking was considered acceptable as a corrective to misbehavior.)

Thanks to English child-rearing practices, the girls were never sick - they didn’t even have runny nose; and the practices were harsh: each evening, after taking a bath in a bathroom heated only by a small electric heater turned on only for this occasion, they would run barefoot to their bedroom, which seemed to be the coldest one in the whole house. Thankfully, the nanny always put hot water bottles in their beds, so the sheets were not icy cold or damp when they got in. In fact, nobody in that house went to bed without a big mug of hot cocoa and a hot water bottle; it was a ritual. 

Although we did not talk much, Mrs. Sanderson gave me the impression that she liked me. She had a small greenhouse in the corner of the garden where she grew primroses; once or twice she potted some for me and brought them to my bedroom. She was kind and considerate: once she caught me crying. She asked me if I was homesick, but I told her no, I just could not stand the coldness of the house any longer. She drove to the village right away, and bought an electric heater for my room!  Also, when she learned that there was another au pair living nearby, she drove me to her house, so we could get acquainted. Antonietta, an Italian girl, was about my age. I enjoyed her company and we actually did get along, although my English was very limited at that time, and we had almost no conversation. Mrs. Sanderson bought me a bicycle, so I could visit my new friend on my own; she also arranged for me to  attend English classes with Antonietta at Oxford. This caused inconvenience for both families, because we were coming back late in the evening, and someone, usually Mr. Sanderson (already in his pajamas, bathrobe and slippers) as I lived deeper in the country than Antonietta did, had to pick us up from the bus stop. I could sense that Stephanie, the nanny, was jealous of all the attention I was getting. Suffice it to say that when Mrs. Sanderson raised my allowance, she begged me not to tell Stephanie.  

In spite of being pampered by the Sandersons, I decided to abandon them in favor of a more suitable educational and cultural environment, namely Westminster College in Oxford (but that's another story for another time). Have I ever regretted leaving them? Well, not really, at least - not until recently. Put it down to a change of perspective that comes with age, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them. I keep wondering what became of the family. Did the marriage last? Mrs. Sanderson would be seventy something by now. And the little girls, who are they today? They must be around fifty and probably have their own grown-up children. I’ve been trying in vain to recall the address of the place, to track the house down on Google maps, but no luck yet. Surely the lovely English cottage which dates back to the 16th century should be photographed, and shown to the world! It seems to me that the house, by hiding itself from me, is taking revenge on me for not saying a proper goodbye to its inhabitants, for leaving without looking back. In my defense I can only say that I was not ready to appreciate it all then. Today I would be wiser.