... Age three and four. (Edit photo) in tell me a story about when you were...

I mentioned nursery school earlier so I thought I’d tell you these memories.

Mrs Wharton ran her nursery from her home, a double fronted, Edwardian house. It was always a little shabby and we were only allowed in the nursery room. There were a couple of steps up to the red front door, the hallway was dark and, I think, hadn’t been updated since the ‘50s at the latest. There were stairs on the right hand side, curving upstairs but all we ever saw was the bottom step; where we had to sit when we hadn’t followed the rules.

Across the hallway from the stairs was the door into the nursery school, a shabby sofa sat along the wall and toys were in boxes around the edge. The pièce de résistance was a bouncing horse. It had a metal base with a wooden horse, its feet attached to the frame by springs. My time at Mrs Wharton’s house was spent waiting to have a go on the horse, I think I got on it once but was told to get off by a mean girl. Oh how I longed to go on the bouncy horse sigh…

My best friends lived next door, they were twins and the youngest of 6 children. They are two months younger than me so we were there together. Often we would sit behind the sofa reading books and sometimes hide and giggle while Mrs Wharton was doing story time. These were the times that we usually ended up on the bottom stair!

I went all the way through school with many of my nursery friends. One of them, Phillip, turned up one day wearing brown, paisley pyjamas! Many years later, at secondary school, our group of friends (including Phillip) were having a bit of a joke together and I mentioned his pyjamas at nursery, he became incredibly defensive and said it was a special outfit that he’d had and was supposed to look like that… but I swear they were brown, paisley pyjamas! While he may have been telling the truth, my theory is that he’d refused to get dressed and his mum threatened him… get dressed or you’re going to nursery in your pyjamas! Ha ha!

Mrs Wharton’s house was 7 doors down from our house and she had outbuildings, she had goats for their milk and always had loads of semi feral cats. Outside cats. Mrs Wharton had that look, of women who worked the land, sun worn and hardy. She didn’t take any nonsense, showed no affection but she was gentle and we all loved her.

I always remember car journeys with my mum. We had, at the time, a lot of sugarbeet fields locally and whenever mum saw the beet, fallen from a farm truck, she would pull over and pick them up for Mrs Wharton’s goats. 🐐

The nursery was only ever open in the morning, but one day mum needed me to stay longer, I don’t remember why. Mrs Wharton agreed to let me stay for lunch and I had my packed lunch from home. We sat outside at a white, wrought iron table and she ate her lunch, silent, in her own world. I ate mine and watched her, fascinated at the unusual circumstances, loving the special moment of staying longer while feeling a longing for my mum. Mrs Wharton ate a yogurt. As she put the spoon in her mouth she turned it around so the bowl was upside down against her tongue. I was fascinated by the way of eating and wanted to try it. A few days later I had the chance at home. We had yogurts so I put the spoon in my mouth, turned it around and WOW! All that flavour on my tongue! Until mum and and dad told me off for eating that way. “But Mrs Wharton did it!” I complained. Alas they didn’t believe me… (Shhh, don’t tell mum and dad but I still eat that way!!).

Mrs Wharton died about twenty years ago, but once I had grown up I encountered her again. I had a job as a waitress in a local hotel, turned up for my first day and there was Mrs Wharton, salad chef! She was lovely, funny and (for the short time I was there) we became giggle buddies!!

Mrs Wharton’s house. The nursery was the room on the left.

Last updated November 09, 2015