The nanny heads off on maternity leave today and never were emotions more mixed. Annie, who has been with us for 10 years, is a key part of the household and a source of care and continuity across pretty much all of Millie and Matt’s conscious memories.
Since Helen’s death, Annie has been with us four days a week with the fifth weekday filled brilliantly by her sister Sarah. The scale of this support crew means that, when people ask, “How are you managing the kids and house, Adam?” and I reply, “Fine”, it feels as fraudulent as when I’m asked how much I’d enjoyed our first camping trip while calling to mind the joy of getting out of bed in the tent and going downstairs to the kitchen and bathroom, in what was the glampiest glamping tent (cabin with canvas roof) in glampland.
Annie has been a massive logistical help and an extreme luxury now that she is funded out of my single income. But it means I can work unmolested by the washing, shopping, et al.
My worry at the loss of her support is countered by how pleased I am for her, as Helen would be. We had both worried as Annie had entered her late 30s that, in one of life’s cruel ironies, someone who was so terrific with children might have wanted, but not been able to have, a child herself.
Organising a leaving tea party and presents for her and handing over confirmation of her maternity pay, I’m facing a future without her services with some trepidation. It is not on the scale of Carson’s angst when redundancy notices are rumoured to be flying around at Downton, but I am worried about lack of support over the next few months.
My concern is not about the care, cleaning, cooking, laundry and chauffeuring that Annie does so ably – I can buy in some temporary extra hands and pick up any loose ends with the help of friends and family. My stress is not about the organisational hole her leaving creates but because none of the solutions will replace her emotional support, personality and presence.
As Matt puts it with his usual razor-edged verbal scalpel, “She’s not Mum, but she’s the grownup woman I’ve seen more of than anyone and I love her. I’m going to miss her. You make sure she comes back, Dad, or I’ll stay in my bedroom for ever.” So that’s that, then.
Do I need to be around to see them off to school, be there when they return and help them with homework? In my head, I see Helen nodding.
It is no more than I enjoyed as a child. My widowed mum worked full time, but from when I started school I never came home to a stranger. The difference was that my mother was one of 10 siblings. So there was a tag team of relations, led by Auntie Mary, to greet me from school and “be there”. Without that scale of support for my children, the obvious person best equipped to bridge the emotional hole left by Helen and then Annie’s absence is one Adam Golightly.
This puts more pressure on my job, which I have already put under great threat by not being willing to travel – but, if anything, this makes me care even less. Whoever said that every day we make deposits in the memory bank of our children was, in my case, on the money.
The sooner my clients complain and employers dispense with me, the better. Then, I can take the reins from Annie. I know this sounds easy, but it isn’t. With every syllable I’m bolstering my commitment to walk away from a great job in an industry I have loved.
So as I help the well-rounded Annie load her car with gifts, and she promises to let us know when her nipper arrives, I am struck by just how much change the next few months will bring. A new life story forced by Helen’s death, with the new life of Annie’s baby embraced en route.
It is not by choice, but it is what it is.
Back at Downton, Dame Maggie Smith unwittingly becomes my spokesperson as she signs off the last episode:
Isobel: “We’re going forward into the future, not back into the past.”
The Dowager Countess: “If only we had the choice.”
If only.
Adam Golightly is a pseudonym
