28April2025
Dear Diary,
Today I found myself once again wrestling with the same old argument. Shes just a stranger to us! I shouted, trying to convince Lucy that I was right. Lucys face twisted, as if on the verge of tears, then she lifted her chin and declared, Then to me she is the dearest Nobody in the whole wide world, and it will never change.
It seems that in my large countryside family, every daughter of John and Margaret was married offexcept the youngest, Mary, the quiet, obedient one. Perhaps her suitor never existed, or perhaps he got lost far away, as Margaret would mutter with a sigh. Mary stayed at home, a sturdy pillar for her parents, until none of her citydwelling nieces and nephews had children of their own.
The first to ask for help was Victor, the son of my eldest sister. He bowed low and pleaded, Aunt Mary, could you look after my little girl? The nursery is full and my wife needs to start work. By then Mary was a grown woman, caught between the duty to her ageing parents and a fear of the city. Victor promised to keep an eye on her grandparents, and he had already come by to plant potatoes and mend the roof.
My husband and I urged Mary to seize the chanceperhaps meet a gentleman in town. We were no longer the spry women we once were, even if we had crossed the fortyyear mark. We didnt realise that we had already discussed, in hushed tones, how lonely Mary would be if she stayed behind while we left for the holiday. In the city, perhaps she could find a place among relatives. So Mary, once a farmhand, became a nanny. Victor thought it wise; a familiar face would keep the household running smoothly.
Victors eldest daughter went to school, the second followed shortly after. When my parents passed away, Mary was no longer looking after Victors children but after another nieces brood. She was passed from one relatives doorstep to another, caring for toddlers and then schoolaged children. It seemed she was becoming invisible, merely a convenience. The cousins who once begged for her help now used her, and VictorGod bless his heartnever got the chance to thank her properly.
A few years before Marys presence began to feel like a burden, the family sold the old thatched cottage by the woods and the river for a tidy sum. Victor seized the moment: Lets all chip in and buy Mary a modest flat. She deserves a roof over her own head, not a corner under a hedge. The nieces, though nervous, agreed, and soon the question of housing, always a thorny issue, was settled.
When the doctor in Liverpool whispered a clever eyeexercise that could restore sharp sight, the family chuckled, but the conversation turned to who would inherit the tiny flat if Mary passed. Who will get the little house? they asked, their voices tinged with anxiety. Victor waved it off, saying, Whoever serves the tea shall have it, or as Mary decides. He never lived to see his fifties; a stomach ulcer claimed him, and later cancer took him too.
After Victors death, the relatives seemed to forget Mary altogether. Their children were grown, no longer needing a nanny. Mary, now past her seventies, found herself alone. She gathered what she could a table, a wardrobe, a folding cot and settled into the modest flat. The silence of caring for babies left a hollow in her heart, until a chance vacancy appeared.
One rainy afternoon, while queuing at the corner shop, a young woman approached me. Do you happen to look after children? she asked, her eyes pleading. My little girl, just out of heart surgery, isnt in kindergarten. I need the kindest nanny, livein. The girls face brightened as she whispered, Come, Ill tell you stories. I could not say no. Thus began a new chapter with my ward, a pale little girl named Emily.
Emilys fourth year blossomed under my care. She and I grew close, sharing a bright, airy room. Her parents worked long hours, so most of her days were spent with mewhom she affectionately called Pudding. I taught her breathing exercises, kept her away from the polluted streets, and followed a strict routine. She thrived, her health strengthening with each passing day.
Each night, as she curled up, shed ask, PuddingMary, tell me a story. Id spin simple tales, and sometimes, Id confide a secret from my own past. Once, I recounted a trip home on a ferry with a pregnant nieces husband. The nieces sister, pregnant again, had left me a baby on board. The childs mother, a university student named Olivia, fled the scene, abandoning the infant in my arms. She begged, Please keep him safe; perhaps God sent him to you. I cradled the baby, named him Alistair, and fed him from a flask of hot water and powdered milk. Though I never saw his birth certificate, I felt a strange duty.
The ferry slipped away, and I sang to Alistair, hoping I could fill the void in both our lives. The nieces wife later shouted, Why are you taking a strangers child? We have our own blood! The argument escalated, and the child was taken from me. I never forgave myself for that hesitation.
When Lucy discovered the empty flat, she burst into tears, hugging me tightly, Youre still my nanny, after all. I nodded, Youre mine, my dear. Yet my role in the household remained precarious. Eleanor, Lucys mother, initially treated me like family, paying me a modest sum alongside my pension, which I tucked away in a ledger.
One evening, Eleanor, blushing, suggested, Mary, the flat is empty. Lets rent it out and use the income for Lucys piano lessons. There was indeed an old piano gathering dust; Eleanor wanted music for her daughter without sending her to a pricey school. I agreed, and we turned the small flat into a room for rent.
Years later, Eleanor inherited money from a distant aunts London flat. With my consent, the tiny flat was converted into a spacious onebedroom flat, deeded jointly to Lucy and me. By then, the extended family had lost interest, and life settled into a quiet rhythm.
Lucy grew into a striking, healthy young woman, finished school, and moved to Manchester to study. She gave me a generous sum to cover my rent and even a little for a wedding dress, though my eyesight was failing. I shuffled around, a frail, scentedold lady, often blamed for the tension between Lucy and her father, who seemed to drift into a midlife crisis.
Eleanor moved me into a dark pantry, insisting, For heavens sake, get out of the light! I protested, but she dismissed me as nobody. She even began arranging for me to be placed in a care home, enlisting a wellconnected friend to smooth the paperwork.
Lucy, caught up in university life, barely called. When she did, it was to ask, Hows the nanny? without waiting for an answer. She visited rarely, content with parcels of food sent by her parents. In her second year, she and her boyfriend, Andrew, a medical student, decided to share a flat with a fellow student. My modest savings helped them move in.
After passing her exams, Lucy returned home, breathless with news: Mum, Andrew proposed! Hell come this weekend with his parents. We dont need a grand celebration, just a white dress and wheres the nanny? Ive got her a special gift! She rushed to the room that had once been mine. Eleanor followed, uneasy, as Lucy burst through the pantry door, eyes wide. Mum? she gasped, not seeing me.
Eleanor tried to reassure her, Shes just in the back, resting. Your father moved the shelves, giving her a little space. Shes blind, so its easier for everyone. Lucy pushed the pantry door open, and there I wasthin, folded, a whisper of a woman in a corner. She clutched my wrinkled cheek, tears spilling, Nanny, forgive me, my little blossom, my sweet cake. I murmured back, Shall we, love? Were together now.
Two hours later, after Lucy fed me a cup of tea, I sat halfupright on the old bed in the flat. On my lap rested a small tin of herbal sachets Lucy had brought as a presentlavender, rosemary, chamomile. The scent filled the room, making me feel as though I were lying in a blooming meadow. Though my eyes were gone, I lived on through sounds, smells, and the gentle brush of Lucys hands.
Later, the kitchen door slammed as Eleanor tried to discuss the future with her angry daughter. Its hard enough caring for a blind old woman, yet you expect me to be perfect, she complained. Your mother lives elsewhere and asks for nothing, but what am I supposed to do? Lucy whispered, If I locked you away in the pantry for forty years, would you understand?
Eleanors voice rose again, Shes nobody to us! Lucys face crumpled, then she lifted her chin, Then she is my beloved Nobody, and that will never change. The argument ended, but I sensed Lucys resolve to postpone her fiancés family meeting, inviting Andrew instead to meet Nobody. The flat, once filled with strangers, was now theirs, lovingly repaired with secondhand furniture.
Lucy never expected to rely on Andrews help for my care; still, he, a compassionate future ophthalmologist, listened and stayed. They decided to marry in a simple white dress, with Lucy studying speech therapy and Andrew finishing his medical training. I would no longer be a burdenmy modest pension and the rent from the flat would keep us afloat.
Now, as I sit in this dim pantry, I reflect on a life spent in the shadows of others ambitions. I have been called many namesnurse, nanny, nobodybut perhaps the truth is simply that I was a steady presence, a quiet thread woven through generations. The world may move on, but the scent of those herb sachets reminds me that even in darkness, there is still a bloom.
