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Early in the 1960’s when my son Ian was a baby and we lived Earl’s Court we had a French au pair named Janine. Her chief task was to look after Ian while I worked for a few hours in the morning. In the afternoon she went to her English classes.

   Janine was from Paris, and was a rather plump, anxious girl, very
conscientious and what I would describe as “old-fashioned” – not at all smart or stylish. Her mother sent her weekly nagging letters about her continuing unmarried state, Janine being all of 23 years old. She was marvellous with baby Ian, but not in other ways a domestic asset, being heavy handed with the washing up and forgetting to turn on the oven when the meat was inside it. But, she tried, she tried hard, it was her anxiety that so often defeated her. We liked her, and she appeared to like us, and we all got on well together.

   She was studying for her Cambridge Certificate in English, a course that included Macbeth and E.M.Forster’s Howard’s End. Jack my husband was a great reader and had been an actor, so  knew ‘the Scottish Play’ rather well, so while I pottered about doing the ironing, getting little Ian’s clothes ready for the morning and laying the breakfast, Jack and Janine would sit in a corner of the sitting room getting to grips with the subtleties of Edwardian literature, and the glories of Shakespeare’s language – I can still see Janine’s startled expression when Jack cried with relish, “The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon! Where got’st thou that goose look?”

   On Sundays after Janine had been to Mass at Brompton Oratory, which was in walking distance from us, we would often meet her and go to the Natural History Museum or the Victoria and Albert Museum. Janine particularly liked the Victorian costumes there. Both these entertainment were of course, free, a great advantage since money was tight.

   One Sunday, for a change, we went for a picnic on Box Hill in Surrey. This trip was organised by Mr Bretherton, an earnest young man who worked in Jack’s office in Bloomsbury. He was a keen photographer, never seen without his Rolleiflex strapped to his chest. He also owned a small Austin car into which we all crammed ourselves for the Box Hill expedition, Jack, me, Janine and Mr Bretherton, plus the baby in his carry-cot and a large bag of sandwiches and an only slightly smaller one of disposable nappies.

   Janine, pink with delight, sat beside Mr Bretherton in the front seat. She listened with rapt attention as he pointed out the beauty spots of Surrey and when we found a suitable picnic spot, made quite sure he had his fair share of ham sandwiches. Later Mr Bretherton took snaps of us all, including one of Janine on her own, to send to her mother in Paris, he said.

   That evening I noticed that Macbeth was getting less attention than usual. “You must be tired,” said Jack kindly . “We’ve all had a long day.”

   We were not altogether surprised when one evening the bell rang and there was Mr Bretherton on the doorstep.

   “You left your mac at work ,” he said to Jack. “I thought you might need it, they say it might rain tomorrow. And I had to come this was so thought I might drop it off.”

   Now as Mr Bretherton lived near Clapham Common in South London and we lived five minutes from Earl’s Court tube station, and his office was another five minutes from his station at the other end, this was not entirely convincing.

   When Mr Bretherton came into the room, Macbeth dropped to the carpet, closely followed by E.M. Forster.

   From then on Mr Bretherton and Janine were what we would now call “an item”. Off they would go, evenings and weekends, with Janine looking less anxious and more blooming by the hour and Shakespeare and Mr Forster had a thin time of it.

   She sometimes forgot the washing-up altogether and we had a lot of cold meat and salad for our meals. But she never neglected the baby, she and Ian were all smiles in each other company, and after all, that was the main thing.

   But then things changed. About a month after our visit to Box Hill, a project long vaguely planned came to pass - Janine’s aunt came over for the weekend. A large, brisk, bustling lady, she supervised her niece’s domestic efforts, admired and petted the baby, and took Janine aside for long confidential chats in her room. To us she was charm itself, but I sensed an undercurrent. Had hints been picked up from Janine’s letters home to the fifth arrondissement, of an unsuitable alliance in the making? Had Mr Bretherton’s photo of Janine told the tale?

   Whatever the reason, Mr Bretherton’s visits became less frequent, then tailed off completely. Janine passed her English exam, and at the end of the year, went home. About six months after this, she wrote that she was to be married to Albert, a butcher’s assistant and a friend of her father.

   It was when we had read this letter that Jack said suddenly, “I think I’ve solved the mystery. The reason we always called Mr Bretherton by his surname was because his name was Jack, same as mine, which caused confusion in the office – so we called him Mr B. as a bit of a joke.”

   Could the name ‘Jack’ have caused even more confusion in Paris, to the extent of her family thinking Janine was having it off with her employer? It’s a possible explanation I suppose. But we shall never know. We do know that Janine had a baby boy a year after her marriage, and two more, in the years that followed. In the photos she sent us, she looked supremely happy. And after all, she was always good with babies.