Mrs. Briggs had come down from the village that morning to help us out.  We didn’t like her much. She was a fat, untidy woman who gave the impression of being slightly unsteady, and she was always prying.

“What’s your Pa do for a living?” she asked my sister, Tansy, one day while she slopped around with her pail and her mop.

“He’s a portrait painter,” said Tansy proudly, “And a very good one, too."

“Yes, I know, but what's his real job?"

“That is his real job.” Tansy bristled.  “It’s awfully difficult painting portraits, and very hard work.”

“Well, some folks gets away with it, I must say," sniffed Mrs. Briggs, unwrapping her mid-morning lunch snack and taking a swig from a small mysterious brown bottle from which she refreshed herself several times a day.  “All I can say is it's a good job you got me to come and do for you."

We all heartily disagreed with these sentiments but could not say so.  We knew that Mrs. Briggs only came because we did not have Mother anymore.

Mother!  There is only a shadowy image in my mind of someone who was dark and very pretty and whom Father adored, but I was only five years old when she died so she really doesn’t come into this story at all.

It could not have been easy for father to manage his work and three young children as well and I suppose it was with our welfare in mind that father sold our London house and moved us all to the lovely rambling cottage at Meadowborne, which was Father’s choice, mainly because there was a long light room useful for a studio, and our choice too because of the huge neglected garden, overgrown with dogrose and honeysuckle where we three children could run wild.

For the first few months we muddled along a happily. Father, pallette and brush in hand, made an occasional sorties from his studio to see that we were not getting into too much mischief, and Tansy concocted our scrappy meals. Then the father decided we should needed some help, and that is how Mrs. Briggs came into our lives.

Now she was grumbling again. “I never see such a clutter and untidiness as you lot makes. But there, artists is all the same.”

She collected her belongings and left us…and actually that was the last time we saw her. Mrs. Briggs fell ill, and the cottage she and her husband occupied was a tied one and they were forced to leave the village.

It must have been exactly at that time that Miss Nancy Parker came into our lives. Father was in his studio at work on a portrait of Alderman Saggersley, one of the pinkest and plumpest men of the District Council, and we were all getting ready for school, when a girl with stunning red hair, and wearing a green suede jacket, marched determinedly up our garden path.

“Mr. Travers, I’m from the Welfare Department. We have had a complaint from one of your neighbours.”

Father gave one of his hearty laughs.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, running his paint-stained fingers through his thick curly hair, “Mother Briggs, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

“Well, yes,” admitted the assured Miss Parker, annoyed that father was taking things so lightheartedly, “But I….”

“Let’s sits down, shall we?” said Father easily, “I didn’t catch on name, Miss….”

“Parker. Nancy Parker. As I said, I’m from the Children’s Welfare Department. You have three young children living here, I understand.”

“Yes,” said father, pushing me forward. “This is his Pip, he’s nine. Shake hands, my boy. And these are my twins, Tansy and Sean. They had their eleventh birthday yesterday.”

“Mrs. Briggs tells me they are very much….”

“Not neglected, surely,” protested Father, laughing again, “I spend a fortune on feeding this brood. They eat enough for six.”

Any warmer pink color was mounting to Miss Parker’s cheeks but her eyes were steely.

“It can’t be good for the children to live in such a state of disorder.” Her glance took in my muddy wellington’s in the corner, a jam-jar of the dead buttercups on the shelf, and Father’s spare smock, smeared all over with crimson lake dangling over the back of the kitchen chair.

“I shall arrange for you to have home help twice a week. Goodbye. I shall be calling again.”

It was an hours before Father simmered down. “Confounded cheek. Impudent Jack-in-office” where of the mildest of the expressions he used, but when he had cooled down and the new home-help had been once or twice, he had to admit that she made things easier, although he drew the line at one thing. She was never allowed in his studio. That was sacrosanct.

By this time, as I have said, all three of us were going to school, myself down in the village, while Sean and Tansy went in the village bus with other eleven-year-olds to the big comprehensive school in nearby Milchester. Suddenly, Tansy began staying away from her classes, and Miss Parker came up to see us again.

“Mr. Travers, why isn’t Tansy at school? She’s doing so well she really mustn’t stay away unless, of course, she is ill.”

Father, still semi-absorbed in his painting of the corpulent councilor, was for once at a loss.

“Tansy, why didn’t you go to school?”

“Father, I’ve no frock to wear. All mine are in holes.”

“For Heaven’s sake, wear Sean’s breeks then.”

Here Miss Parker interrupted. “Tansy did come to school wearing slacks, and she was sent home. The head mistress it doesn’t approve of girls wearing boys’ clothes.”

Father’s mood of pleasant banter changed abruptly, but before the storm could break Miss Parker said sweetly and reasonably, “Could I make a suggestion, Mr. Travers? Suppose one of our officers buys Tansy some frocks and any other little things she needs, and we will send the account to you?”

I don’t know what Father was going to say in reply, but Tansy took the matter out of his hands by clapping and screaming excitedly to know what colour the frocks were going to be, and could she have a lovely green jacket like this Parker’s?

Tansy got the frocks and the jacket (the officer who bought them was, of course, Nancy) and went back to school again, and Nancy faded out of the our lives for the time being.

Then I got myself a job, delivering circulars, and Nancy, in her official role, called again. This time there was obviously something up. Her hazel eyes sparkled with indignation and her chin was tilted higher than ever.

“Mr. Travers, do you know that Pip is being employed by the local news agent after school hours?”

I had to admit I had been delivering notices about the village fete.

“Is he, by Jingo,” exclaimed father, “I wondered why the young rascal came in so late for his tea. Well, good for him.”

“It’s not good at all,” said Nancy, “For one thing he is breaking the law!”

“Oh,” said Father, taken aback for once, “Well, what’s to do about it?”

“You ought to give Pip some regular pocket money. How else can you expect a child to be honest? He tells me the only way he can get a little pocket money is to earn it.”

I gave Nancy a look of approval. The infrequency with which father doled out our meagre pocket money had been a bone of contention. But Nancy’s remarks really did make father angry.

“And what’s wrong with that, Madam?” he roared at her. “What I give Pip is my own affair. They all get too much of everything these days as it is. And now, would you please go before I am obliged to see you off the premises personally.”

The unflappable Miss Parker stood her ground for the first few moments, then the most surprising thing happened. Her face began to crumple and suddenly she burst into tears.

“I like the children. I only wanted to help them,” she said quietly.

There was a look of unbelief on Father’s face, of sheer amazement, as though he had never really seen Nancy before that. He made a movement as though to apologize to Nancy, but she ignored the gesture, stood up and marched resolutely out.

That was the last we saw of her for a long time. Sometimes when we were in the village street with Father we would catch sight of her, and he would hurry and try to catch her up, as though he felt an apology was still owing to her. But Nancy always somehow managed to avoid us. Of course, I had to give up my job to the newsagents. I was only nine and much too young to be doing it, as I had known all along, but by then most of the notices had already found their way into the village letterboxes anyway.

Things might have gone on in this way until we left school, or Nancy left the village, if the village fete and the show-jumping had not been held. It had been perfect weather for a fortnight and everyone had been keeping their fingers crossed for fear it would break on the great day.

But all was well. The sun rose in an unclouded sky, with the promise of a fine day to come.

Sean startled Tansy and me at breakfast with a perfectly marvelous idea.

“Tansy, let’s you and Pip and me sell lemonade at the fete.”

“How?” asked Tansy, ever the practical one.

“There’s lemonade in the cupboard.”

There were indeed – two of them – with labels saying that water could be added – standing shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen cupboard. Tansy took them down, entered the lot into a clean, new bucket and topped up with cold water from the tap. Then we helped ourselves to plastic tumblers from the kitchen dresser and, struggling along with the brimming bucket between us, set off for the show-jumping ground.

We all felt a stir of excitement at the sight of the ground with its flags and bunting. We could see the Vicar’s wife at the gate taking tickets, the gay stools in the field behind her and, further afield, the shining ponies who had been so well groomed in their stables that morning that their coats shone like horse-chestnuts.

Tansy was all for going through the gate.

“I can see Miss Nancy in there,” she cried delightedly. She and Miss Nancy had become fast friends over the matter of the new frocks.

“No,” said Sean, lugging the bucket pass the gate, “Let’s get through the gap in the back of the fence, otherwise someone’s sure to say ‘No.”

Under the blaze of the hot sun Tansy, Sean and I made a detour, got through a convenient gap in the hedge and set up the lemonade business.

Mostly only the village children were at the back of the field. Parents were buying things from the stalls, guessing the weight of the Vicar’s cake, or listening to the band.

The kids were romping about and tumbling in the freshly cut hay drying in the sun. One or two of them came up and looked at us curiously.

“What you got there, mate?”

“Lemonade,” said Sean.

“How much?” asked one of the children.

“One new penny – no, half to you,” said Sean.

The children came crowding over and we doled the drinks out generously. When the bucket was nearly empty we kept the last three glasses for ourselves, and we sat down on the grass to count our spoils.

We had made fifteen new pence, and counted our venture a great success. Then, tired but satisfied, we drank up our glasses of lemonade.  

Sean pulled a face.

“There’s something odd about this stuff. What did you put in it?”

“Only the lemonade from the kitchen cupboard,” replied Tansy.

The children who had bought our lemonade had been getting very noisy and excited, but now some of them was curling up and falling asleep like so many puppies and kittens. I felt myself getting very sleepy after the odd-tasting drink and presently I, too, rolled over and went sound asleep in the sweet smelling grass.

The next thing I remember was Father shaking us awake. A policewoman was holding Tansy and Sean, who were still half asleep, by the hand, and a stern-looking policeman was asking Father questions.

“Name?”

“Simon Travers.”

“Occupation?”

“Artist.”

“Humph!” The policeman looked at the stern.  “Mr. Travers, sir. Do you realize your children have not only been found intoxicated on the fete ground, but have also been selling alcoholic liquor to their h’innocent playmates?”

Father stuttered a protest.

“Do you understand, sir,” the policeman went on, “ that this may be a matter serious enough for the Juvenile Court?”

Father waved his arms, speechless.

“These children need proper care, if I may say so, sir.”

A small red-gold head was bobbing its way through the crowd. Miss Nancy, emerging from the sea of people like a small, determined battleship, gave Father a long, challenging look.

“Sergeant, it’s all a silly mistake. The children used some parsnip wine left in the house by Mrs. Briggs. I’ve just found the bottle. They had it with them. Smell.”

She pushed the empty bottle under the startled policeman’s nose.

“Well, I don’t know, Miss,” he said cautiously after he had given the bottle an experimental sniff. “These children need looking after….”

“Sergeant, they will be having all the care they need. Mr Travers and I are going to be married.”

Then as far as I can sleep early remember, we were all three carried home by Father and Nancy and put to bed. Only Tansy had one eye open and that is how we know Father spent a long time to see Nancy and making up their longstanding differences.

Shortly after they were married, and Nancy, to our delight, came to live with us for good. There and then Father painted his famous portrait of Nancy with the red hair over her white shoulders and I regret to say he never did get around to finishing the picture of Aldermen Saggersley.