My Story

by Jo Malone

  One morning, I felt particularly tired and tetchy. I had watered the geraniums in the trays but, according to the manageress, I hadn’t placed that day’s fresh flowers in the buckets as neatly as I could have done. She told me to do it again. I refused, so she ripped into me. All my frustrations came to a head. I felt something snap within me and, in response, I picked up a bucket of cold, murky, stinky water and threw it at her.

  ‘Do it yourself!’ I yelled, as she stood drenched before me, her white cotton dress covered in old leaves and mushy stems. Not my proudest moment.

  She was rightly furious. ‘That’s it! You’re fired!’

  ‘Too late!’ I yelled, tearing off my apron and throwing it to the ground. ‘I quit!’ Sixteen years old. Who on earth did I think I was?! But that’s what happened, and I stormed down the street to No.42 Elizabeth Street where Justin de Blank saw my frustrated anger turn into tears. I think he felt sorry for me, because he tossed me a blue-striped smock and put me to work in the deli. In the time it took me to walk up the road, I had landed myself a new job.

  My time at the grocery store was an education in gourmet food as I watched customers buy items way beyond my parents’ budget. After one week in the shop, I started to understand why it attracted the rich and famous, because it was the type of place that could supply a king’s banquet. Due to my somewhat cloistered upbringing, my eyes were only used to a salad that comprised limp iceberg lettuce leaves, cucumber, beetroot, a dollop of Heinz salad cream, and, when Dad was in a creative mood, tomatoes cut into crown shapes. Justin’s shop was in a whole other league – not even tins of John West pink salmon made it on to his shelves.

  My job was on the shop floor where I helped make up sandwiches and prepare salads, and Tom the greengrocer was always on hand to answer my curiosity. ‘What’s that?’ I said, pointing to one of his displays in the window.

  ‘An asparagus.’

  ‘What about that frilly, purple one?’

  ‘A type of lettuce grown in France.’

  ‘And that plant-looking thing?’

  ‘That’s an artichoke,’ he said, and proceeded to show me how to eat one.

  I didn’t turn out to be a fan of artichokes but I got to taste many other delicious foods, from coronation chicken to chocolate brownie cake, from the tastiest curries to hot chicken legs in honey with a dash of rosemary. ‘Foodie’ wasn’t a term in usage back then but my days were spent in a foodie’s heaven.

  I didn’t get to know Justin too well – he was often upstairs in his office – but I noted his accommodating manner with customers, and his perfect presentation of food, even the salads. He made it fun, too, assisted by the banter of Roy the butcher, very East End, very masculine and the comic in the pack. But Tom was the reason I loved working at the grocery store because he took me under his wing. I’d help him unload the van, and he’d talk about apples, and explain some were sweet and some were sour, with the same passion Madame Lubatti talked about face creams. On one occasion, he looked at me, nudged his big, tortoiseshell glasses up the ridge of his nose, and whispered, ‘Look here, under my t-shirt!’ He pulled down his v-neck to reveal a magnificent string of pearls. Let me tell you, some of the dowagers in Belgravia didn’t own pearls half as classy! I’d never met a cross-dresser before but Tom was my first example of how to be unashamedly true to yourself and to never judge someone. Unconventional yet discreet, he knew he was lucky to be working in Belgravia for a brand as prestigious as Justin’s, but he never forgot who he really was.

  I would always regard myself as fortunate to be working somewhere that brought me experiences and introduced me to people that I wouldn’t ordinarily have known. And no experience proved more surreal than the time a regular customer asked me to be her dog-litter for two weeks, but there was a condition attached – she needed me to stay in her five-storey house, down the road in Chester Square.

  The dog, called Powtan, was one of those big white poodles with a topiary-style cut, and his lady owner was an American socialite who lived alone and was involved with politics. Each time they came to the shop, she’d tie up her bundle of fluff outside and I’d race out to see him. In seeing how much I adored Powtan, the owner clearly thought I’d make the ideal sitter, so she offered me £20 for the fortnight. I had no idea where she lived until she wrote down the address and I arrived outside one of those imposing, white, stuccoed mansions in the quietest of Belgravia’s three historic garden squares, a minute’s walk away.

  Mum couldn’t believe that a relative stranger had offered me the run of her house, and she couldn’t believe I’d accepted. She fretted about it all. How did this come about? What does this lady want? How will I know you’re safe? I explained that the house was in Belgravia, the woman was a known customer of Justin’s, and I’d have a giant dog for protection. I’m not sure it got any safer than that.

  When the woman first showed me round the house, she took me to the basement room to show me where the dog food was – a chest fridge-freezer filled with chicken breasts and thighs. Powtan was one spoiled dog. But he was expressly not allowed anywhere except in his room on the ground floor. When it came to staying in a large house by myself, I soon discovered that I got scared, so Powtan and I broke the rules and he shared my bed. In fact, he followed me everywhere, to the bathroom, to the kitchen, and to ‘the TV room’, which was big enough to fit our entire downstairs floor. I couldn’t believe that people had a dedicated room for watching television, and this one had floor-to-ceiling bookcases occupying three of the four walls. The entire interior was grandly decorated with antique-looking furniture, fine art and crystal chandeliers in the sitting, drawing and dining rooms. I would walk around, with my canine friend on my heels, trying to imagine what it must be like to live such a lifestyle.

  This fortnight in Belgravia, plus my time with Justin de Blank, made me truly see into a privileged world that I wanted to know more about. I wanted to be a part of it without ever forgetting my place. In my mind, I’d always be the delivery girl, the flower girl, the shop girl, or the dog-sitter, but I felt inspired to be more, so I’d do what I did with Madame Lubatti: I watched and learned, observing what these upper-crust people bought, how they talked, dressed and conducted themselves. I couldn’t tell why I felt the need to pay such close attention – the contrasts simply intrigued me, probably because I was switching between Barnehurst and Belgravia on a daily basis.

  Back at the shop, with my dog-sitting stint over, Tom remained on hand with his mini-character sketches for each loyal customer, and his insight on food. He and I would often grab lunch together, sitting on the step of the side door that faced into the alleyway, tucking into our salads in plastic containers. As we ate, I’d notice the odd tramp loitering around the side of the building. Tom told me not to engage them but their evident hunger would pull on me.

  One day, during a quiet period, I was left in the back to cut some smoked salmon. It had to be sliced thinly but my inexperience showed: the slices were too thick and I ended up hacking off one big chunk – guaranteed to be rejected for not meeting the presentational standard befitting Justin de Blank. When you’ve come from a home like mine, the waste-not-want-not mentality kicks in. I popped my head outside into the alleyway and, sure enough, one regular tramp was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, looking fatigued. ‘Are you hungry?’ I asked.

  He didn’t answer, but I returned inside to make him a thick doorstep of a sandwich, filled with my chunks of salmon. He seemed so grateful, and I felt proud of myself for that one good deed. Unfortunately, a girl member of staff who didn’t particularly like me had watched the whole thing, and she reported me to Justin for giving free food away, which was a big no-no. Justin came down to see me and we agreed that I’d given both jobs a fair crack of the whip. ‘But I don’t think you’re cut out for this job, Jo,’ he said. I agreed, and that was the end of that.

  I was grateful. I had learned a lot, about presentation, standards, style, and patience . . . something I’m st
ill trying to master! The biggest thing I learned was that I was a disruptor, who perhaps didn’t appreciate frameworks, rules and being told what to do. I had been given a free rein at home and was trusted to take charge, so I found it challenging to have a boss laying down the law. Perhaps this was an early indication of the entrepreneur within me, pushing against convention and wanting to go in my own direction. Who knows? But I walked away from Elizabeth Street knowing my time there had been invaluable and had provided me with an apprenticeship in life on the shop floor.

  As I looked for a new job, Mum kept me occupied by asking me to deliver face creams to clients in London, knowing I’d jump at the chance to spend a day in the capital. It could only have been two or three weeks since I’d left Justin de Blank’s but I already missed the city’s buzz. I even missed arriving into Charing Cross each day.

  Once I’d done my deliveries around Knightsbridge and Kensington, pulling my wheelie shopping trolley, I was in no rush to return home, so I wandered to Hyde Park and South Kensington on an aimless amble that led me to the Holy Trinity Brompton, a church tucked away off a side street beside the Victoria and Albert Museum. On the noticeboard outside, I spotted a poster advertising an event taking place inside the church that day – Jackie Pullinger, a Protestant missionary, was giving a talk. I’d never heard of her before but the blurb made it sound interesting so I walked inside, took my seat and waited for the place to fill up.

  When she was twenty-two, Jackie Pullinger had set up a ministry in Hong Kong to serve ‘the poorest of the poor’. Some called her an English Mother Teresa because she worked with drug addicts, prostitutes and Triad gang members in Kowloon Walled City. One by one, she had encouraged these individuals to have faith in God and break free from their patterns of destitution and despair, instilling in them a greater purpose to live.

  When this slight, blonde, forty-five-year-old walked on stage, she radiated light; she had a glow that made her presence fill the room. I can’t recall the specifics of her talk but its main message was that we each have God within us, calling on us to believe. As she spoke, there was nothing evangelical about her tone; she came across as grounded and real and, as I listened to her story about how she had rebuilt broken lives, I had never felt so inspired and uplifted. Through her eyes, I came to understand that nothing is wasted in life; that no matter who you are, where you come from, or what difficult circumstances you face, there is nothing you cannot achieve. I took away with me the theme of hope that afternoon. Yes, I came from a council estate, had zero qualifications and was dyslexic, but the message of Jackie Pullinger was that none of those factors were obstacles. And if down-and-out addicts in Hong Kong can turn their lives around, I thought, then anyone can.

  Something meaningful happened to me that day. I felt strangely exhilarated and couldn’t wait to tell Mum. I remembered from her diary that she was working on someone’s face at an address in Eaton Terrace, Belgravia, so I bowled over there and knocked on the door – something that regular clients were well used to. The longer Mum had known a client, the more relaxed the client was about me dropping by mid-treatment. She was working on a massage table set up between twin beds, and I think she could tell I was a bit awestruck by something.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I’ve just been to see this amazing woman called Jackie Pullinger, and I’ve got to tell you what she said because—’

  Mum looked at the client, looked at me, and rolled her eyes. ‘Ohhhh, don’t you start with any of that!’

  But her quick dismissal didn’t deter me – I was starting to form my own opinions and beliefs, and the conviction I felt was too strong to be knocked.

  As I lay in bed that night, I was convinced by the truth of Jackie Pullinger’s message – that in God I’d found someone who wouldn’t let me down. I would pray on my own more and more now, trusting an unseen force because it felt more constant and reliable than anything visible. I wanted to believe that there was something out there stronger than me; that when the chips were down, there was a safety net beneath me. This faith felt true because I had found it on my own and, over the years, it would keep growing stronger. As would my belief that I could make something of my life, even if I had no idea what that looked like or in what direction I should head. I instinctively knew one thing, though – my future was in London.

  I soon landed another job in the capital, this time at an upmarket florist’s called Pulbrook & Gould in Sloane Street, which would be another retail experience where impeccable standards would be impressed upon me, in both customer service and flower arranging. Lady Pulbrook didn’t sell everyday flowers like daffodils, gladioli and chrysanthemums because her clientele ordered hyacinths, sweet peas, hellebore, delphiniums and zinnias, as sourced from country estates and private gardens. I couldn’t wait for a second opportunity to work in a florist’s, and this time I was determined to prove myself.

  With that in mind, and aware of the early starts, I told Mum that I didn’t want to commute any more. Those two weeks dog-sitting in Belgravia made me thirsty for London and eager to experience more of what it had to offer. Mum might not have understood my spiritual leanings but she understood my need to escape the suburbs, because she had hungered for the same thing at my age. First, she wanted to ensure that I’d be responsible and safe, rather than ricocheting around on the capricious whims of a young girl, and she knew just the person to call on.

  Mum had recently turned away from her original C. of E. faith to dive deep into Catholicism and she had found great personal solace in its teachings. Through the church, she had also found a great friend in a mother of three called Vivian Sewell, who had become a sound influence in many ways, sharing woman-to-woman chats with her about life and faith. When she mentioned my wish to move to London, Vivian offered the ideal solution: ‘Jo could stay with us for a bit.’ And that was how I moved to the capital, becoming a £10-a-week lodger with the Sewell family, and embarking on a path that I felt would lead me somewhere positive.

  NINE

  What I didn’t realise until I moved out was how much I yearned for, and needed, the togetherness of being a family. Living with the Sewells demonstrated for the first time what this meant, while simultaneously affording me a degree of autonomy that I had never really known before. In many ways, I became a normal teenager, unconcerned with domesticity, not worrying about money, or being a second mother to Tracey – and it felt wonderfully freeing.

  ‘Home’ became an elegant, mid-Victorian, three-storey house down a short, tree-fined street called Edith Terrace, off Fulham Road, a mere stroll from Stamford Bridge, Chelsea FC’s ground. My next two years here would be one of the happiest times of my life, largely due to my wonderful landlords Richard and Vivian. They had three grown-up children: Phillip, who had moved away; Emma, who was at boarding school; and James, who still lived at home.

  I claimed Emma’s room at the top of the stairs on the first floor at the rear of the house. Decorated with pink floral wallpaper, this girly room felt like the height of luxury. Not only did I finally have a proper bed, but there was a sink in the corner and a radiator on the wall. I had heat!

  Their converted basement was the heart and soul of the house with a long, narrow kitchen, a sitting room/den, and a dining room, which had French doors that opened on to the garden patio. Every mealtime was spent at the big, round table covered with an olive-green tablecloth; this was where we ate, shared news and listened to what each other had to say in a convivial atmosphere, no more so than on Sundays when Vivian cooked a roast and invited friends and relatives over. There was always a new face at the table, and Emma often came home for weekends. Whatever the occasion, and whoever was present, this home bulged with high spirits and laughter.

  They were an inclusive family, who made me feel loved and accepted, but I was probably a little timid about being the newly arrived lodger. Removed from the comfort zone of my family’s dysfunction, I didn’t at first feel confident about interacting socially wit
h strangers, especially in their house. It would take me a little time to become accustomed to being part of a unit that talked, dined and played together, so I initially chose to sit back and be the observer, watching how everyone held a conversation and took interest in each other. As I sat there, I couldn’t help but think how privileged I was to feel part of such a happy family.

  The Sewells had a beautiful sailing boat, Thalassa, docked in Gosport and they invited me to join them on the coast, sailing the Solent. As a non-swimmer, I was apprehensive about being on the water but Richard looked out for me, and I found reassurance in a life vest and safety harness clipped to the railings. Over different weeks, he showed me the ropes and taught me how to tack, and it felt like I had dropped into the life I wanted – the life where a family played, loved and laughed as one. The kind of family that every child deserves. The more I appreciated what they had, the harder it became to push away the niggling thought that made me compare: ‘Why couldn’t we have been more like this?’

  Initially, I’d go home every other weekend but it didn’t feel the same. How could it? I felt uncomfortable being back in Kent. Truth be told, I hated it. I hated stepping out of order and into chaos. I hated leaving behind peace and sensing palpable friction again. Being back there felt like wearing an itchy, ill-fitting jumper that I had outgrown.

  Eventually I started making excuses as to why I couldn’t get to Barnehurst at weekends: a new friend was having a party, work needed an extra pair of hands, or I wasn’t feeling well. I still visited but the spaces between visits got longer and longer, and even then I’d limit my time, arriving Saturday morning and leaving around 2 p.m. on Sunday. In contrast, I looked forward to spending my weekday evenings with the Sewells, arriving back to a home-cooked dinner.

  When I say ‘dinner’, I should say ‘feast’, as it was served from one of those Belling food- and plate-warming cabinets, which, to me, seemed utterly spoiling. They also had puddings – we never had puddings at home. I think the funniest memory is the time when I watched their youngest son James prepare a salad . . . and I was horrified.