Servants' Hall: A Real Life Upstairs, Downstairs Romance

by Margaret Powell

  The next morning, I had the temerity to reproach Elsie for her lukewarm reception of Jack’s good fortune, and Elsie almost wept as she moaned. ‘I know, Cook, I know. But I don’t really want to be married. I like being in service, especially this place. I don’t want to lose my independence.’

  ‘Independence Elsie! What independence? What kind of independence have we got, even here? How can any woman be independent when she can’t earn enough money to provide a decent living and save for her old age. Sure, they’ve given us the vote – though even then they had to denigrate it by calling it “the flapper vote” – but what good does the vote do us, especially in service? Have we any more rights? It’s true that this is a good place to work in, but if we demanded to be called “Miss” instead of our surnames; if we insisted that we should be free after nine o’clock at night, how long do you think we’d be here? And how would we get another job? If we told a prospective employer that we were dismissed because we insisted that work, starting at seven o’clock in the morning, should end by nine o’clock at night, d’you think we’d be engaged as servants? Not on your life we wouldn’t. The very idea of servants wanting regular hours!’

  Elsie was so bemused with this expatiation on independence and the thought of giving in her notice, that she was late with Madam’s tea-tray in the bedroom. She was reprimanded for this, and in turn reprimanded Ada the under-housemaid for not reminding her about the time. So, what with poor Ada weeping, Elsie peeved because she’d promised Jack that she’d give in her notice, and the butler looking aloof and disapproving, the morning was a disaster.

  I, too, wanted to be independent; but with no money or social standing it would not be possible to achieve independence by eschewing men. As my mother told me, it was men who bitterly opposed giving women the vote; men who still jealously guarded all the male priviliges appertaining to work and social life. The very idea that a woman wanted a life free from dependence on a man, it would have infuriated the male ego to such an extent that they would have closed ranks against her. I was determined to marry and achieve an equal partnership. Although I would probably still have little money, I intended to have, in my marriage, as much freedom as the male had always had by inalienable right.

  Lack of money, with the approach of old age and inability to work, was a constant anxiety to domestics. With no home of their own and parents gone, what would become of them? The government pension was barely enough to pay rent for a room, let alone provide food. A few servants, after years of faithful service, were rewarded with a small pension; but the majority could expect, and got, nothing.

  Mrs Lawton, Rose’s mother, had for years corresponded with her old employer, Mrs Paine, But when Madam died, all she left to Mrs Lawton was two china spotted dogs. As an addition to the green plush over-mantel they may have been welcome, but they certainly did nothing to ease the financial situation. Rose told Mary and me that her father had been so incensed at the arrival of the canine pair – after his years of listening to Mrs Lawton’s ‘dear Madam this and dear Madam that’ – that he’d threatened to smash them and send back the pieces to dear madam’s son.

  Rose’s father, despairing of getting back his job in the mill, was moving to London. Mary and I had found them a place in Kensington; and though only three rooms in a semi-basement, they would have their own entrance and not have to share the lavatory. Mary and I, with Rose, had spent all one afternoon and evening cleaning the place in preparation for her mother’s arrival. Her father would follow a week later.

  24

  Now that her parents were coming down from Manchester to live in London, Mary and I were seeing Rose more often. When part of the furniture arrived, we had been to the rooms to arrange it, and Mr Davies had laid the linoleum in the kitchen. Rose was very much changed from the parlourmaid we had known at Mrs Wardham’s. Not in looks, for she was still very attractive, but in disposition. As a domestic servant she had been a quiet girl; a bit dull perhaps, but always ready to smile and laugh at a joke. Now she had a permanently discontented look, and when Mary and I were with her Rose never ceased to complain about her husband’s lack of consideration.

  Rose asked me to be with her when she met her mother at the station one Sunday evening. Mrs Lawton still looked as dour, stern and upright as when I’d met her in Manchester, determined neither to ask for sympathy nor receive it. Rose was apprehensive, wondering what her ma would say when she saw the semi-basement rooms and our arrangement of the furniture. Though laden with two heavy suitcases, her mother flatly refused to let us get a taxi – she was obviously determined to be a martyr – so we had to struggle onto a bus. The bus conductor, with typical cockney humour said, as he helped us with the cases:

  ‘Hello, girls, doing a moonlight flit, then?’ In the face of her mother’s sour and disapproving look, Rose didn’t dare to laugh, but I had no such inhibitions:

  ‘No, mate, I’m off to Gretna Green. My mum’s coming with me to make sure I get spliced.’

  When we got to the house, Rose started trying to explain to her mother that Gerald would have willingly paid the rent for a proper flat; but her ma interrupted, saying fiercely, ‘Your pa won’t accept charity, not from your husband or anybody else. We’ve always paid our way, never owed anybody a penny and we never will, we’d sooner starve.’

  I’m sure she would have, too. Rose had stocked the kitchen cupboard with food and stores, put a couple of hundredweight of coal in the cellar under the stairs and generously fed the gas meter; while Mary and I had cleaned and polished. Her mother said not a word about all these preparations for her comfort but sat in grim silence while we made a pot of tea. Rose was dressed as plainly as possible, and she now lapsed into an even stronger northern accent than she generally used – in order to make her mother feel at home, I supposed.

  Suddenly Mrs Lawton said, ‘Where’s Victoria Helen, then? Why haven’t you brought her with you? We haven’t seen her for six months. I suppose we’re not high-class enough, is that it?’

  ‘You know it’s not like that, Ma. How could I bring her at this time of night? She goes to bed at six o’clock. I’ll bring her over in a day or two, when you’re settled in.’

  ‘If that husband of yours will let his child mix with the likes of us. I suppose Madam is still the doting grandmother.’

  I rashly intervened to say that she wasn’t Madam now, she was Rose’s mother-in-law.

  ‘She’s still Madam to me, and always will be. I don’t hold with people marrying out of their class, it never works out right. Stands to reason it can’t when one of the parties is gentry and the other’s working class; they don’t mix. Look at our Rose here, she’s not happy married to one of them above stairs. Her husband’s always trying to make her over, make her into what he calls a lady. Our Rose doesn’t need to be like one of them, why should she be? Gerald knew what she was when he married her, just a simple north country lass. Why should he expect her to change her speech, talk all la-di-da, worry her head reading a lot of heavy stuff, and wear herself out walking round art galleries? It’s all a lot of nonsense, in my opinion. Our Rose should have stuck to Len Hobbs. Look at him now, there’s a go-ahead for you. After the mill shut down, Len got a job in a garage and now he’s in the way of starting up on his own. He thought the world of our Rose, he did.’

  By this time Rose was having a little weep and complaining yet again about her husband, his work and their social life. She was utterly bored living in the country, seeing only Gerald and his friends. And they could never keep servants because he’d never trust her relationship with them. As soon as she got friendly with them, Gerald became rude and overbearing, speaking to them as though they were the black servants he’d employed in Rhodesia, so naturally the servants gave in their notice. The only person who was nice to her was Mrs Wardham. Gerald was coming home late every night and Rose was sure that he was carrying on with another woman. As I’d heard this mournful saga many times, I interrupted the flow to say that I had to get back; adding,
for Mrs Lawton’s benefit, that since I had none of Rose’s natural advantages, there was no danger of my making the transition – matrimonial wise – from below stairs to above. Her ma remarked somewhat caustically that if long words were a ladder, I’d be up above in no time at all.

  I couldn’t argue with Mrs Lawton, she was far too formidable; but I did not agree with her firmly held opinion that only disaster could follow a deviation from the master-servant relationship; that above and below stairs were so divided by class, education and lineage, they could never mix. If Rose had not been so stubborn and narrow-minded, so determined not to change from the Rose Lawton of a back street in Manchester to being Mrs Rose Wardham, mistress of a fine house and servants; if she had acknowledged her husbband’s genuine desire to make his wife socially acceptable, then the marriage could have been a success.

  But Rose was so dogmatic, stating that she wasn’t going to be different from her parents and relations; for they’d say their Rose had gone all snooty. Gerald had fallen in love with her as a parlourmaid, why should he expect her to alter, to become what he called a lady. Before they were married, Gerald had said that he liked her Mancunian accent, it was so down to earth. Rose wasn’t to bother her pretty head about books and things, he’d never liked brainy women.

  In vain Mary and I pointed out that although no doubt Gerald had fallen in love with Rose’s peach-like complexion, blue eyes and golden hair, these attributes alone were not enough for a lasting and successful marriage. She should tone down her voice, acquire just a veneer of polish, listen to and copy the social chit-chat of dinner party conversation. Armoured with this, and with her looks and the expensive clothes, she’d be the same as one of ‘them’. She could always be just ‘our Rose’ when she was with us, or with her own family. It rankled with Rose that her husband’s father would not acknowledge her as a daughter-in-law, would not even see Victoria Helen. But what did that matter? Gerald was independent financially, and his mother and sister were extremely kind to Rose.

  I found myself thinking again how very little Rose contributed towards a happy marriage, especially in one of the most important aspects of it; sex, which she disliked, saying that it made her feel dirty. I imagined that her joyless, strict and church-going mother had never demonstrated physical affection either to her husband or child, and Rose was just the same. Though she never consciously tried to look seductive and desirable, she gave the impression of being very loving. But I was quite sure that any man who tried to get fresh with Rose would be rebuffed in no uncertain terms. It was easy for her to be a faithful wife because she never felt the slightest desire to stray. Once, when Rose was bitterly complaining to Mary and me that she was certain Gerald had another woman, I was irritated enough to say, ‘What can you expect, when you have a separate bedroom and can’t bear to have your husband in the same bed. What’s he supposed to do, sit on ice?’

  Rose was really upset by this, protesting that she did her duty, she never refused Gerald if he came into her room. Somehow, her saying that reminded me of the notice in the little grocer’s shop at home; PLEASE DO NOT ASK FOR CREDIT, AS A REFUSAL OFTEN OFFENDS.

  What a basis for a loving marriage, ‘doing one’s duty’! I was vain enough to feel that given the same chance as Rose, I’d have made a success of it.

  Yet, talking about this in our servants’ hall, nobody agreed with me. Mr Kite, steeped in the dignity of his position as a butler, was emphatic that no servant could ever be one of ‘them above stairs’, one had to be born into that class. I expected Mr Kite to hold such an opinion, but even Ada, Norma and Elsie thought that Rose had made the biggest mistake of her life in marrying one of the masters; Elsie ended the conversation by saying, ‘They’re them, and we’re us, and I wouldn’t want to change that’.

  In any case, unfortunately for me, it seemed as though I’d never have the opportunity to make a success of any kind of marriage. The absence of any young man prepared to take me on for life was enough to make me despair of ever leaving domestic service. Mary and I agreed that a pretty face was the attribute needed to attract a man, few men having enough sense to realise that a pretty face alone wouldn’t cook for them or darn their socks. When I thought of all the ‘possibles’ that I’d fed with titbits in my kitchen, only to discover that most of them already had girlfriends, I almost gave up the pursuit of matrimony. Mary was even more despondent than I was. Months ago, when she’d heard from her merchant navy boyfriend that he’d married a girl in Australia – evidently the understanding between him and Mary hadn’t been understood by him – Mary had determined to marry the first man who asked her; the first man had been Alfred. When that engagement was broken off, poor Mary lost confidence for a while in her ability to attract the opposite sex. Then, when she saw the young and handsome butler in her new place, her hopes rose again, but not for long. She found that the young and handsome butler had an antipathy to females, he much preferred the younger, even more handsome valet. I nobly refrained from saying ‘I told you so’.

  Marriage seemed to be in the air at this time, judging by the people we knew who were about to take on a man for better or for worse. But perhaps Mary and I were not breathing the right air.

  25

  Odette was all set to marry Armand, the son of the man who owned the local estaminet. She told us, with typical French shrewdness, that her beau-père to be was very old, it wouldn’t be long before she and Armand were running the estaminet. Two weeks before Odette left England, her cousin Annette arrived to take Odette’s place as a lady’s maid. Much to the relief of Mr Kite, whose idea of French girls was that they were all pert, given to making saucy remarks and with no respect for their elders – like Odette in fact – her cousin Annette was a timid and mousey girl. Even if she hadn’t been, her knowledge of the English language was limited to some dozen words, so as she gazed respectfully at our butler she probably thought his ponderous remarks were words of wisdom.

  Our butler had been fed up to the teeth to hear Elsie and Odette talking about their future husbands; and now, to make matters worse, Mrs Van Lievden had her niece staying in the house who, according to Mr Kite, had only come here from Holland to secure an English husband. Madam was going to launch her into English society, and all the talk in the dining-room was about jewels, dresses and dances. When asked what was wrong in Madam’s niece wanting to marry an Englishman, Mr Kite said he didn’t hold with foreigners. To hear our butler say ‘foreigners’, one would have thought Miss Van Lievden was a Hottentot.

  Madam gave Elsie a beautiful clock as a wedding present, and we all clubbed together to buy her a case of knives. Elsie wanted me to be one of her bridesmaids but, remembering the old saying ‘three times a bridesmaid never a bride’, I refused the honour. I’d been a bridesmaid twice as a child, and although I didn’t really believe in such superstitions, nevertheless, on such an important issue, I didn’t dare to tempt fate. Norma, Ada and I were given an extra day off to go to the wedding; in fact, Madam was kind enough to let us travel down to Kent on the previous evening so that we could have the whole day there. The other servants; Mr Kite, the new head housemaid, Constance, and the kitchenmaid would have an extra day later on. Elsie’s mother put us up for the night in her cottage; we all slept in one huge bed with a feather mattress. None of us wanted to be the one in the middle so we tossed for it, Ada lost. The cottage was very pretty, creeper-covered and thatched roof, just like a picture-postcard cottage. But of course postcards cannot show the drawbacks to what appears to be picturesque – and here they couldn’t have shown the tiny leaded window panes that excluded the sunlight, the lack of piped-water, electricity and drainage, the erratic path – well, erratic anyway in the pitch dark for visitors – to the primitive lavatory at the bottom of the garden. To us three city girls, one night only was a laughable experience, but I’m sure we’d never have coped with the lack of amenities as did Elsie’s mum. She’d always lived in the cottage and was used to it.

  The small village church was a
lmost full with Elsie and Jack’s relations. Both families must have been prolific breeders, but not difficult I suppose considering how early one goes to bed in the country. Elsie looked really lovely in her white dress. I was pleased to be there, and I was also envious of her good fortune, being unaware then that not so many months would elapse before I too would become legally tied to a man – though not in a church. At the reception, judging by the fond looks and kisses Elsie was giving Jack, she’d forgotten about her desire to be independent.

  I suppose the wedding was like all such occasions. Telegrams were read out, such as ‘May all your troubles be little ones’; the usual witticisms were passed, and one was that Elsie could never be accused of ‘marrying in haste to repent at leisure’. The best man kissed the bridesmaid; we three girls, under the influence of strong cider, kissed any man who showed the slightest disposition to kiss us – and even, I’m afraid some who didn’t. In the square dance I had as my partner a brawny, beefy bull-necked man, who every time he whirled me round – and off my feet – shouted, ‘Up girl, up girl’. When the dance was over, I felt as though I’d been put through a mangle. Norma just laughed saying, ‘Well, you got a man, any port in a storm!’ But I didn’t feel that my position was as stormy as all that.