Servants' Hall: A Real Life Upstairs, Downstairs Romance

by Margaret Powell

  ‘He had another woman there,’ said Mick.

  ‘He was drinking whisky’ said Mr McGregor.

  ‘No, nothing like that. There he was, dressed in the same women’s clothes he’d worn for the charades, painted, powdered, lip-sticked, a long golden wig on his head, sitting on a chair with one leg crossed over the other and’ – here Mr Penny lowered his voice – ‘I could see that he was wearing ladies’ pink silk knickers. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think that it must have been an outsize keyhole for you to see all that,’ said Mr Kite, sceptically.

  Facetiously, Mick answered, ‘Perhaps he was rehearsing for the next Christmas charades.’

  ‘What! in January, it’s not likely.’

  We females were too taken aback to comment, or even to laugh. Bawdiness we could understand, but sexual aberration was outside our knowledge of life. In fact, we rather welcomed Connie commencing her usual paean of praise about her late employer, although we’d heard it many times. We all liked Connie, but she did get boring on the subject of her one and only domestic place. Because her Madam had no lady’s maid, and was old and rather frail, she had depended on Connie for personal help.

  ‘I used to go to church with her on Sundays and she’d often ask me to sit and read to her in the evening, or even just to be there for company. If any of her family came, I was just the same as them.’

  That I didn’t believe; a denizen of below stairs could never move up, unless, like Rose, she married into the social caste. Even if a servant could dress like them and use the correct speech, they would know she was a servant. We didn’t have to be physically subservient, no curtseying or doffing of caps, but involuntarily there crept into one’s voice a kind of subservience when talking to them above stairs.

  So now, as I listened to Connie extolling the virtues of her late employer, I thought that I much preferred Mrs Van Lievden, who made no pretence of an interest in us personally but made sure that we had physical comforts.

  Still, it was Connie who told Mary and me of a small house for sale in Streatham which she thought Rose would like and which, in fact, Rose’s husband bought for her. Mary reckoned he was trying to sweeten Rose so that she would divorce him.

  28

  I’d never really believed that Rose would willingly give up her life at Greenlands. To leave all that wealth and comfort; a beautiful home, lovely gardens and servants to do the work, for a nondescript small house in Streatham; it seemed madness to me. But then I had never fully understood how much Rose hated the life, how alien she felt as the mistress of the establishment instead of the servant. Now that she was going to live in an ordinary house, Rose was a different person. She ceased to complain bitterly about her husband, his friends and way of life; although to Mary and me she attempted to justify her previous attitude.

  ‘You see, when we fell in love, I’d no idea of living in a big house with servants, because I knew that Gerald had no money, apart from what Mrs Wardham gave him; I thought he’d get an ordinary job and we’d live in a small house like my ma’s. After all,’ Rose went on, somewhat plaintively, ‘how could I know that he’d make a lot of money and want to live like a gentleman. When we married, he said that I was never to change, he loved me just as I was. And so he did, until he got rich and made all those society friends and those theatre people. Then I didn’t fit in, I’d got to get educated and become a lady.’

  Rose’s idea that she and Victoria Helen would live harmoniously in a cosy little nest had a set-back as far as the child was concerned. She was a plain and unattractive child, already showing signs of her grandfather’s ungovernable temper. Now she continually whined because she missed her huge nursery full of toys, her garden swing and see-saw; she probably missed her father too, he’d always made a fuss of her.

  About two weeks after Rose had settled down in Streatham, Mary and I went over to see her on our free Sunday afternoon and evening – or rather Mary’s free Sunday; as a cook I was free after lunch every Sunday. Mary looked resplendent in a new coat-frock of light brown gaberdine trimmed with dark brown braid. To be smartly and correctly dressed for the street, a costume or coat-frock was de rigueur at that time, the latter being cheapest to buy. No female ever went out hatless; Mary wore a brown cloche – or pudding basin hat – brown gloves and handbag. I’d saved my money to buy a bottle-green gaberdine costume with cloche to match, black patent shoes and black gloves. Gloves were another must, no matter how hot was the weather. We’d both used face powder, bought at Woolworths for sixpence a box. Perhaps ladies had their powder specially blended, but Woolworths had only three shades, white, pale pink and a kind of muddy-looking beige – we’d bought the pale pink. There was a subtle difference in using powder and lipstick; the former was acceptable but use of lipstick branded one as an ‘easy catch’, so we used white lip-salve – at least it made our lips shine. We generally used ‘ashes of violet’ perfume – also bought at Woolworths. Mary and I thought we looked like a couple of fashion-plates as we walked through Hyde Park; we certainly got a few wolf whistles. Mary was happy because for some time now she’d had a new boyfriend, a pal of the faithless Sid. I’d remonstrated, saying that after her experience with Sid, surely she could see there was no point in having a boyfriend who went on long voyages. Absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder, it merely made it accustomed to absence.

  ‘It’s different this time, Margaret. I’ve been to his home, his parents were very nice to me. Conrad’s not going to stay an AB, he’s going to work his way up, his father was a chief engineer on a ship. Besides, Conrad does short trips, he’s away only three months. His dad’s quite an educated man, he’s got a whole shelf of books by authors like Melville and Joseph Conrad. He told me he reads them over and over again; that’s why he called his son Conrad. I think it’s a much nicer name than Sid.’

  Well, Mary was right about the name. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t have felt secure in the affections of a young man I saw only at three-monthly intervals.

  On the journey to Streatham, I remarked to Mary that surely Rose would agree to a divorce for, even after it was granted, Gerald would still have to wait some time before he could marry again. Besides, what was the point of being legally tied to a man who no longer cared about you. He would support Rose until she married again, and she’d certainly have the opportunity for she was still very pretty.

  ‘I could take a bet with you, Margaret, that Rose will never agree to a divorce. I’ve known her longer than you have and, although she seems to be soft and non-argumentative, she can be as hard as nails if she thinks she’s right. Just think how she refused all Gerald’s attempts to make her an ‘above stairs’ person. Besides, although Rose would be the innocent party in a divorce, she’d still look on it as a disgrace. No, Rose will never give him a divorce, of that I’m sure. And I’m equally sure she’ll never want to marry again, if only because she dislikes the bed part.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll be the same when we get married, Mary; not like the bed part, I mean. One never knows in advance, does one?’

  ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t like it, Margaret. Aunt Ellie did and I reckon it helped to finish off old Mack. She was always complaining to me about what she called, his “weasel”, saying she had to spend a long time making it bark and even then its bite wasn’t very powerful. Have you ever seen one, Margaret?’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen what passed for one on statues and I had that glimpse when I went into Mrs Bishop’s bathroom. But if you mean, have I given the object a detailed study, the answer is No; time and circumstances not allowing.’

  ‘Oh, Margaret, you’re awful,’ and we laughed so loudly that the bus conductor came upstairs to share the joke. We told him that we were discussing anatomy. He knew what the word meant because he said he preferred to study astronomy, there were fewer complications.

  The outside of the very ordinary semi-detached house in Streatham gave no indication of the almost opulent-furnished interior. Most of the furnishings had com
e from Greenlands, including as much of Rose’s elaborate bedroom suite as her smaller room could take. I was amused to see that her favourite love-story magazines were no longer in a neat pile on the bedside table, but scattered over the bed now that she was free of the necessity to conceal them. All of the six rooms were overcrowded with furniture and ornaments. It seemed as though Rose had claimed ownership to as much as possible, perhaps as an insurance against future hard times. She’d already got friendly with her neighbour and had invited her in to have a cup of tea with us. Mrs Richard was a bright, bird-like kind of person, and she twittered like one too. I could tell that she was astonished to see such obviously expensive furnishings, and her eyes were busy making an inventory of Rose’s possessions. We had tea in what Rose, with no pretensions at all, called the front room; Mrs Richard called it the drawing-room. Now that there were no servants to cut dainty, minute cucumber or egg sandwiches, or produce a plate of little fairy cakes, Rose had provided a far more substantial meal. There were corned-beef and tinned salmon sandwiches, doughnuts, lemon-cheese tarts and heavy plum cake. The cakes came from the bakers’ shop as Rose hadn’t yet learned much in the way of cooking. Mrs Richard kept up a non-stop flow of twittering:

  ‘I said to Mr Richard when he came back – Mr Richard’s away a lot – there’s such a nice-looking person moved in next door, with a sweetly pretty little girl.’

  Mary and I didn’t dare look at each other; nobody in their right mind could call Victoria Helen ‘sweetly pretty’.

  The neighbour twittered on, ‘I said to Mr Richard, “well, now our new neighbour really looks a lady”’ – I saw Rose wince at this – ‘“maybe she’ll be company for me you being away such a lot”. I don’t mind telling you, just between the four of us, that this road’s not what it was when we first moved in. There used to be a nice class of people here, cleaned their windows, spotless white curtains, polished brass on the front door and every Sunday they’d be tidying the front garden. You’d never believe it to look at these houses, but some of the people haven’t a penny to their name, they shouldn’t be living in this kind of neighbourhood. I wouldn’t mix with them even though I’m alone so much; Mr Richard has to go away you know.’

  She must have told us half-a-dozen times that Mr Richard had to go away, but never once did she explain where, and why he went. We’d nearly finished tea when who should arrive, unexpected and unwelcome, but Rose’s parents. Well, perhaps not so unwelcome this time as their arrival did get rid of Mrs Richard. One look at the formidable Mrs Lawton, and a far fiercer bird than a twittering sparrow would have been vanquished.

  Mary and I, having spent nearly all our money on new finery, and our monthly wages not due for another week, we were prepared to stay with Rose for the afternoon and evening; no amount of hostility, suppressed or overt, would make us depart before time. Even Rose had admitted that her mother was a domineering and ill-natured woman, yet Mrs Lawton had always tried to give the impression that it was Mr Lawton who was the dogmatic one.

  Before Rose left home to go into domestic service she was continually hearing, ‘your father flatly forbids you to go to a dance, join a club, come home late from the pictures’ – in reality it was her mother who put a ban on any form of enjoyment. Similarly, when her mother was talking to Aunt Amelia, it was always, ‘Joe won’t have it, Joe put his foot down’. In actual fact, though far from effusive in his welcome to us, saying nothing but ‘How do’, Mr Lawton didn’t mind us being there. It was only when he talked of the ‘bosses’ that he became eloquent with bitter denunciations of what he called ‘the system’.

  Although Gerald’s charm had worked on Mr Lawton enough to get a grudging consent to the marriage, he’d very soon gone back to his original opinion of the ‘bosses’. I’d have expected him to feel gratified in seeing, in the failure of his daughter’s marriage, how right he’d been in asserting that there never could be an alliance between the upper class and working class, but I think that while saying ‘I told you so’, he was secretly irritated because Rose hadn’t made a go of it.

  Rose offered to make some fresh tea but Mrs Lawton said it was a waste; she should put boiling water on what was left in the pot. This at any rate indicated to Mary and me that she wasn’t going to sponge on her daughter. I didn’t know what financial arrangements had been made for Rose, but there was no shortage of food and comforts. We attempted to make light conversation, excluding such topics as work, marriage and the pleasures of living in London, knowing that a mention of any of these three acted as a touch-paper to her parents.

  Rose said, brightly, ‘I’ve had a letter from Aunt Amelia. She wrote that they have had a bit of luck, Uncle Fred has had a rise.’

  Mary, with misplaced humour in view of Mrs Lawton’s grim expression, said, ‘That can’t be much of a change surely? In his job he’s getting a rise all day long.’

  Our laughter quickly faded when Mr Lawton said angrily that he was sick of his job in the factory making electrical components; it was monotonous and, unless one worked overtime, ill paid too.

  ‘There’s no skill to it,’ he complained, ‘anybody could do the job. I’m a nothing there, a nobody. At the mill I was looked up to, I knew my job, and the men respected me.’

  ‘Couldn’t you look for a better job, Da?’ asked Rose, timidly.

  ‘What better job, where would I get it? All I was offered was the factory job or to be a lavatory attendant. Did you ever hear the like? That the day would come when I’d be offered a job cleaning out a men’s lavatory – I’d sooner starve. And now we’re going to have a national government; what good will that do? It’s the same old lot that got the country into this mess. The only man who’s got any sense in that lot is Maxton.’

  After listening to many more fulminations, I began to feel that as a way of spending a pleasant Sunday afternoon, it left much to be desired. Born into a later generation, Mr Lawton would, without a doubt, have been a militant striker on the picket line, angrily insisting on workers’ rights.

  Yet there was one vast difference between the terrible Depression of the early thirties and living in England now. In spite of Mr Lawton’s bitterness against the government, he, and the tens of thousands like him who’d lost their jobs and were living on the poverty line, never resorted to the violence and vandalism that prevails today. Nobody of my generation could ever have dreamed that the day would come in England when it wasn’t safe to walk through the streets in the evening for fear of being mugged, when quiet country lanes and city parks were to be avoided if one was alone. How smugly did we read about the violence in America and say, ‘It can’t happen here’. Of course there always have been people who are just plain ‘bad’, but at one time if they were caught, they had to pay for their crimes; now they get therapy.

  By the time Rose’s father had finished his imprecations against the government, with special execrations for Ramsay MacDonald and Philip Snowden – he considered them responsible for the Labour landslide – he was too exhausted for general conversation. But his wife nobly kept things going by talking about the difference between north country people and Londoners – to the disparagement of the latter. If they’d had a sense of humour I’d have hummed:

  ‘It’s the same the whole world over,

  It’s the poor wot gets the blame;

  It’s the rich wot gets the pleasure,

  Ain’t it all a blooming shame’.

  But faced with Mr Lawton’s rancour and his wife’s grim expression, I hadn’t the nerve.

  Matters were not improved by Victoria Helen throwing a tantrum because she didn’t want to sit on her grannie’s lap. I didn’t blame her; used to her other grandmother, Mrs Wardham, and her doting Aunt Helen, she didn’t take kindly to this grandmother’s exhortations to sit still at the tea-table and not to drop cake crumbs. I’m sure Rose never realised how upset and confused the poor child must have felt when she was removed from her normal surroundings to this small house in Streatham.

  Fortunatel
y, Rose’s parents departed about six o’clock. Her mother said, ‘Although I’ve locked up everywhere, I don’t trust the people in that house. I’m sure that couple on the first floor are no better than they should be, they come in at all hours of the night. I wish we was back in the old street where people were honest and if you liked you could leave your front door unlocked, knowing that none would come in unless invited.’

  After the child had gone to bed, Rose produced bottles of port and sherry and we spent a pleasant evening; by common consent her husband was not mentioned. As we left, Rose said, rather wistfully that she’d love to have an evening in the West End with us. Mrs Richard would mind Vicky as Mr Richard ‘is away a lot’, we chorused.

  When I got back, Mr Kite greeted me with the news that Madam had been sorting through her bookshelves and had sent down half-a-dozen books for our servants’ hall.

  ‘That’s very nice of her, what are they?’

  ‘Well, there’s two by Belloc Lowndes – one of them’s called The Lodger, I think it’s about Jack the Ripper. There’s two by somebody called Ouida, and the other two are by Arnold Bennett; I like him, he writes about people like us. I’ve already started on Riceyman Steps. Course,’ added Mr Kite, slightly maliciously, ‘Madam doesn’t know that only you and me read proper books.’

  Our butler always felt rather peeved that his taste in literature had never influenced Norma, his parlourmaid, to progress beyond Peg’s Paper. I couldn’t see why it was incumbent on him to be a pedant in the pantry. Let everybody be happy in their own way, was my maxim.

  My irrepressible kitchenmaid – who should have waited until the butler was absent – said, ‘I like reading books, I’d like to read The Lodger if it’s about Jack the Ripper. My gran told me about him, she used to live in Whitechapel.’