Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid

by Moran, Mollie

  Mollie Moran

  APRONS AND SILVER SPOONS

  The Heartwarming Memoirs of a 1930s Scullery Maid

  Contents

  1. An Idyllic Childhood

  Tips From a 1930s Kitchen – Mollie’s Famous Sausage Rolls

  2. London Calling

  Tips From a 1930s Kitchen – Bread and Butter Pudding

  3. Tears in the Scullery

  Tips From a 1930s Kitchen – The Perfect Roast Beef

  4. Soulmates

  Tips From a 1930s Kitchen – Soup to Scrub Floors On

  5. To the Country

  Tips From a 1930s Kitchen – Old-fashioned Irish Stew

  6. Mop Caps and Mischief

  Tips From a 1930s Kitchen – Christmas Pudding

  7. Passion With the Footman

  Tips From a 1930s Kitchen – Trifle and Brandy Snaps

  8. Scandal Below Stairs

  Tips From a 1930s Kitchen – Proper Fish and Chips

  9. Castles in Spain

  Tips From a 1930s Kitchen – Lemonade

  10. A Cook at Last

  Tips From a 1930s Kitchen – Steamed Suet Pudding

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  APRONS AND SILVER SPOONS

  Born in 1916, Mollie Moran is now ninety-six and lives on Bournemouth seafront. She regularly hosts Scrabble parties and cooks for up to twenty-five people. Mollie grew up in Norfolk, and was sent to London as a scullery maid at the age of fourteen. She remains friends with the kitchen maid, Flo, from the first household she worked in, more than eighty years later.

  I dedicate this book to my late mother, Mabel,

  and all my family.

  1

  An Idyllic Childhood

  Sweet was the walk along the narrow lane

  At noon, the bank and hedge-rows all the way

  Shagged with wild pale green tufts of fragrant hay,

  Caught by the hawthorns from the loaded wain,

  Which Age with many a slow stoop strove to gain;

  And childhood, seeming still most busy, took

  His little rake; with cunning side-long look,

  Sauntering to pluck the strawberries wild, unseen.

  William Wordsworth

  Inching higher and higher, I used every fibre of my being to pull my body further up the tree trunk. Just one more foot and I’d be there. The prize was in sight and it was worth its weight in gold.

  Come on, Mollie Browne, you can do it.

  With a superhuman show of strength and a grunt I swung my leg over the branch and sat gasping for breath.

  I’d climbed to the very top of the tallest oak tree in the village.

  It started as a tingle in my chest and soon spread to the tips of my fingers. Joy flooded my body. I’d done it. I’d only gone and done it. No one had climbed this tree, not even the bravest lads in our village.

  ‘Sissies,’ I chuckled to myself. I may only have been a ten-year-old girl, but I was more of a man than any of them.

  My mother Mabel’s warning, issued just before I left the house that morning, rang in my ears: ‘Come straight home from school and don’t be scuffing your shoes or ripping your dress climbing trees on the way. And don’t you be nicking all them eggs out the nests again. I mean it, Mollie Browne, any more trouble and I’ll swing for you, I will.’

  I looked down at my ripped cotton dress. Oops, too late. And by the way the sun was dipping down below the spire of the church I could tell dusk was gathering.

  I hesitated. What were rules for if they weren’t to be broken?

  The thought of the telling-off I was going to get melted away when I realized I could see for miles around the tranquil landscape. What a thrill. It was like discovering a secret magic world; just me and the birds in the twilight. Fields dotted with ancient flint churches stretched out as far as the eye could see. In the distance I could make out the town of Downham Market and just beyond that the sun glittered off the River Great Ouse.

  The year was 1926. Coal miners were striking, John Logie Baird had just given the first public demonstration of the television and Gertrude Ederle had become the first woman to swim the Channel. These were exciting times. London was in the grip of the ‘Roaring Twenties’. Bright young socialites wore their hair in bobs, their skirts short, and were dancing up a storm in jazz clubs. Their louche and provocative behaviour was blazing a trail across the front pages.

  Here in gentle Norfolk it was a different story.

  A tractor rumbled in the middle distance, ploughing straight lines through the soil. Fields of wheat and barley rustled gently in the breeze. All was still, quiet and timeless.

  This was my world. Mollie Browne’s world. One giant playground full of adventures just waiting to be had. But even as I surveyed the peaceful landscape I felt the strangest sensation grip my heart. My destiny didn’t lie here in the sleepy villages, forced into a dull apprenticeship before being married off to the local farmhand. No, thank you. There had to be more to life. I wasn’t sure what yet but – sure as eggs is eggs – I would find a way to make it happen.

  At the thought of eggs, I suddenly remembered the reason why I was up this big old tree in the first place. Wiping the sweat off my brow, I forced myself not to look down and edged along the gnarled branch to claim my prize. Two perfect brown speckled eggs were sitting in the nest within touching distance, still warm from when the crow had hatched them.

  I wasn’t daft. I’d never pocket a wren’s or robin’s egg. Everyone knew bad luck would come your way if you nicked those and your hands would fall off. Happen there be no harm in a crow’s egg, though.

  Just then a sharp whistle sounded from below.

  My partners in crime!

  I could just make out the faces of Jack and Bernard.

  ‘It’s the bobby,’ Jack hissed. ‘Get down afore he sees ya.’

  Oh heck. There was no time to pocket either of the shiny brown eggs. Instead I shimmied down that tree faster than a rat down a drainpipe. With a loud thud I landed slap bang in front of the black laced-up leather boots of one PC Risebrough. My nemesis. I swear that man spent his whole time roaming the countryside looking for me. He always seemed to know just where to find me!

  ‘Mollie Browne again,’ he said in his thick Norfolk accent. Slowly he shook his head. ‘If there’s trouble to be found it’s always you in the thick of it, ainch ya? When will yer learn?’

  Last summer he’d caught me with handfuls of stolen strawberries. There’d not been a soul about, until the sight of his tall hat bobbed past over the top of the hedge. He’d clouted me so hard round the lugholes that my ears had been ringing for weeks.

  I shook my head as I saw Jack and Bernard turn on their heels and leg it. ‘I was just mucking about,’ I said, shaking my red curls vigorously. ‘’Avin’ a gorp from the tree.’

  He peered down at me, narrowed his eyes and slowly and deliberately peeled off his gloves. ‘Tha’s a lotta ol’ squit,’ he said. ‘Stealing eggs you was. I oughta box your chops.’

  Two minutes later, and with my ears ringing from another clip, I ran for home.

  ‘Any more trouble and I’ll be letting your father know,’ PC Risebrough shouted after me. ‘Now git orf wiv yer.’

  My heart sank as I raced off down the fields. Not again. He was forever catching me doing things I shouldn’t and my father was forever telling me off. I didn’t want to trouble Father, not in his condition, but trouble just seemed to seek me out.

  I ran so quickly across the fields and lanes that the bushes became a blur of green. I could run in
them days. I was so strong and fast it wasn’t true. So fast that at times I felt I could have flown clean over the hedgerows like a swallow, swooping and soaring.

  At the end of the lane that led to our tumbledown cottage I paused and looked back over the fields. Dusk was sneaking gently over the village and soon the fields would be cloaked in a velvety darkness. Smoke curled gently from the chimney pots and suddenly my tummy rumbled. I thought of bread and dripping by the fire, or if I was lucky we might have a bit of meat in a steak and kidney pudding. Machine-gunning my way up the lane that led to our smallholding, I startled a blackbird that flew chattering from the hedgerow. My heart soared as I ducked through the hedge and crept down the back garden. It was Monday, washing day. Mother would be too busy to notice I was late for tea.

  Picking my way through the sea of linen drying in the back garden, I giggled to myself. I dodged past a pair of combis, ducked under a pair of Mother’s wool stockings and nipped past an old clothesline prop before landing at the back door. With a creak I pushed it open and, quiet as a church mouse, tiptoed through the scullery and into a steaming hot kitchen. Mother’s back was turned to me as she prodded the vast old copper that creaked and groaned as it furiously boiled up a week’s worth of dirty washing.

  I’d just made it to the stairs when a voice piped up from the kitchen table.

  ‘Mollie’s ’ere, Mum.’

  I whirled round to face my little brother, James.

  ‘Hello, carrot,’ he said, smiling smugly. ‘Happen you’re late. And you’ve got twigs in your carrot top.’

  ‘Why, you little …’ I gasped. If there was one thing I hated more than anything it was being called ‘carrot’. My face flushed as bright red as my curly hair.

  Mother stared at me and, wiping the soapsuds off her hands, she shook her head. ‘Oh, Mollie, bird’s-nesting … not again. What’ll your father say?’

  ‘I’ll give ya a fourpenny one so as I will!’ I yelled, making a lunge for my little brother.

  ‘Oh, will you keep yer trap shut, Mollie Browne?’ Mother sighed, flinging herself between us.

  Two minutes later I was rewarded with a second clip round the ear and sent to my bedroom with not so much as a skerrick of bread. No matter. I didn’t care tuppence for a telling-off in them days. I’d be the hero of the town.

  Born Mollie Browne on 21 September 1916, I’m now ninety-six years old, but my idyllic childhood is etched into my soul and I remember it clear as yesterday.

  We was poor growing up. Really poor. I’m not talking not being able to afford to pay the bills or go on holidays. I’m talking grinding poverty where every day for my poor parents was a challenge to feed me and my brother James. We didn’t have a penny to our name, see. But we never starved, not like the poor folk in the cities. Out in the countryside, with an iron will and a healthy disregard for the rules, you could always find food for the table.

  Money might have been scarce, but love, laughter and adventures by the bucketload never were. And a childhood spent running free in the beautiful Norfolk countryside gave me a spirit as wild as the hawthorns that grew in the hedgerows.

  Here’s me at the ripe old age of ninety-six. My face may be wrinkled and my hair faded to silver, but I think you can tell by the twinkle in my eye that I still find the fun in life.

  I credit the fresh air, healthy living of my childhood and ten years of back-breaking work in domestic service for my good health. Do you know, I’ve not had a single day’s illness in my life? I’ve outlived every single one of the gentry that I scrubbed, shopped and cooked for all those years. Perhaps my childhood and the poverty we experienced bred in me a will to survive. Or maybe it’s the characters from whose loins I sprung.

  If home is where the heart is then at the heart of my home was my mother, Mabel. When she weren’t trying to belt me round the head for getting into another scrape, she was a fiercely loyal, loving and hard-working woman. I never saw my mother at rest. Ever. She was always working. Either slaving away over an open fire, cooking, scrubbing the house or flushed with steam as she spent a whole day washing, wringing clothes out through a giant mangle or wrestling with a flat iron. If she wasn’t in the house she was working outside, tending to the fruit and vegetables in the garden. The women of my mother’s generation were grafters and tough as old boots too.

  Mother met and fell in love with my father, Sydney Easter Browne – so called because he was born on Easter Monday 1892.

  I wasn’t even born when my father went off to fight in the First World War in 1914. I was conceived when he came home on leave. He was there at my birth in 1916 before he was packed off back to the trenches of France, so I don’t remember much of him in the early years. When he was posted back to France, Mother and I moved in with her mother, Granny Esther, in a small village called Wereham, some five miles east of Downham Market.

  They broke the mould when they made Granny Esther. Five foot nothing with a fiery halo of thick auburn red hair, she was every bit as tough as the hobnail boots she wore. Granny was a familiar sight around the village. She owned and ran the local village store and she stocked everything from butter to paraffin, which she often served without washing her hands in between. People didn’t give two hoots for health and safety in them days.

  With a complexion like double cream, her thick red hair and a proud face, she was a handsome woman and drew many an admiring glance from the villagers as she trotted about the village on her horse and trap. She must have been a beauty in her day. When she was seventeen her red hair and shapely curves certainly caught the eye of the local squire’s son. The squire owned half the lands and buildings in and around Wereham and so it seemed his son thought he also owned the right to bed whichever local ladies took his roving eye.

  The story of Granny Esther’s illegitimate child was something of a local legend and I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t aware of it.

  She was seventeen when the squire’s son got her pregnant and she gave birth to a little girl called Kate. An illegitimate child in those days was a huge scandal. As she cradled the little baby in her arms, even she was aware that keeping her wasn’t an option. The shame her illicit liaison would have brought on her father’s house would have been too much. And so she was forced to give her baby up.

  Kate was raised by an aunt in a neighbouring village, only coming home occasionally years later after Granny met and married my grandfather, Wick, and had my mother and her brother, Cecil.

  Ignorance and fear of pregnancy was everything in them days and no doubt Granny Esther didn’t have the faintest clue what went where. The squire’s son should have known better, but it was Granny who earned the bad reputation, Granny’s family name that would have been tarnished, Granny seen as the morally degenerate one, leading him astray with her wanton behaviour. Load of old balderdash, of course, but such was the narrow-minded thinking of the day.

  How does it shape a woman, to be forced to give up a child at seventeen? Did she weep long into the night, her arms aching to hold her forbidden baby, her breasts gorged with unused milk? Her heart must surely have hardened for I know she grew a brittle outer shell that meant we never really dared question her or Kate on their forced separation.

  As for the squire’s son with the lusty loins and the roving eye? I’m pleased to say that he didn’t get away with it scot-free. Granny’s father, my great-grandfather Pilgrim, went round and horsewhipped that wretch. He deserved a sound thrashing.

  Forced to grow up too soon, Granny Esther developed a steely inner core, which meant she never suffered fools gladly. ‘Gerrorf wiv yer, yer old rascal,’ she’d cackle if someone asked for something on tick, ‘or you’ll feel the toe of my boot.’ And if any of the local farmhands dared come into her shop straight from the farms without wiping their muddy feet? ‘Wipe ya dutty feet afore yew come inta my clean scull’ry!’ she’d holler.

  Granny could only see out of one eye, but I swear that woman had eyes in the back of her head. She knew in a flash if some
one was giving her cheek and if I dared to pull a face, thinking she couldn’t see me, I’d soon know about it. But she could never stay mad at me for long. For when it came to me, her granddaughter, she had a heart as soft as butter. I was the apple of her eye and I knew it. I loved helping her in the shop, especially when she let me sit on the counter, weigh out the sweets and take the money.

  Me as a baby being held by my indomitable Granny Esther. I was always her favourite.

  Wereham itself was a tiny little village. The population was just a few hundred, but it had a bustling high street that throbbed with life. The high street was the hub of the community and was lined with countless businesses, many of which had been in the same family for generations. Aside from Granny’s village shop, there was a butcher, a greengrocer, two bakers, a market garden, a blacksmith and a post office. Can you imagine all those shops? You’d struggle to get just one of those in a village high street these days.

  I loved wandering amongst the village characters, taking in the noise, hustle and bustle of village life. Granny and Mother never worried about me. What harm could come to me? There was just one car in the village and apart from one odd sort who liked to slap young girls’ bottoms and the occasional bit of horse rustling, crime was non-existent.

  The smell of the bakers’ freshly baked cottage loaves drifted up the street to the accompaniment of the fruiterer shouting out the quality of his wares. Big fat sugared doughnuts from the bakery, oozing with raspberry jam and thick with sugar, were my favourite.

  There were pubs in the village, of course. Three, in fact – the Crown, the George and Dragon, and the Nag’s Head – which mostly served to shelter old boys nursing a pint of Norfolk Ale and hiding out from the missus.

  ‘She’s always mobbun about suffun,’ they’d grumble.

  I always used to roam about on my own, right from when I was a tiny nipper. When you’re little you’re invisible to everyone. Most days I hung out by the Gospel tree, the biggest tree in the village, and watched the world go by. I liked to stop here a bit because right behind it was a big, grand house. Every day young lads would hang out of the windows and sing to me as I peered curiously up at them. Good-looking blond boys they were, who sang in a funny accent that I recognized wasn’t a Norfolk one.