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

by Moran, Mollie

  ‘Then we start prepping the lunch and there will be all the veggies for you to prepare …’

  On and on she went, the rest of the fifteen-hour day broken down into multitudes of repetitive and back-breaking tasks until my day finally finished at nine thirty p.m.

  ‘You don’t date the staff,’ she said, glaring at Alan as he passed by and winked. ‘That way only leads to trouble and keeps your mind off your work. You don’t go into parts of the house that aren’t your own. If you do see Mr Stocks or young Captain Eric, don’t speak unless spoken to and always refer to them as “sir”. The bosses are always “sir”. You treat the upper servants with respect – in your case, that’s everybody. You get a half-day off a week and every other Sunday. And remember,’ she added finally, her eyes glittering dangerously as she leant back and crossed her beefy arms – they were so muscly from years of beating, whipping and stirring that they were like legs of mutton and I could barely take me eyes off them, but eventually I forced myself to meet her steely gaze – ‘remember that in this kitchen, Mollie, I am queen. Now hop to that pile of washing-up.’

  Queen? More like an old ogre. But I said nothing, just smiled sweetly.

  I wasn’t smiling five minutes later.

  Stacked up in a vast stone sink in a cold, airless scullery was the debris of everybody’s lunch. Filthy dirty plates towered over every available surface. It was piled up in the sink and even in buckets on the floor. There must have been nearly fifty plates and bowls, saucepans, jugs, pots and pans, not to mention cutlery, all smeared with cold, greasy gravy and congealed custard.

  There was no washing-up liquid in them days. I had to scrub each one with soft soap that you whisked up in the water, or soap crystals, until it shone like a new pin. Each piece then had to be rinsed in an enormous enamel bowl of hot water before being dried up and put away in the wooden racks above the range. There were no gloves or barrier cream either. My lunch sat like lead in my tummy and pretty soon my hands were red raw and numb.

  Wiping back a curl that was by now plastered to my forehead with sweat, I stifled a yawn. Oh well. No point moaning. Best crack on.

  And with that I was sucked into the regime of a big upper-class house. That day marked the end of my childhood and the start of a gruelling new decade of work that would see me work harder than I’d ever done in my entire life.

  When people think of domestic servants they often think of butlers and housemaids and imagine it to be hard work. No one ever thinks of the poor scullery maid. A scullery maid, otherwise known as a skivvy, was the lowest position possible in a house. The very lowest of the low. You’re the youngest, the lowest paid, you work the longest hours and you spend the most time on your hands and knees scrubbing. You’re even a skivvy for the servants. You are literally the bottom of the heap and regarded as such by everyone else above you.

  No one bothered to come and introduce themselves to me, apart from Alan, the randy footman. As a scullery maid I wasn’t really worth the effort. I had to learn who was who and what was what as I went along.

  But I was young and nothing if not optimistic.

  I wasn’t daft either and I had my wits about me. I knew, even at fourteen, that I had the worst possible job in the house, I would have to work harder than anyone else and wait on the servants. But with all the arrogance of youth I knew I’d rise through the ranks – saw it as my right almost. As I finally got to the bottom of the mountain of dirty dishes, my spirit remained as intact as ever. When you’re at the bottom, the only way to go is up, after all!

  I muttered to myself as I cleaned and stacked the dishes: I’ll have the best job in the house one day. You wait and see. I’ll make cook. I’ll show ’em all.

  Next morning I was downstairs by six thirty a.m. I’d only had a brief wash – no point any more, I’d be wringing with sweat and dirt before the day was out anyhow. Granny’s words rang in my head: You’ll be a skivvy, my girl.

  First I had to light the monstrosity of a stove, which was a job in itself.

  ‘Come on, you wretched thing,’ I muttered.

  You needed just the right amount of kindling and to have the knack of pulling the drawers out to give enough draught to get it to catch light. I didn’t know Mrs Jones well, but I knew enough to know that surly old trout would be down on me like a ton of bricks if she didn’t get her morning cup of tea.

  Next I had to blacklead the grate with blacklead from a tin with zebra stripes on it. By the time I’d finished painting it on with a brush and then polished it until it gleamed the colour of the boss’s black Daimler, I had hands like a black man. But there was no time to worry about that. The clock on the kitchen wall said seven and I hadn’t even started on the steps.

  Rushing up the area steps, I gratefully gulped in the spring air.

  At that time of the morning I’d half-expected it to be like a mausoleum outside, but the smart square was a hive of activity. Not with the gentry. Oh no. They’d still be fast asleep upstairs in their starched cotton sheets, heavy velvet curtains blocking out the intrusive morning light. No, it was full of kitchen maids shaking out dusters and scullery maids like me scrubbing the front steps. Errand boys whistled as they cycled round on bikes loaded up with goods to drop at the back of the house. Paperboys dropped off thick bundles of papers at each house and chimney sweeps cycled past, laden down with brushes.

  Everyone was cheerful, whistling as they worked or exchanging a fruity joke. Maids flirted with errand boys and shrieked with laughter at their ribaldry. When you get a load of youngsters together who don’t mind being up with the sparrows it’s inevitable they’re going to lark about together.

  ‘Morning,’ I said, smiling at the scullery maid on her hands and knees on the next set of steps along from me. She didn’t look much older than me.

  ‘Morning,’ she grinned back. ‘You new, ainch ya? My boss has guests today so I daresay I’ll be back here before the day is out. Bloomin’ bane of my life these things are.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Wouldn’t mind, but her upstairs sees dirt where they ain’t none. She’s still fast asleep now, mind you, she won’t raise her pretty head off the pillow for a good couple of hours, lazy cow. We gotta do these chores and get ’em out the way before they see us. They must think the cleaning fairies fly over Cadogan Square each morning at dawn.’

  A very desirable postcode – all the gentry had a London house for the season.

  I smiled to show I was one of them but, ever mindful of Mrs Jones, I got on with the task in hand. I scrubbed away with my hearthstone until my arms were aching and numb. I started at the bottom and worked my way up but quickly realized that was pointless as I was only making each step dirty again by treading on it. No, I’d have to start at the top and work me way down. Unfortunately this made my bum poke further out into the square and I was aware of it jiggling as I scrubbed heartily.

  At that point I hadn’t realized I was allowed, on strictly those occasions only, to enter the house via the front door no less, so as not to muddy the steps.

  Suddenly I felt an almighty whack round my rear end.

  What on earth?

  I whirled round to find myself face to face with an errand boy. He had a teasing face made for mischief and his blue eyes twinkled as they lingered on my legs.

  ‘Lovely view,’ he winked, tugging the edge of his flat cap. ‘You’re better than the last. She had a face like the back of a bus. And a redhead too. I love redheads. You look like Clara Bow.’

  With my hair plastered under a mop cap, my hands thick with dirt and without a trace of make-up, I daresay I looked more like orphan Annie than a big Hollywood film star, but I was willing to believe him.

  ‘Get away, you rascal,’ I cackled, secretly delighted at his attention.

  ‘Come and see me when you get some time off,’ he said, hopping on to his bike. ‘I work at Harrods. Come round the back entrance, Trevor Square, and ask for Billy.’

  Errand boys, I quickly discovered, were the worst flirt
s of the lot, and the Harrods boys were the most handsome. Nipping about Knightsbridge on their natty little green bikes gave them a certain prestige amongst the local domestics.

  My cloud of hormonal oestrogen was popped as I heard a familiar voice drift up the area steps. ‘Mollie!’ cried out Mrs Jones. ‘I said MOLLIE!’ Oh blimey, I hadn’t even got her tea or started sweeping the passage yet.

  ‘Got to go,’ I panted, frantically gathering up my brushes and hearthstone.

  ‘See you around, carrot,’ he winked. Then he was gone, whistling his way up towards Sloane Square without a care in the world.

  Down in the gloom of the kitchen Mrs Jones was not, I discovered, a morning person and nor did she like being kept waiting for her morning cup of tea. I also discovered that each morning she would come down in a different mood. She had one for each day of the week from surly to grumpy to moderately cheerful to downright foul. And on this particular morning her mood was as black as the stove I’d been scrubbing.

  It was like a dark cloud had drifted into the kitchen. Her beefy hands were planted on her hips and she shot me a look so sour it could have curdled milk from fifty paces.

  ‘I knew it,’ she spat. ‘Boys – is that all you young girls think about?’

  I stared at her face and wondered how she got to be so bitter. Looking back now, the poor woman had probably been plagued by a long stream of giggly scullery maids, who she’d spend months training up to her standards only to have them disappear when they got something better. But back then, in my eyes she was just an old maid left on the shelf. We only called her ‘Mrs’ as a courtesy; there wasn’t so much as a whiff of a man on the scene. I wasn’t going to end up like her, oh no. To a young girl that was the worst fate in the world.

  I decided to follow my mother’s advice, ‘keep my trap shut’ and humour the surly old trout. The rest of the day her mood didn’t improve and she worked me flat out. Every few minutes her thick Welsh accent rang out: That’s not up to my standards. You better learn to scrub better than that or you won’t last long. You missed a bit there. Scrub that table over again. I want to see my face in it. These potatoes aren’t peeled proper. Young girls these days. Don’t work like they did in my day. On and on she tutted and puffed like an old steam train.

  People think they know about hygiene in kitchens now but they don’t have a clue. Most people’s idea of cleaning is a once-over with some cleaning spray and that’s it. That would never do back then. Oh no. Nothing could ever be clean enough and what most people do once a month, back then, we did daily.

  This was an age of appearances and it wouldn’t do to have dirty steps, an unpolished doorknob, dusty kitchen drawers, floors or anything else for that matter. My life revolved around cleaning everything and everywhere.

  The heavy kitchen table had to be scrubbed twice a day, after lunch and dinner, and everywhere, even the legs, had to have a good scrub down with soap and soda until it all gleamed.

  Next I had to clean and scrub the dresser and kitchen cupboards, inside and out.

  Once a week the entire dinner service, including plates, bowls, platters, sauce boats, vegetable dishes and soup tureens had to be got down and washed, the shelves dusted and scrubbed, then the whole lot replaced.

  The range was the thing that made my fingers ache the most. You had to light it each morning. There were no luxuries like gas and electric back then. The range was itself a little like the cook – large, cumbersome, temperamental and forever going off. There was a real art to getting the fire going strong enough to cook a meal on it and keep the kettles that were constantly bubbling on top of the stove hot enough to make tea with or fill up the giant saucepans.

  Every morning I had to blacklead it with a thick brush and then buff it until it gleamed like marble.

  Next I had to polish the steel fender, shovel, tongs and poker and steel range handles. ‘I want to see my face in it,’ was Mrs Jones’s usual quip. ‘It needs to shine like it’s been varnished.’

  In front of the fire was a hearth and that had to be scrubbed every day too with the hearthstone.

  Once a week I had to turn out the servants’ hall and housekeeper’s room. And I mean turn out. You couldn’t just mop it. Oh no, every bit of furniture had to be moved out and the rooms scrubbed from top to bottom.

  I also had to scrub the passageway floors and kitchen floor every day. Most people assume these floors would have been lovely old original flagstone tiles. Oh no. The floors were concrete and they had to be polished once a week on a Friday after lunch with red cardinal floor polish. No one uses that any more but it’s a little like shoe polish and I had to smother the kitchen and pantry floors in it and then buff it up to a gleaming rich red shine. God, it was a mess.

  After the floor, once a week, I had to polish all the vast copper pans that hung from the walls with a mixture of silver sand, vinegar and lemon juice. You rubbed it on with a rag, washed and then buffed the pans until they gleamed. And all this before I’d even started on steps, hallways, the washing-up and day-to-day activities like prepping the veggies and washing the pots and pans as Mrs Jones used them.

  Before long I realized I would be spending most of my time on my hands and knees in a hessian apron, scrubbing!

  And everything had to be done in a particular order too. You couldn’t just get to it when you fancied. Each hour of each day was strictly accounted for and the routines of kitchens in the old days wouldn’t be out of place in Her Majesty’s army. I certainly worked like a soldier, that’s for sure. And if I was the soldier, Mrs Jones was the culinary equivalent of a drill sergeant.

  By the end of that first week reality had come and slapped me round the face like a ten-day-old wet kipper. I was just fourteen and had worked like a slave, up to my elbows in grease and muck, for fifteen hours a day.

  Nothing was ever good enough for Mrs Jones. Either I was too fast or too slow. Her tongue was so sharp she could have cut herself and nothing escaped her critical eye. Too much sand in the pan mix and you’d soon know about it.

  ‘Dull as dishwater,’ she’d snap.

  Couldn’t see your face in the stove? ‘Polish it again.’

  At the end of my first week I was filthy, not to mention so dizzy and exhausted, my head seemed to fall through the pillow. It was Friday night. If I’d been at home I would have helped Mother shop in the market, scoffed sweets and been licking my salty lips from the fresh kippers we’d have eaten for tea. My brother would be splashing about in the tin bath in front of the fire now.

  I pictured Mother’s face, sitting down for the first time all week in front of the crackling fire in our cosy cottage. I missed it so much I could almost hear their laughter, taste the smoky warm kitchen.

  I was just a young girl alone in a strange new world.

  Here in this big old house the warm London smog was stifling. What I wouldn’t have done to be breathing in the fresh, clean Norfolk air. I was so homesick it hurt. I even missed PC Risebrough. Not even the prospect of a weekly bath the next morning to wash away the grime that seemed painted on to my skin could raise a smile. My spirits sank lower than the mud at the bottom of the sluice.

  What did tomorrow bring? More scrubbing, I’d be bound.

  As my body throbbed with exhaustion I started to sob. Had I made a terrible, terrible mistake?

  I couldn’t possibly go home now. Mother had paid for my uniform and I’d get a reputation for being flaky if I packed it in so soon. Besides, I was fourteen. My childhood was officially over. I had to work, be it here or back in that depressing shop.

  How was it possible to feel this wretched?

  Tips from a 1930s Kitchen

  …

  THE PERFECT ROAST BEEF

  She may have had a temperament as sour as five-day-old milk pudding, but Mrs Jones couldn’t half cook. She never went in for any of this low-fat style cooking either. Like Mrs Beeton, whose recipes she loved, it was full-fat butter, milk and cream all the way. It was full-on flavour too. I’m n
ot saying you should cook this way all the time like I used to, but once in a while can’t hurt.

  Try this Mrs Beeton recipe for roast fillet of beef that Mrs Jones adapted and used. Tying it in a bag seals in the flavour and keeps the meat incredibly moist and tender.

  Fillet of beef

  ⅓ pint (190 ml) beef gravy

  For the marinade: 3 tablespoonfuls oil, 1 tablespoonful

  lemon juice, 1 teaspoonful chopped onion and

  1 teaspoonful chopped parsley, pinch of mixed herbs,

  pepper and a pinch of ground cloves

  Place the meat on a dish, pour over the marinade and let it remain for three hours, turning and basting frequently. Have ready a sheet of well-greased baking paper, drain away half the liquid of the marinade, fold the remainder of the marinade and the meat in the paper and fasten the ends securely. Roast or bake for 45 minutes, basting frequently with butter or dripping. Fifteen minutes before serving, remove the paper and when the meat is nicely brown brush it over with butter and place it in a hot dish.

  Serve the remaining liquid from the bag as gravy. Just heat it through with butter, red wine and seasoning. When cooled slightly, stir through with cream.

  HOUSEHOLD TIP

  Try this inexpensive treat for tired feet.

  Place some glass marbles in the bottom of a large foot bowl, just enough to cover the base. Top up with warm water and Epsom salts. Plunge your feet in and gently slide your feet over the marbles. Foot soak and massage in one!

  4

  Soulmates

  To get the full value of a joy you must have

  somebody to divide it with.

  Mark Twain

  My homesickness followed me round all week like a dirty black cloud. I must have been living in cloud cuckoo land to think it would all come easy. Worst of all, Mrs Jones weren’t even the strangest of the staff. I quickly realized there were some funnier sorts than her in the house.