Mid-morning we got a break for an elevensy of coffee, bread and butter or dripping sprinkled with sugar. It was always a welcome breather. Mrs Jones would reach down and pour us all a coffee from the percolator that had been bubbling away all morning on the stove.
Wrapping my hands round the steaming mug, I leant back and breathed out slowly. For the first time in days I allowed my thoughts to drift back to Mother. Thanks to my new friend I was ashamed to say I was no longer missing Norfolk or even allowed it to crowd my thoughts as it once had.
Was Mother missing me? Worrying about me?
‘Make us a coffee, Mollie,’ grinned Alan, snapping me out of my daydream. ‘My tongue’s hanging out.’ He’d been cleaning silver for the dinner party that evening and the green baize apron he wore over his livery reeked of silver polish. The smell of freshly brewed coffee acted like a magnet to that boy.
‘I must have cleaned a mountain of silver,’ he grumbled.
Behind him Flo pulled a face and I started chuckling. I knew what was coming next and I was faster than him. As I reached up to the rack over the stove to get him a warm mug, I knew he’d give my bottom a cheeky pinch. Quick as a flash I whirled round and cut him across the hand with a wet tea towel.
He whipped his hand away and I cackled.
‘That’ll teach you,’ I snorted. ‘Now keep yer hands to yerself, you filthy so-and-so.’
Our laughter was drowned out as Mr Orchard thundered into the kitchen and Alan slunk off.
‘Need I remind you where you are,’ he said, his mouth twisting in disgust. ‘We do not want those sorts of unsavoury activities going on under Mr Stocks’s roof.’
Flo pulled another face behind him and I had to use every muscle in my face to stop myself from falling apart. Didn’t that man ever have fun? Rumour had it that he had a boyfriend who worked in an office, so I suppose he may have been homosexual, as were a lot of butlers back then. We never knew for sure and he certainly wouldn’t have shared such personal information with me, the scullery maid, but one thing was for certain: he kept his private life very private.
It must have been hard being a gay man in the 1930s. Not that we called them gay back then. Gay was someone who was jolly or happy. Back then they were called pansies or nancy boys. Traditionalists, from the working class up to high society, frowned upon homosexuality and they were regarded as sinners as well as criminals. Homosexuals were seen as a threat to marriage, family and church. It’s hard to imagine it now, but in the 1930s homosexuality was illegal and was actively sought out by the police and prosecuted by the state. The 1885 Criminal Law Amendment Act, famously used to prosecute Oscar Wilde, specifically outlawed any sex act, public or private, between two men, enshrining in law homosexuals as criminals. These acts could be punished by up to two years’ imprisonment.
The number of arrests and prosecutions for these acts went up dramatically between 1919 and 1935 as police focused attention on increasing the number of raids and breaking up meetings between gay men. Evidence used was often spurious and custodial sentences were handed out more frequently. In the 1920s there was some degree of freedom, but from 1931 things became much stricter and a serious anti-homosexual backlash began. The issue of homosexuality was of such concern to the police that they held the first Conference on Homosexual Crimes in London in the same year as I started as scullery maid. Only down the road from us in Holland Park, sixty men, many working class, were arrested following a police raid at a private Holland Park ballroom. The men had been caught dancing together, with many wearing women’s clothes and make-up. ‘Pansy case’ the papers called it.
Homosexual men had resorted to meeting in secret, at clubs, bars and houses throughout London, and a whole underground subculture had emerged. Looking back, that could have explained Mr Orchard’s twitchy, repressed behaviour. He was probably terrified of being arrested, poor fella. As I said, he always kept his private life scrupulously private.
But all he was to me was just a buttoned-up old butler, hell bent on destroying my fun.
After his dressing-down, Mrs Jones glowered from over the top of her basin.
‘Oh, don’t carry on so, Mollie. Now, get out from under my feet and pop to Coopers and get me some more sugar. We’re running low.’ Coopers was a major store opposite Harrods that sold groceries and sundries and was always a place you could nip to, to top up your supplies.
This was music to my ears. I loved popping out to the shops more than anything. Any chance to get away from the house and Mr Orchard’s oppressive gaze and see a bit of London was a tonic.
Outside in the spring sunshine I walked out of Cadogan Square and, humming to myself, I headed out on to Sloane Street and then hooked a left on to Brompton Road and Harrods.
I’ve heard of some scullery maids who were ashamed to wear their uniforms outside, for fear of being seen as a skivvy. Not me! I was proud of it and I wore my apron like a badge of honour. I had a job and was sending money home to my mother. That meant I was respectable. Why on earth some people would lie about their jobs I’ll never know, but I know plenty did, whether it was because they worried they wouldn’t get a boyfriend if a fella thought they worked all the hours sent, or just because they thought they’d be looked down on, I don’t know. I just know I was pleased to be wearing this uniform. What did it matter? I was earning good money as a scullery maid in Knightsbridge.
What a rarefied place this area was back in the early 1930s. There was hardly any traffic on the road and what cars there were were Daimlers and Rolls-Royces. The place was crawling with gentry. Ladies and gentlemen paraded through the numerous green squares. These folks were the crème de la crème of society.
‘You are lucky to be here, Mollie Browne,’ I said to myself as I walked with purpose up Brompton Road.
The sun glinted off the black railings and it felt like all London society was out this season, waiting to be seen. By day it was like a scene from Mary Poppins. But by night, who knew what went on in the big ballrooms of the huge London hotels and nightclubs?
I paused and watched as a number of glamorous women swept past me out of a large house and disappeared into the back of a Daimler. They were dressed beautifully in long black silky backless dresses and not a hair on their heads was out of place. A footman wearing white gloves held the back door open for them. They walked like pedigree cats slinking along the pavement and they gave off a nonchalant air. There wasn’t a trace of fat on them, they were stick thin. Not like me. I was rounded and curvy with an hourglass figure.
These women didn’t look like demure debs off to be presented at court. They looked like racy actresses off to dance to big bands and drink champagne cocktails. As a young scullery maid I daresay I was invisible to them, but all these sights and sounds made lasting impressions on me.
After purchasing my sugar I nipped round the back of Harrods to visit the errand boys. The Trevor Square entrance on the other side of the Brompton Road was where all the deliveries left from and it was teeming with bikes and vans piled sky high with parcels and packages. They didn’t have to cross the road to reach Harrods and stock up. Oh no. There was a tunnel that went under the Brompton Road where they could pass unobtrusively and unseen. The goods were dispatched from Harrods via a freight lift operated by a driver who had to line up the lift with each floor. Once in the basement they were taken in small trains that pulled the goods in cages along the tunnel to the other side of the road. The gentry didn’t want to be faced with grubby delivery boys, after all! The tunnel has been there ever since the present building was completed and apparently is still in use today. Lifts and escalators were for the Harrods customers; the back stairs and tunnel were for its employees.
I loved the idea of a secret tunnel, a whole other world beavering away underground, just like we did at Cadogan Square. In fact, London was pulsing with secret, shadowy, unseen worlds. With servants scurrying up hidden stairways, errand boys in underground tunnels and homosexuals meeting in secret clubs, the smart Lond
on I had just walked through was only the tip of the iceberg – the presentable face of the 1930s.
Just then I spotted Billy the errand boy pushing his bike out of the delivery bay.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he grinned. ‘Come back to see me? Knew you would.’
Some intensive flirting followed, with Billy trying to persuade me to go out with him, before I realized the time. Oh crumbs. Mrs Jones would be wondering where her sugar was.
‘Best go,’ I shrieked. Fortunately all those years running wild in the Norfolk fields meant I was a good little runner and soon I was pounding up Sloane Street, my apron flapping behind me and the wind ruffling my mop cap nearly clean off my head.
Rich and spicy smells had filled the kitchen. Luckily Mrs Jones hadn’t noticed I was late as she was too busy serving up the boss’s lunch. On dinner-party days they would serve a light lunch of cold meat and salad.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur as everyone focused on his or her own tasks. Finally, by seven thirty p.m., everything was ready to go up. The sound of the silver gong chiming in the hallway signalled that the guests would be finishing their cocktails and moving to the dining room.
Shortly after, the service bell rang in the passage. It was all systems go. The gentry were ready to eat.
The piping hot consommé was poured into a vast tureen that had been warming on the rack above the stove and the light-as-air soufflés were rising gently. The salmon was really something to behold. It was the little touches that made it special. Mrs Jones served it whole on a silver platter with a head and tail made from puff pastry. The fish had been glazed with aspic and was as pink as candy-floss. Flo had cut little pieces of cucumber into the shapes of diamonds and hearts and it was garnished with parsley, quarters of egg, lettuce and carved tomatoes. It looked fit for a king.
The chicken was no less impressive. It had been poached and then brushed with a thin layer of aspic jelly until it glistened and was served with fat asparagus stalks, dripping with melted butter. Flo’s duchesse potatoes, which she had spent ages mashing and passing through a sieve this morning, had been moulded into diamond-shaped pieces and baked in the range before being brushed with warm butter and garnished with finely chopped parsley. Served up on silver trays with white doilies and decorated with more aspic dots and parsley, it looked a treat.
Nothing left that kitchen without a white doily and a parsley garnish. Old habits die hard – I still serve up food like that.
My mouth weren’t half watering. Imagine that being served up to you by a butler and footman in white gloves. You’d think you were the bee’s knees, wouldn’t you?
The raspberry mousse looked as light as gossamer, served up next to slivers of succulent white peaches. ‘By! It’d melt in your mouth, wouldn’t it?’ Alan winked, when he noticed me gazing lustfully at the pudding. Then he was gone, taking the silver platters through to the little hatch next to the kitchen, where it would go up in a lift to the next floor. Mr Orchard would be ready and waiting to take the food into the dining room on a big butler’s tray. He and Alan would then wait hand and foot on the party for the rest of the night. Every two minutes that bell seemed to tinkle and off they would scurry to tend to their masters’ needs.
You never knew how the food went down. Mostly I’m sure it was appreciated by Mrs Lavinia, Mr Stocks and their cronies, as it always came back for the most part eaten. I wondered if they knew the effort and hard work that went into creating that meal, or how my father would have killed for just one mouthful of that delicate chicken dish.
After dinner service was over, Mrs Jones, quite overcome with exhaustion, retired to her bedroom, and me and Flo, still on a high, played cards on the kitchen table.
Finally, the dinner party dispersed and Alan came downstairs.
‘That’s that over with then. Seen ’em all off into their taxis and cars,’ he said. ‘Mrs Lavinia’s real pretty,’ he added with a sigh, shaking his head. Then he fixed his penetrating gaze on me. But not as pretty as you, Mollie,’ he said.
I flushed red. ‘Get away with you,’ I giggled, flicking a playing card at him.
But that night, as Flo and I washed and changed into our nighties, she couldn’t help but tease me.
‘I reckon that footman has a thing for you, Mollie,’ she said.
‘Behave,’ I said. ‘Besides, I couldn’t court him. Mrs Jones says dating other staff’s not allowed, is it? I couldn’t …’
Could I?
My mind drifted back to my carefree childhood. Since when did I give a fig for things like petty rules? I could date a footman if I wanted and it would take more than a cantankerous old cook to stop me.
‘Well, we’re back off to the country soon,’ said Flo. Her voice was rich with mischief. ‘You know all that fresh country air makes a man frisky,’ she teased.
I giggled.
‘Besides, plenty of haystacks to hide behind and hedgerows to lean on,’ she snorted.
‘You wicked thing,’ I cackled, hurling my pillow at her.
‘Hah,’ she laughed, hurling it back. Soon we were giggling so much, helpless tears of laughter streamed down our faces.
‘Sssh,’ hushed Mrs Jones crossly through the wall.
As we settled down to sleep, images of Alan’s and Louis’s faces danced through my mind and a shiver of excitement tingled through my body.
Countryside, here we come!
A heavy silence fell over Cadogan Square that night, each of us closeted away in our own allocated space. Mrs Jones snored softly next door. Mr Stocks sat downstairs enveloped in a cloud of expensive cigar smoke and memories of yesterday. Mr Orchard was probably still folding his clothes away just so, his head preoccupied with thoughts of his master. Goodness knows what lusty dreams chased through Alan’s mind and, upstairs, in the dark of the attic, lay two young girls, dreaming of tomorrow and a world of adventures just waiting to be had …
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen
…
SOUP TO SCRUB FLOORS ON
Consommé may not be to everyone’s taste, so why not try this instead? I love this recipe for chicken, vegetable and pearl barley broth. It’s cheap, healthy and has kept me going a few years.
Whole chicken
3 pints (1.7 litres) water
2 cloves garlic
1 carrot
1 onion
1 stick celery
Finely chopped parsley and tarragon too if you like the flavour
Good handful of pearl barley
Place the chicken in a stewpot with the water, garlic, vegetables and herbs and simmer gently for two hours. Remove the chicken and strain the liquor.
Now add a good handful of pearl barley to the broth and simmer until the pearl barley is cooked and the broth has thickened. Dice the chicken breast off the bird and add to the broth along with salt, pepper, more parsley and a dash of lemon. Serve piping hot with hot buttered toast.
HOUSEHOLD TIP
To stop your kettle from furring, keep a small stone marble inside the kettle.
5
To the Country
Dearest tie of young connections,
Love’s first snow-drop, virgin kiss.
Robert Burns
The stench was like nothing on earth – wave upon wave of a putrid, fetid odour so foul it filled the small, dark room like a cloud. It was as pungent and sweet as a rotten melon. A curious mix of sweet and sulphur that can only come from congealed blood and decomposing flesh.
The vapours crept into my nostrils and drifted down into my tummy, whereupon I was seized with an instant urge to be sick.
Come on, Mollie. Get a grip. You can do this.
Taking a knife, I gripped the head of the creature and, before I could chicken out, sliced a deep hole between its legs. Plunging my hand into the cavity I closed my eyes as soft, rotting intestines squelched between my fingers.
‘Eurgh!’ I squealed. ‘That is revolting.’
As I whipped my trembling hand out, the entire con
tents of the bird’s insides – entrails, intestines and maggots – slithered out and landed with a soft slapping noise on to the floor of the game room. The rancid smell that rose up to meet me was so sharp I gagged and ran screaming from the room.
In the kitchen, Mrs Jones and Flo didn’t bat an eyelid at the sight of a screaming scullery maid covered in blood.
‘Oh, stop your fussing, child,’ Mrs Jones tutted, shaking her head. ‘When you gonna learn to pluck and gut them partridge? It’s yer job, you know.’
Scrubbing the blood off my hands at the sink, I nodded miserably. I knew it was my job, but it didn’t make it any easier.
Ever since we’d arrived at Woodhall three months ago in July 1931, I’d quickly realized that the boss’s time would be devoted to stalking, shooting and hunting down pheasants, partridge, rabbits and hares. If it moved, he would shoot and eat it. Which meant that somebody had to devote a lot of their time to plucking, skinning and gutting dead animals. And who would that somebody be? Yes, you’ve guessed it. The scullery maid, of course.
The game room, which led off from the kitchen, was full to the brim with the rotting carcasses of dead animals that Mr Stocks and his hunting cronies had killed. Hares, partridges and pheasants all hung from iron hooks high up on the walls and pools of blood congealed on the floor. In the country they liked to hang them for a good two weeks. Apparently, it improved the flavour. I don’t know about that, but it certainly made them stink a whole lot more.
Between the dead game and the gardener, whose smelly feet competed with the stench from the game room, the air around these parts weren’t so fresh, after all.
Flo came up behind me at the sink.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said with a kind smile. She was an expert at plucking and gutting birds and did it without a murmur. ‘You always know how to get round me, don’t you?’
‘Thanks, Flo,’ I grinned back. ‘You’re a real pal. What would I do without you?’
Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid Page 9