‘I don’t know,’ she said, shaking her head and laughing. ‘Find someone else, like as not.’
Apart from the rotting stench of the game room, Woodhall was quite the loveliest place I’d ever seen. A great fifteen-bedroom listed Tudor home set in acres of stunning countryside. It was huge; much bigger than the Cadogan Square house. Mr Stocks’s father, Major Michael Stocks, had purchased it in 1895 and, as we’d bumped up the gravel drive in the back of their country car, I could quite see why he must have fallen in love with it on sight.
It was a hazy summer’s afternoon when we arrived and, after the hustle and bustle of smoggy London, the sweet country air was a tonic. Mr Thornton had met us off the train at Downham and soon we were whizzing along the quiet country lanes. Mrs Jones stared resolutely ahead, clutching some of her beloved copper pans to her bosom for dear life, but Flo and I soon had the windows wound down and were gawping at the scenery as it unfolded outside.
The countryside was beyond beautiful.
Ancient mellow villages unchanged for centuries passed by as if wrapped in a time warp. The verdant green hedgerows were bursting with wild flowers and a rush of fresh country air laced with the aroma of wood smoke tingled in my nose. Every so often a gap in the hedgerow revealed a tantalizing glimpse of a windswept creek or sweeping wild views of the backwaters beyond.
Out of my bedroom window in London the only scenery had been a jumble of chimney pots. Here, the Norfolk skies seemed to stretch on forever. Fields of wheat and barley soon gave way to fertile fens, flanked by gently swaying rushes.
‘This is Hilgay,’ announced Mr Thornton as we drove through a picture-postcard village. ‘It’s quiet, all right. Daresay you girls won’t be able to get up to too much mischief here.’
Mrs Jones said nothing, just raised her eyebrows half an inch and bristled. Flo and I exchanged wicked little grins.
If Constable himself had come along he couldn’t have painted a prettier picture of a chocolate-box English village. Ancient flint-and-stone workers’ cottages nestled in lush green gardens and in the middle of it stood a sweet little church. The village of Hilgay is on the banks of the River Wissey and fat creamy-coloured geese dozed in the sunshine. Before long a duck, followed by a line of little ducklings, waddled up the village high street, forcing Mr Thornton to slow to a halt outside the church. There wasn’t another motor car in sight as he eased the car to a stop. Time seemed to have stood still, village life unchanged for centuries. An old boy, chewing on a bit of straw and hanging over a fence post, gazed curiously at the waiting car full of women.
Eventually he raised his cap.
‘Hold yew hard, bor,’ he said with a nod to Mr Thornton, a gap-toothed grin on his face. ‘Them ducks a crossin’. That’ll learn yer to rush about.’ He looked like he moved as slowly as the mother duck and her ducklings, but then I guessed everybody moved slowly round these parts. There wasn’t much to rush to.
Mr Thornton nodded towards the graveyard.
‘Captain George William Manby’s buried in that there graveyard,’ he said proudly. ‘He’s the one what invented the rocket device that was used to save the crews of shipwrecked ships.’ He shook his head and chuckled to himself. ‘Tested it from the roof of that church tower, so he did. Must have scared the birds half to death.’
A plaque in Woodhall’s church graveyard to commemorate Captain Manby, previous occupant of Woodhall and inventor of a rocket device used to save the crews of shipwrecked ships.
Flo and I giggled at the thought of a rocket blasting over the tranquil fields. It must have been the most exciting thing that had ever happened round these parts.
‘He used to live in Woodhall, he did,’ continued Mr Thornton. ‘Except the boss is the lord of the manor now, a course.’
And what a manor to be lord of! Soon the ducklings had moved safely to the other side of the street and we were off again. In no time at all we had crunched to a halt up the gravel drive. As we disembarked from the car in a scrummage of tired, aching limbs and clanking pots, Flo and I had paused to take in our new home.
‘Quite something, ain’t it?’ I whistled, wide-eyed.
‘Very gracious,’ Flo agreed.
The red brickwork of the house, mellowed over time, looked as much a part of the landscape as the pheasants that rustled in the hedgerows flanking the gardens. Great stag antlers had been attached either side of the arched stone porch and countless Tudor chimneys soared into the sky. It was magnificent, but a trifle imposing.
Then we saw a sight equal in its magnificence.
Louis was hard at work, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal sun-kissed muscular arms as he polished Mr Stocks’s Daimler outside the stable block. He lovingly buffed the Daimler’s sleek bonnet with his strong brown hands and Flo and I watched him, mesmerized.
What a sight for sore eyes.
When Louis spotted us, his face lit up with a broad grin and he lifted his chauffeur’s cap an inch.
‘This is my younger brother, George,’ he said, gesturing to the man beside him. ‘Welcome to Woodhall.’
All traces of fatigue vanished as we spotted the handsome brother and waved and giggled frantically. Turned out George worked for a local farmer and he and his handsome brother, Louis, lived with their father on a big farmhouse on Woodhall’s estate.
‘Nice to meet you, George,’ I purred.
‘This way, girls,’ said Mrs Jones firmly, hustling us inside via the back door.
‘I’ve never seen anywhere as grand as this in all me life,’ I whispered breathlessly to Flo as we made our way up the back stairs to our new shared bedroom in the attic. The servants’ rooms didn’t quite compete with the grandeur of the rest of the estate. Our bedroom was dusty, hot and contained just two small single beds.
‘This side of the house is strictly for female servants,’ Mrs Jones said, fixing her beady eyes on us. ‘The other side is for male servants. There is no access to that side of the house from here, just in case you get any ideas. Now freshen up and then get yerselves down in the kitchen,’ she ordered.
Interestingly enough, I only recently discovered that Mrs Jones told us a little fib. There is access, by means of a small secret doorway, leading to the male servants’ quarters. I suppose you can’t blame her for not showing it to us!
Once inside, we plonked our small cases on the lino floor and I flung open the window to let in some fresh air. ‘The view’s not bad, mind,’ I commented when I leant out of the attic window and realized I could still see Louis, his breeches stretched tight over his magnificent bottom, as he bent over to polish the tyres.
Flo’s face lit up like a sunbeam as she poked her nose out of the window next to me.
‘Yep,’ she giggled. ‘Reckon we’re gonna like it here, all right.’
I noted with interest that leading out of our window was a small ladder, which served as a fire escape. ‘Hmmm,’ I murmured half to myself. ‘That may come in handy!’
Unfortunately, grand it may have been, but when it came to washing facilities, Woodhall was much more basic than Cadogan Square. Flo and I each had a chamber pot under our beds to do our bodily functions in and, as for a bathroom, forget it. A tiny hip bath stood in the corner of the room.
Tired and hot from our long journey, we decided to have our weekly bath and wash the grime of London off. Filling up our hip bath with water from a housemaid’s cupboard on the landing, we filled it to the top. It took an age using an old enamel jug, but eventually we had it done.
‘You go first,’ said Flo. I’d never been naked in front of anyone before, apart from my family, and suddenly I was overcome with a rush of shyness. I had boobs now and hair in places I never used to.
Peeling off my sweat-soaked dress and knickers, I felt very exposed.
‘It’s all right, I won’t peek,’ chuckled Flo. ‘Besides, we’re going to have to do our business in front of one another now, so it don’t matter.’
This was true, but all the same I kept both
hands firmly clamped over my bits, which made it quite hard when it came to the matter of actually getting in the hip bath. Should I go in bum first so my knees came up to my chin or did I just crouch in it like an idiot? What was the knack here? The blasted thing was so damn small! Hang it all. With one hand still covering my bits, I hopped from foot to foot, then took the plunge and slid in feet first.
Flo squealed as a great tidal wave of water gushed over the sides. ‘You’re flooding us, Mollie!’ she screamed, falling on the bed with helpless laughter. ‘It’s like the Titanic in here.’
‘Help me, then,’ I spluttered.
I floundered about naked like a fish out of water, all flailing legs and arms. By the time Flo had stopped laughing enough to pull me out, there was one inch of water left in the bath and the floor was flooded.
‘I’m just as grubby as when I got in,’ I giggled, wrapping a towel round myself.
The wild laughter attracted the attentions of Mabel, the fusty old head housemaid. She burst in, took one look at the state of the floor and had a blue fit.
‘Whatever are you girls doing?’ she gasped.
‘S-sorry,’ I said, my teeth chattering. ‘The bath over run.’
‘I’ve a good mind to make you change your own chamber pots,’ she tutted, shaking her head. ‘Heads in the clouds.’
Our subsequent attempts at a bath were no more successful and I half wonder we didn’t give up altogether. We must have stunk in them days. But we always made sure to give our feet a good wash in the basin every night, come what may.
Despite the lack of washing facilities, life in the country was good, albeit more pungent. Maybe it was the slower pace of life or the lack of formal lunch and dinner parties to cater for, but everyone, even Mr Orchard and Mrs Jones, seemed a bit more relaxed at Woodhall. Alan, the footman, and John, the hallboy, were just as frisky and Alan kept up his outrageous flirting, seemingly oblivious that I only had eyes for Louis.
The vast kitchens were actually at the front of the house on the ground floor, overlooking the lawns, so a continual stream of fresh air and sunshine poured through the windows. And what with the constant presence of handsome Louis about the place, things were definitely looking up!
I still had all the usual tasks to do, like whitening the steps and scrubbing the floors, but Woodhall was a little backward compared to London. For starters, milk was delivered from a neighbouring farm on a horse-drawn cart. An old nag plodded up the drive each morning with his eyes half-closed, tossing his mane about to flick off the summer flies. Soon as we heard the clopping of hooves we’d leave out three kitchen jugs for the milkman to fill with fresh frothy milk.
Instead of a range there was an actual coal fire in the kitchen and an old boiler in the scullery, which was used to heat water for the whole house. Ooh, I hated that old thing. In the mornings the coal fire had to be raked down and then piled up with coal to the top. It took three buckets at a time and the ash had to be swept out first thing and then heaped high again. With no gloves, my face and hands would soon be black with soot and ash and, no matter how many times you washed your hands, the smell of coal dust lingered on your skin and up your nose. Like I say, I must have been filthy in them days. The coal for the fire and boiler was kept in a sort of vast open cupboard in the kitchen, so when you needed more you just reached over and grabbed a few more lumps. You can’t imagine that now, can you? Coal dust floating about in the kitchen near food! Coal fires were to become obsolete during the 1960s and would largely die a death thanks to Clean Air legislation, but back then they were the best form of heating for most people.
Instead of the concrete floors of London, Woodhall’s kitchen had a lovely old wooden floor, which I had to scrub once a week with a brush and some carbolic soap until it gleamed and shone like a new pin.
Two months after we arrived, the shooting season went into full swing with the arrival of partridges in September and pheasant in October. Mr Stocks had vanished for most of August, off up to Scotland for the grouse season, but in September he returned and, thanks to the open outlook of the kitchens, I got to have a good look at him properly for the first time.
As scullery maid, it was my job to get his dogs’ meals ready. You’ve got to laugh at the gentry. Even their beloved black Labradors had to have specially prepared meals. They had three ounces of chopped raw shin of beef and two tablespoonfuls of cooked cabbage.
After his return from Scotland, Mr Stocks clumped down the passage one morning to collect his dogs’ biscuits and water.
‘Go on then,’ blustered Mrs Jones, pushing me forwards. ‘Boss wants his dogs’ food. Just give him the biscuits, mind, dogs don’t eat their proper meal until after the shoot at four p.m. Don’t be shooting off at the mouth.’
I looked up and in strode a most peculiar-looking fella. He was an elderly gent and was wearing spacious knickerbockers, spats, leather boots, light-brown single-breasted Harris tweed jacket, plaid shirt and a flat cap in matching check tweed. The jacket had a chamois gun pad on the right shoulder to protect the material from the gun recoil. He had a kindly, if slightly aloof face. Never mind the dogs’ breakfast, he looked like a dog’s dinner.
At the sight of her master ‘below stairs’, Mabel fell about in raptures.
‘Morning, sir,’ she said, virtually bowing. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Just come for the dogs’ water,’ he said.
Smiling, I handed him the enamel water bowl. ‘Here you go, sir,’ I said.
‘You new here?’ he asked, surveying me closely from under his cap.
‘Yes, sir,’ I replied. ‘I’m the scullery maid.’
He paused. Then said, ‘Good good, what.’ And with that he stomped off back down the passage.
That was the extent of my dealings with Mr Stocks. More’s the pity. I’d far rather have answered to him than Mrs Jones or Mr Orchard.
Unlike some of the gentry who charged for people to join their shooting parties, Mr Stocks kept his a strictly cronies-only affair. After the dogs had lapped up their water and the gentry had feasted on kedgeree, kippers, sausage, bacon, egg and porridge, they all assembled outside on the front lawns. What a sight!
Eight or so men all dressed identically, with flat-coated Labradors yapping at their heels. As well as the ‘guns’ as they were known, there were three beaters, whose job it was to go on ahead with large sticks to beat the undergrowth and scare out the game birds, making them an easier shot. The dogs also used to forage through the undergrowth and help drive out the birds into the path of the guns.
I don’t think Mr Stocks ever felt truly more comfortable than when he was stalking his own lands, gun in hand, blasting furry and feathered creatures. In fact, this poem, ‘The Old Squire’ by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt (died 1922), could have been written about Mr Stocks and his cronies.
I covet not a wider range
Than these dear manors give;
I take my pleasure without change,
And as I lived I live.
I leave my neighbours to their thought;
My choice it is, and pride.
On my own lands to find my sport,
In my own fields to ride.
Shooting was everything to these men and I mean everything. It was virtually imprinted in their DNA. Mr Stocks and Captain Eric, when he felt well enough, were shooting men through and through. His father shot, his father’s father shot. The idea of not doing so was simply inconceivable. Their lives and pastimes were dictated by the seasons. Summer season was May through to July in London, where he would, when his wife was alive, attend a good many balls, including the Chelsea Arts Ball, various operas, Henley Royal Regatta and Royal Ascot Week. From September through the winter was strictly set aside for shooting. So, you see, I don’t expect they had time to do much actual work.
I thought fleetingly of my father, shivering out in his hut, willing to risk prosecution for a poached pheasant, and here was Mr Stocks with more food and lands than he knew what to do with. The divi
de between the classes never felt so vast.
Did Flo and myself think the shooting wrong? Not in the least, it’s just the way of the countryside, ain’t it? It’s just what they did and who were we to question it?
The fashions that went with shooting were terribly strict. Bespoke tweed suits, flannels, breeches, knickerbockers and plus fours, all from Savile Row, for the day and the full fig for evenings. I never once knew Mr Stocks to wear anything other than full evening dress when he dined at night. Even if he was dining alone at home he would be immaculately turned out in a black dinner suit, white starched shirt and a black bow tie. Mr Orchard would prepare it all and help him to dress every evening. Seemed an awful lot of fuss and bother to go to just to sit by yourself in a big old empty dining room, but such was the etiquette of the day I suppose.
That dining room must have echoed with the ghosts of its illustrious past. Mr Stocks seated at the head of the table, the butler behind him, his wife to his right, with the footman behind her, and his eldest son seated opposite at the other end of the table. The family silver must have sparkled like jewels under the glittering chandelier and the room would have hummed with genteel chatter and life.
Now, of course, an elderly gentleman dined alone with only a silver-framed menu for company, his wife and eldest son long gone, and his only surviving son wasting away in a sanatorium. Mr Orchard still faithfully sounded the silver gong every evening at precisely seven thirty p.m. to signal the start of dinner, and he and Alan waited on Mr Stocks as he dined.
Mr Stocks, my boss and the owner of Woodhall. A finer gentleman you’d be hard-pressed to find. Unlike some of the gentry, he was kind and generous and a real old-fashioned gent. We didn’t have much to do with him, mind you, but whenever I did see him he would be striding about the place in his plus fours, flat cap on his head and a Labrador trotting by his side.
The war had destroyed the lives of so many, including my father and Mr Stocks. Why, I wondered, did the boss cling to these vanishing traditions? I remember the first time I dared voice that opinion back in London.
Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid Page 10