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

by Moran, Mollie

  She started to sing, her beautiful soft Norfolk voice filling the servants’ hall.

  ‘Learn to do the Palais Glide, all together side by side, it’s as easy as can be, all you’ve got to do is take your step from me.’

  Grinning, I picked up the beat and started dancing alongside her.

  ‘So come and do the Palais Glide, you’ll be happy when you’ve tried, once you start you’ll want to go on forever, swaying in the Palais Glide.’

  But Flo’s tuneful voice didn’t help Alan’s two left feet. His limbs were all over the place and in no time he got so muddled he tripped over himself, lurched forward and slammed into the servants’ hall door with a crack.

  ‘Ha ha,’ I cackled. ‘You right splutterguttered into that, didn’t ya?’

  Alan drew himself up to his full height, his eyes narrowed to slits and his fists clenched in fury. ‘I oughta slosh you one round the ear, Mollie Browne,’ he raged.

  ‘Calm down, Alan,’ John gasped. ‘She’s only having a joke with you.’

  This wasn’t the first time I’d seen a flash of Alan’s explosive temper and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Just as quickly he recovered himself.

  ‘I don’t like dancing, that’s all,’ he shrugged. Suddenly, his dark eyes glinted and he made a grab for me. ‘I’d far rather watch you,’ he growled. With that, his hands slipped down from my waist and brushed against my buttocks. A strange tingle shot up my spine as he pressed himself against me.

  ‘Oi!’ I yelled, recovering myself. ‘Keep yer hands where I can see them.’

  From behind Alan’s head Flo winked and before long we were all in hysterics. Suddenly the door to the housekeeper’s room flew open and Mr Orchard loomed in the servants’ hall doorway. He was so red of face he looked like he might suffocate with rage at any moment.

  ‘Myself and Mrs Jones can’t hear ourselves think and Mr Stocks will be wondering what on earth is going on,’ he bellowed. ‘Now keep that infernal noise down.’ He turned on his heel and stalked down the passage.

  As soon as he was out of earshot I turned to Flo. ‘So much for the butler hears nothing,’ I whispered. Her face crumpled into a smile. ‘I bet he’s only jealous,’ I went on.

  But despite Mr Orchard’s dressing-downs, we danced each night in the servants’ hall until our feet ached. Alan lost interest and spent his whole time trying to grope me or pull off my mop cap, rather than learn the steps, but to my delight I found I quickly picked up the dance moves. I even learnt the Palais Glide to perfection, thanks to Flo.

  The best nights were when we were joined by Louis and George, who could both dance well. Flo and I showed off something rotten when they were in the room. And when Louis took me in his arms to dance I felt I could have melted like butter. Everything about him was so intoxicating, from the feel of his strong thighs against mine to his handsome face and chocolate-brown eyes. When he removed a stray hair from my cheek one night I swear my heart skipped a thousand beats.

  Some men just smell delicious, no matter how little they bathe. Unlike the poor gardener with the smelly feet who Flo and I laughed about constantly, Louis smelt of fresh lemons and soap. His skin was as warm as toast and he could dance too! Could you ask for more in a man? He had an easy charm that brooding, intense Alan would never have. I had to keep reminding myself that he was promised to a kitchen maid. Lucky cow.

  Nothing seemed to exhaust us in them days and Flo and I would whisper long into the night.

  ‘Here, Flo,’ I hissed in the dark. ‘I’m going to kiss a boy soon.’

  ‘Me too,’ she whispered back.

  Long hours were spent plotting how we would achieve our objective and what it would feel like.

  ‘Do you keep your eyes open, do you reckon?’ she asked.

  ‘Only if he looks like Louis,’ I sniggered. ‘Otherwise keep ’em shut and hope for the best.’

  ‘And what about the tongue?’

  ‘Depends on where he wants to put it,’ I quipped.

  We laughed so much, our shoulders shaking with the force, that we had to stuff sheets in our mouths to stop anyone hearing.

  When I look back now I know they were some of the happiest times of my life. I had turned fifteen at Woodhall. I was on the brink of becoming a woman and I was so alive it wasn’t true. Colours seemed brighter, smells more pungent, jokes funnier and even the sun seemed to shine every day. I suppose it was all those hormones racing round my body. I was stuffed full of them. Flo and I just lived for new experiences and were fizzing over with energy. Every spare chance we got we were out on our bikes and could cycle for miles, sometimes up to fifty miles in a go. Even when thick fog rolled in off the sea and enveloped the landscape in an eerie shroud, we’d still get on our bikes. Only out there in the fens did we feel free.

  ‘Here, Flo,’ I’d laugh. ‘I can’t see a hand in front of me.’

  It’s a wonder we never ended up in a heap of tangled metal, but the gods seemed to look down on us.

  It didn’t matter how many times Mrs Jones, Mr Orchard and Mabel chastised us, nothing knocked our confidence or appetite for fun. Mind you, I had noticed since we started at Woodhall a certain softening from Mrs Jones towards us. The more I learnt and the more I could show her I’d been listening to her, the more she seemed to give me a grudging respect.

  Even Mabel was having more fun in the countryside.

  Flo and I were just cleaning up after dinner one night when I heard a soft giggling coming from outside. Tiptoeing to the door of the kitchen, I hovered and listened.

  ‘Lend us a lug,’ I said, beckoning to Flo.

  ‘What is it?’ she said, coming over to join me by the door.

  ‘Sssh,’ I said, silencing her with a finger on the lips.

  Out of the velvety darkness came a gruff man’s voice, followed by high-pitched laughter. It was coming from behind the woodshed. We strained our ears to listen.

  ‘Oh, go on Mabel, please,’ groaned the man.

  ‘It’s Mabel,’ I mouthed, my eyes as wide as saucers. Flo’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. Then came Mabel’s funny little high-pitched voice.

  ‘Not tonight, Frank.’

  Flo and I snorted and ran back into the kitchen, cackling.

  Later that night in bed we were beside ourselves.

  ‘Not tonight, Frank,’ I mimicked.

  Who’d have thought it? Buttoned-up Mabel, the head housemaid, wasn’t an old maid after all. She may have been the picture of reserve and respectability below stairs, but behind the woodshed she was a different lady!

  Who could blame her for letting off steam?

  But while racy Mabel was getting up to wicked stuff, poor old Mr Orchard obviously wasn’t. He was still as sharp as a rattlesnake and had a sting in the tail that was just as venomous.

  After we’d been at Woodhall for a few months, and after all our plotting and scheming, we finally got the chance to go to a village dance. The local village dance only came along every three months and it was Mrs Jones herself who told us about it. Apparently it all started with a whist drive to which she would go and after that they would clear away all the tables and a local band would play.

  ‘You can go, but only because it’s the local dance and I can keep an eye on yer,’ she snapped. ‘And you’re to be home by eleven o'clock, latest.’

  This was music to our ears. You may as well have told us we were going to a ball at the Royal Albert Hall, not some draughty old village hall, we were that excited.

  On the night itself, we cleared away dinner while Mrs Jones went to the whist drive. As I washed and stacked great piles of dirty dishes, my heart was singing. Tonight was the night. I was going to get a kiss.

  Flo had run us up a lovely couple of dresses in a beautiful floral cotton. We didn’t have any make-up, not that at our age we’d have been allowed it in any case, so we fluffed up our hair and pinched our cheeks to add colour.

  Alan, John and Irene the housemaid were coming too and we cycled into the village in a ba
bble of noise, the excited chatter of teenage voices filling the air.

  Inside the village hall the band was warming up and Mrs Jones and all her mates from surrounding villages were just finishing up their game.

  ‘Now remember,’ she said, waggling a finger in my face. ‘Not a minute after eleven and no funny business.’

  Alan dug me in the ribs, but I managed to keep a straight face.

  It was nothing special in that room. Wooden floors, a slightly raised stage for the band and trestle tables with a few sandwiches and an urn of tea at the side. But to my young eyes it was the height of sophistication.

  The band fired into life with a lively foxtrot and Flo and I sat by the side on wooden chairs and waited … and waited. I drained my cup of tea, but still nothing happened.

  ‘What now?’ I hissed.

  ‘You have to wait for someone to ask you to dance,’ she replied.

  There were dozens of local girls just like us lining the room. On the other side of the room facing us were a dozen or so boys, all local farming lads. We eyed each other warily, no one wanting to be the one to make the first move. It was like a human cattle market. This was plain daft!

  Finally there was a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘Would you like to dance?’ came a smooth voice.

  I looked up and straight into the eyes of Louis.

  ‘Yes please,’ I said. Setting down my teacup, I suddenly felt very shy. My long legs wobbled as Louis led me to the centre of the room, placed one warm hand in mine and the other round my waist.

  Didn’t I feel like the bee’s knees as he whirled me round the hall in his arms? All those hours of practice in the servants’ hall paid off as people gathered round us and whistled and clapped as we foxtrotted our way round the room. Louis and I looked like a golden couple. His feet were as light as Fred Astaire’s as he led me this way and that. I was like putty in his hands and gazed up adoringly into his brown eyes.

  It was utterly, utterly glorious.

  Dance after dance we had. The foxtrot was followed by the waltz and then the Palais Glide. My head was spinning by the end of it. Resting my forehead on Louis’s shoulder while I got my breath, I suddenly realized my heart was pounding like a tennis ball in my chest.

  I tilted my chin up, closed my eyes and my lips parted.

  Please kiss me … please just kiss me.

  I didn’t dare open my eyes for fear it might somehow break the magic spell.

  There was a long silence followed by …

  ‘Best go,’ he said abruptly, stepping back so that I stumbled forward. ‘Promised the girl I’m courting I’d write to her this evening.’

  And just like that my dreams popped like a bubble.

  ‘Thanks for that, Mollie,’ he said with a smile and then he was gone.

  I glanced over at Flo, who was wrestling with a spotty village lad with two left feet, and shrugged my shoulders in misery.

  She smiled sympathetically.

  Suddenly the band did a Paul Jones number. This was where all the men went round the middle and the women went in the opposite direction. When the music stopped you had to dance with whoever was opposite you.

  ‘It’s a good chance to put the moves on whoever you fancy,’ Flo had told me.

  As the music burst into life, everyone joined in, eagerly eyeing up the one they fancied and frantically hoping the music would stop as they passed them by. I saw Alan gamely lolloping round. He hated dancing, but I knew he’d give this one a go if it led to something. He smiled and winked as he drew near to me but the music carried on. I just made out the scowl on his face as he found himself planted in front of another girl.

  I smirked to myself. Looking up, I found myself opposite a nice-enough-looking lad.

  ‘Me name’s Trevor,’ he told me as he took my hand. ‘I work on the farm near Woodhall. I’ve seen you around.’

  Trevor can only have been sixteen and, as I quickly discovered, didn’t have much in the way of conversation. In fact, once we’d got past the mating habits of his boss’s bullocks, there wasn’t much else to say.

  All too soon I realized Flo was frantically gesturing at me.

  ‘Nearly eleven,’ she mouthed. ‘We have to go.’

  Trevor and I stumbled outside into the darkness. I was perilously close to being late and God only knew what Mrs Jones would do if we missed our curfew. But it was now or never. Who knew when the next dance would come around? Trevor was never going to set the world on fire and he was no Louis, but he did have a pair of lips.

  ‘Can I kiss you?’ he squeaked, his voice cracking a little.

  ‘All right then,’ I replied.

  He gulped hard, his Adam’s apple shooting up his spotty neck. Then he tore on ahead into a neighbouring field like his heels were on fire and quickly found a suitable haystack to lean against. The sound of muffled laughter from the other side told us it was occupied.

  Leading me further into the field, he paused by a dyke, turned in the darkness and dived in for the kill.

  They say a first kiss should be a magical experience. Well, this one was wet and sloppy. I stifled a giggle as an image of one of Mr Stocks’s Labradors popped into my mind. Trevor kissed me so furiously I felt like I was going to get sucked into his mouth. Suddenly I felt his hand brush my thigh.

  Then it was creeping up and under my dress.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ I snapped, slapping his hand away. I knew that way only led to trouble.

  ‘Just a feel, Mollie, please,’ he groaned. ‘I know where to draw the line. I’m not stupid.’

  And nor was I. It wouldn’t be Trevor turned out of his job and left with the bad reputation.

  ‘Bye, Trevor,’ I said, turning on my heel and making a run for it.

  Back at the village hall I grabbed Flo and we headed for Woodhall, leaving Trevor scowling after me. Mrs Jones was waiting to greet us at the back door in her nightie, wearing an expression that could curdle milk.

  ‘In. Now,’ she stormed. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Jones,’ we said meekly as we scurried up the back stairs in the dark.

  Lying in our beds, Flo gave me the third degree.

  ‘So, did he try it on?’ she asked.

  ‘Course,’ I laughed. ‘But I gave him a cut across the hand. What about that lad you were dancing with?’

  ‘Just a peck,’ she said. ‘It was nothing to write home about. You going to see yours again?’

  ‘Not if I can help it!’

  As we gossiped long into the night I realized that talking about kissing was often better than actually doing it. Not that it mattered. I had actually kissed a boy! He wasn’t a man like Louis, but everyone has to start somewhere.

  The next day we skittered about the place like a couple of lambs.

  ‘Wipe the smiles off your faces, will you, girls?’ said Mrs Jones over breakfast. ‘You’re putting me off my sausages.’

  With that, we collapsed into fits of giggles.

  In the passage after breakfast Alan collared me and grabbed me by the elbow.

  ‘When you going to kiss me, Mollie Browne?’ he said. ‘You can’t keep me waiting, you know.’

  I wrenched my arm away. ‘You don’t own me,’ I snapped. ‘I can kiss who I like.’ And I waltzed back into the kitchen with Alan glowering after me.

  The dance had left us so buoyed up we spent hours talking about the next one. Three months seemed like an awful long way away. But then, soon after, we got chatting to some lads from a neighbouring village. We’d met them out cycling one afternoon and stopped to chat.

  ‘Dance is on Saturday night,’ one said. ‘You coming?’

  ‘Course we are,’ I lied.

  ‘See you there,’ they smiled.

  ‘Not if we see you first,’ I giggled back.

  It wouldn’t be a problem to go, right? Er, wrong, actually.

  ‘Out of the question!’ snapped Mrs Jones, back at Woodhall.

  Sadly, our timing was right off and we’d
chosen the worst possible day to ask her. Mr Stocks’s sister-in-law, Mrs Lavinia, was coming to stay, which meant extra work in the kitchen.

  ‘You’re too young,’ Mrs Jones went on. ‘I can’t have you gallivanting all over the countryside. Whatever would your mother say? Someone has to keep an eye on you young girls.’

  Her tone of voice told us not to push it, but after lunch during our time off we moaned like stink.

  ‘Who does she think she is?’ grumbled Flo as we sat idly by the river, tossing stones in and watching them sink to the bottom.

  ‘She’s not our master,’ I agreed.

  Just then, a white feather on the opposite bank caught my eye. A cold breath of wind caught the feather and I watched it dance, float and flutter higher into the air before it vanished into the cold autumn skies. It was free to float wherever the wind took it.

  Suddenly a seed of an idea took hold in my head.

  ‘Who’s anyone to tell us what to do and where we can and can’t go?’ I said. ‘She’s not our mother.’ Fired up with self-righteous anger, I stood up. ‘We will go to the dance,’ I announced.

  ‘But Mrs Jones said …’ protested Flo, her voice fading away to nothing.

  ‘Come on, Flo,’ I argued. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure? We can’t end up an old maid left on the shelf like her. We’re never going to find boyfriends at this rate.’ I could see I was getting through to Flo.

  ‘But sneak out?’ she gasped.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Exactly. Mrs Jones is snoring the minute her head hits the pillow. She’ll never know. Remember that fire escape directly outside our room? We’ll climb down that.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Do you want to end up an old maid when you’re in your twenties and ancient?’

  ‘All right,’ she sighed.

  ‘You won’t regret it,’ I whooped, flinging my arms round my new partner in crime. I’d known that ladder would come in handy when I spotted it!