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

by Moran, Mollie

  8 oz (225 g) beef suet

  4 oz (110 g) mixed peel

  1 lemon

  8 oz (225 g) sugar

  8 oz (225 g) raisins

  Half a grated nutmeg

  ½ oz (10 g) mixed spice

  8 oz (225 g) breadcrumbs

  8 oz (225 g) sultanas

  4 oz (110 g) currants

  2 oz (50 g) desiccated coconut

  4 oz (110 g) shredded almonds

  Pinch of salt

  Cup of milk stout (or Guinness if you can’t get milk stout)

  4 eggs

  2 large glasses of brandy (one for the pudding, one for drinking while cooking)

  Shred the suet. Finely shred the mixed peel. Peel and chop the lemon rind. Put all the dry ingredients in a basin and mix well. Add the milk stout, stir in the eggs one at a time, and add the brandy and the strained juice of the lemon. Mix and work through thoroughly until everything is blended well then spoon into a well-buttered pudding basin. Boil or steam for at least five hours before serving with brandy butter and brandy sauce.

  HOUSEHOLD TIP

  In my day we polished pans with a mixture of vinegar, silver sand and lemon juice, but sprinkling a dirty pan with washing powder and soaking in boiling water before rinsing thoroughly does the job. If you want them to come up sparkling new, though, invest in some silver sand and mix with vinegar and lemon juice. It really does work.

  7

  Passion With the Footman

  There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it

  unspeakably desirable.

  Mark Twain

  All too soon we had left behind the servants’ quarters and had ascended into the smart hallway of Cadogan Square. Like a couple of rabbits caught in headlights, we gazed around at our new, opulent surroundings.

  ‘Wait here,’ ordered Mr Orchard as he left the hallway and disappeared off into the drawing room.

  Flo and I were soon joined by Irene, the housemaid, who looked every bit as bewildered as us. ‘What’s this about?’ she whispered, tugging nervously at her apron.

  I shook my head and was surprised to feel my heart pounding in my chest. ‘Darned if I know,’ I replied.

  The door to the drawing room swung open.

  Please, God, don’t have found out about sneaking out to the dance … please. I’ll never do anything wrong as long as I live, I promise.

  ‘Mr Stocks has requested your company in the drawing room,’ said Mr Orchard. ‘He thought you might like to witness his niece before she is presented as a debutante to his Royal Highness at court.’

  Flo, Irene and myself stared at him, utterly baffled. Mr Orchard, meanwhile, looked as if he had just handed us the Crown Jewels on a silver butler’s tray.

  ‘Yes, of course, Mr Orchard,’ said Flo, recovering herself first. ‘That would indeed be an honour.’

  We all glanced nervously at each other before shuffling after him into the drawing room. Mr Stocks sat in the corner of the room in a leather armchair, looking on as a proud father might do, and there, in the middle of the room, was a vision in white.

  A pretty young woman with dark hair stood demurely on the Turkish rug. She was dressed head to toe in a long white silky dress and long white satin gloves covered her slender arms. A single diamond glinted from her neck, which was as long and creamy white as a swan’s. The chiffon train of her dress fell in soft folds around her feet. Her head was held so straight and high it was as if there was an invisible string pulling her up to the ceiling and on her face was a look so inscrutable it was impossible to guess at how she was feeling.

  What a strange and bizarre situation. What on earth this girl must have felt, being gawped at by a scullery maid, kitchen maid and housemaid, was anyone’s guess, but she was obviously adept at keeping her feelings under wraps. She can’t have been much older than us, but standing there with our uniforms and aprons and bitten-down, slightly grubby nails, we must have looked like paupers next to a princess.

  ‘This is my niece,’ said Mr Stocks finally, breaking the awkward silence. ‘She is about to be presented at court before starting the season. She looks quite lovely, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ we all gushed as one. ‘Pretty as a picture, sir. Most gracious.’

  The girl bestowed us with a flicker of a smile.

  We all stared at each other. We were only a couple of yards apart, but we were from totally opposite ends of the social spectrum. She was off to curtsey to King George V at Buckingham Palace, before attending the prestigious Queen Charlotte Ball. I was about to go back downstairs to peel a mountain of spuds. And yet I knew the gesture wasn’t meant as a malevolent one by Mr Stocks. It wouldn’t even have crossed his mind for a minute that it would look like he was rubbing our noses in it. In his mind he obviously thought he was being most considerate by allowing us young girls the ‘treat’ of seeing his niece.

  We didn’t really realize it then, but we were witnessing a most curious tradition and one that has long since died out. Now, of course, we look back on these traditions with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, but in those days a blue-blooded gal’s ‘coming-of-age season’ meant everything.

  Presentation of debutantes at court was an elaborate social ceremony that originated in the 1780s when King George III decided that the prettiest and most well-bred girls from the court circle should be presented to Queen Charlotte so that they could find an appropriate partner for marriage. The most prestigious and important party of the season remained the Queen Charlotte Ball throughout the 1930s.

  Mr Stocks’s niece would have been driven by Mr Thornton from Cadogan Square to Buckingham Palace, where she would have waited with other young girls on rows of chairs in an antechamber at the palace. One by one they would have been called to present themselves. She would have entered the royal chamber and have curtseyed first to King George V and then to the queen before being ushered out of the room. The court ritual denoted their entry on to the marriage market. The ensuing ‘season’ was a series of exclusive parties and events attended by debutantes where potential suitors could observe them. The season ran throughout the summer and its events included cocktail parties, dances, lunches and weekends at country estates. This system meant that the upper classes could preserve their hold over money and influence by only sharing their wealth and power with the ‘right people’. Marriages of couples who met at these events were seen to have royal approval as the king had indirectly introduced them.

  All the debutantes would be dressed in white to signify their virginity, which was an essential requirement for marriage.

  It was important for Mr Stocks’s niece to get every aspect of the tradition right. The curtseys had to be low and sweeping and no doubt her mother would have employed dance teachers to train her in the run-up to the season.

  The rigid traditions around aristocratic marriage together with the loss of a generation of aristocratic sons in the First World War meant that there was a very small pool of eligible young men from suitable families for upper-class young women to marry. As it was inconceivable for an upper-class family to marry their daughters to less prestigious families, they often married men much older than themselves or remained unmarried.

  The tradition finally died out in 1958 after Prince Philip moaned that it was ‘bloody daft’ and Princess Margaret apparently complained that ‘every tart in London’ was getting in.

  I’m quite sure that Mr Stocks saw his niece as a cut above that, mind you. And so it was that she found herself getting ready to be paraded – sorry, presented – in the hope of securing a suitable husband.

  ‘You may go back to your duties now,’ nodded Mr Stocks.

  ‘Thank you, sir, ma’am,’ we said, backing out of the room. We stumbled a little less graciously from the drawing room and down the back staircase in stunned silence. But no sooner had the green baize door swung shut behind us than Flo and I burst out into nervous giggles.

  ‘Well, that was strange,’ I laughed. ‘Whatever m
ust she have felt like being gawped at by us? Thought she was the bee’s knees, didn’t she? Thin as a paper doll though, weren’t she?’

  Flo was a little more charitable. ‘Yes, but she was ever so dignified,’ she said softly.

  ‘I s’pose,’ I laughed. ‘She’s welcome to her balls though. Imagine, all those boring dinner parties and formal evenings. I think I’d die of boredom.’

  Flo grinned as we arrived back in the kitchen. ‘I guess it is a lot of effort to go to, to bag a husband.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I cackled. ‘What a palaver, and like as not it’ll be some wrinkly old rich man.’ I shuddered. ‘Imagine having to sleep with an old man night after night.’

  Alan crept up behind me and sneaked his arms round me.

  ‘You wouldn’t have that problem with me, Mollie,’ he said, squeezing me tight. ‘Only firm young flesh here, I promise.’

  ‘Oh, get away with you,’ I scowled, pushing him off. ‘Don’t you ever get tired?’

  ‘Not when it comes to you I don’t,’ he leered.

  But later, as the debutante was being presented at court and I washed up dirty plates in the scullery, I thought seriously about the strange day I’d had, seeing the little princesses playing in their ivory tower under the watchful eye of their nanny and the debutante upstairs about to be presented like a piece of meat. It was a strange old world.

  Did I envy the upper classes their lifestyle and privilege? The answer had to be no. I had a freedom that that girl could never enjoy. OK, I didn’t have her money, but at least I’d never be pushed into a loveless marriage with a rich older man. I could go where I liked and see who I liked. I’d rather scrub floors than be trussed up like a dog’s dinner and scrutinized at court any day. All that pomp and etiquette, it was a load of old cobblers. When the posh broadsheet papers came down the stairs after they’d finished with them upstairs, Flo and I would pore over them, laughing at the silly names and who’d married who.

  Well, maybe more me than Flo.

  ‘Mr Pompington Pomp Smythe is delighted to announce the marriage of his daughter Violet Pompington Pomp Smythe to Hugo Fussington Fwah Fwah,’ I’d pretend to read, affecting a posh voice and sticking my nose in the air. I’d make sure never to do it in front of Mrs Jones, Mabel or Mr Orchard, mind you. They’d have had a blue fit to hear me speaking like that. I was proud of my Norfolk accent. It had character and I wasn’t about to speak with a plum in my mouth to feel important. Silly name, silly titles, silly traditions.

  ‘No, Mollie,’ I said to myself as I plunged my hands into the dirty water and began to scrub. ‘You’re doing all right as you are.’

  Tucked up in bed later, Flo turned to me as she wearily pulled the covers over herself and snuggled down.

  ‘I’ll make you a lovely dress out of that material we got today,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll look just as gorgeous as Mr Stocks’s niece by the time I’ve finished with you. You’ll see.’

  I smiled at my friend and found myself marvelling yet again at how wonderful she was. Good as gold, right to the core.

  ‘You’re a real friend,’ I whispered back. ‘They broke the mould when they made you.’

  As the following weeks turned to months and Flo and I spent every spare second exploring London, I often found my thoughts drifting back to the debutante: where she was and whether she found a suitable husband at the myriad balls and parties she would be attending. I couldn’t ask Mr Stocks. It was one thing him inviting us to his part of the house, but we would never have dreamt of presuming the gesture could go both ways and we could just ‘pop’ up and ask how her presentation went. Mr Orchard would have shot us on the spot.

  Besides, we were all having too much fun to worry about his niece’s marriage prospects. London was such a thriving, bustling place and Flo and I could simply never wait to change out of our uniforms and explore. Every spare second was spent eagerly anticipating the two hours after lunch service or our half-days off.

  Here’s Flo again. She always had a smile on her face, no matter how hard we worked or how tired we got.

  Sometimes when I had a different half-day to Flo I’d go back to Chapter Street and visit Aunt Kate and Uncle Arthur. Other times I would wander round the V&A by myself, standing stock-still and breathless with wonder at all the marvellous objects there. But I always most looked forward to my time with Flo.

  Every outing was a voyage of discovery as we pounded the streets of London looking for excitement, thrills and even another glimpse of royalty. We screamed at King Kong when it made its debut in the London cinemas, gazed in every big department store window, ate roasted chestnuts bought from street vendors and giggled our way from Chelsea to the West End in search of adventures and fun. We were inseparable. You’d think working, sleeping and socializing together in such close quarters would have driven us mad. Not Flo and I – if anything it just seemed to bond us closer and not a cross word was passed between us.

  Every day I noticed a difference in Flo’s cooking and confidence. Mrs Jones had now all but stopped scolding her and trusted Flo to make even the most complicated dishes. From crêpes to soufflés, she could do it all. She even knew a bit of French and Italian cooking and could whip up a Consommé Royale or Italienne. Not that she ever bragged about her talents. In the same way that she was such a good seamstress – she could sew anything – likewise there wasn’t much she couldn’t cook. ‘Tidy hands’, my mother would have said.

  I suppose I knew in my heart of hearts it was coming, but one evening after dinner service Flo pulled me to one side.

  ‘I got some news today, Mollie,’ she said. A frown line had creased between her lovely deep-blue eyes and somehow she couldn’t quite meet my gaze.

  ‘I’m not going to like this, am I, Flo?’ I said. ‘Go on, spit it out.’

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she said sadly. ‘I went to an agency and they’ve found me a job as a kitchen maid. I’m ever so sorry, Mollie, really I am.’

  ‘But you’re already a kitchen maid, Flo,’ I protested.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But this is for the Marquess of Salisbury at Hatfield House in Hertfordshire. He’s the Leader of the House of Lords, you know. It really is a step up.’

  I felt my bottom lip start to wobble. ‘But who’ll help me keep Alan in line?’ I cried. ‘And who will I have to keep me company with old Mrs Grump?’

  ‘He has a London property for the season,’ she said brightly. ‘It’s in Arlington Street, just off Piccadilly near the Ritz, so just round the corner really. We’ll be able to see each other in our time off.’

  Poor Flo looked so desolate telling me, I had to put her out of her misery.

  ‘Oh, come here,’ I said, throwing my arms round her. ‘I’m so pleased for you I can’t even imagine. A marquess, no less. I’ll have to curtsey for you now.’

  ‘Get away,’ she laughed, swiping my head affectionately. But behind the laughs we both knew it was the end of an era and that life at Cadogan Square would never be the same again. I’d never be able to replicate the easy camaraderie and trust I shared with Flo Wadlow with anyone else.

  The next day she handed her notice in to Mrs Jones, who scowled like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

  ‘Young girls nowadays,’ she tutted as she wrote out a reference for Flo. ‘Never stick at anything for more than five minutes. Flighty you all are.’

  ‘Boys, dresses and dancing is all that fills your silly little heads,’ I whispered to Flo.

  ‘I heard that, Mollie Browne. Get back to ya scullery and get on with them dishes,’ she said.

  But despite her obvious irritation I could see she was disappointed. Flo was a lovely, calm, capable and efficient person to have around – an asset to any kitchen – and I knew Mrs Jones would feel the loss of her kitchen maid.

  ‘That marquess’ll be lucky to have you cooking for him,’ she added, somewhat more softly. ‘You’ll learn a lot there, I reckon.’

  Mr Orchard was greatly impressed at Flo’s advancement up the ser
vants’ social scale, snob that he was. ‘Oh, yes, I should say,’ he observed from over the top of Mr Stocks’s copy of The Times from the day before. ‘You’ll be working for the fourth marquess no less, former ADC to King Edward VII and King George V and Lord Privy Seal 1924 to 1929. A far larger staff, needless to say, and I daresay you shall have to refer to the butler there as “sir”.’

  Looking at him now I could easily see how he fancied himself in such a position – not that he’d ever dream of leaving Mr Stocks, mind.

  ‘Yes, I feel quite elevated myself,’ said Flo, smiling shyly.

  That is what people fail to recognize about domestic servants today. We weren’t just a load of simpering halfwits beholden to our masters. We had choices, we could come and go as we pleased and try our hardest to climb the ladder and elevate ourselves. What other job open to the working classes in that time gave you those options?

  The morning she left, it was all I could do not to throw myself in front of the area steps and bar her way. Instead, I hugged her warmly.

  ‘Here,’ she said, pulling a package from behind her back. ‘This is for you.’

  Unwrapping it, I gasped as something black and shiny slipped through my hands. ‘Oh, Flo,’ I marvelled. ‘This is magnificent.’

  She’d promised she’d make me a dress to rival Mr Stocks’s niece and she hadn’t let me down. The long tailored black satin dress was nipped in at the waist but had a soft elegant scoop neckline. A flash of dazzling green lining peeked out from the neck.

  ‘I’ve never owned anything so beautiful in all me life,’ I cried, holding it up against me.

  ‘You’ll look the cat’s whiskers in that, Mollie,’ she smiled.

  In a flurry of tears and hugs she was gone, her feet pattering up the steps as she went on her way to her new life. But just before she left she ducked her head round the door. ‘Learn to gut them partridge, Mollie,’ she said with a cheeky grin.

  There was no doubt that Flo leaving was a cause for great sadness in my life, but this particular cloud did have one silver lining.