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

by Moran, Mollie

  ‘I’m making you kitchen maid, Mollie,’ announced Mrs Jones. ‘You’re up to it, but you have to stop butting up against Mr Orchard and listen good to me, you hear me?

  ‘Oh yes, absolutely, Mrs Jones,’ I said, nodding furiously. ‘You won’t regret it.’

  I could not believe my luck. Well, there was a thing. Little Mollie promoted to kitchen maid, and at the young age of sixteen! How proud my mother would be. I was to receive seven shillings a week, a pay rise of a whole two extra shillings, but best of all, no more scrubbing the steps or blackleading the range and I wouldn’t even have to empty my own chamber pot back in Woodhall. Irene would have to do mine now.

  That’s when I knew I’d really made it!

  To take my place I recommended a nice fourteen-year-old girl I knew from back in Downham, by the name of Phyllis. Phyllis was to join us when we travelled back to Woodhall to start the season there. Suddenly I realized with a jolt of happiness that she would have to pluck and gut the pheasants! Not only that, but I would never have to clean out the old coal fire ever again! It was all I could do not to punch the air.

  ‘Nice one, Mollie,’ I said to myself as I got stuck in to a load of washing-up.

  ‘What you looking so pleased for?’ said Alan, interrupting my thoughts as he popped his head round the scullery door.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I smiled, plunging my hands deep into the foaming water.

  ‘Bet you’re missing your partner in crime, eh?’ he said. ‘She’ll leave a big hole in your life, won’t she?’

  I turned on him and spat angrily, ‘OK, come on then, out with it, Alan, let’s have it – the ribald comment, the double entendre …’

  Alan looked blank.

  ‘You’re not even going to slap my bum? Boast about your manhood?’

  He looked utterly crestfallen and hung his head, bruised and deflated. ‘My heart alive, Mollie, whatever must you think of me? I was just trying to be nice.’

  ‘R-right, well,’ I spluttered. ‘You’ve got a smart mouth on you, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘I just know how you’ll miss her, that’s all. You two were joined at the hip.’

  Sighing, I suddenly felt very tired. It had been a long day and I was roasting hot. I pulled my hands out of the water and pushed back a curl off my head.

  ‘Come here,’ chuckled Alan softly. ‘You’ve got a smudge of dirt here on your top lip. You look like that Hitler chap everyone’s talking about.’

  Taking his finger, he dipped it in the foaming water and slowly and softly traced his finger over my top lip. His dark eyes never lost contact with mine and suddenly I felt quite weak. Maybe it was the heat, the fact that I’d been on my feet for near on twelve hours, or maybe it was the closeness of his body next to mine in the gloom of the scullery, but my legs started to wobble. Clawing at the neck of my uniform, I gasped and felt myself start to slither down against the scullery wall.

  Alan reached out and, cupping me round the back and with one hand under my knees, he scooped me up and carried me into the kitchen. Gently he placed me on a chair and fanned my face with his apron.

  ‘Cup of sweet tea over here please, Mrs Jones,’ he said. He turned to me. ‘Breathe deeply,’ he ordered.

  As I sat gulping in air, he gently rubbed my back. ‘That’s the ticket, girl. You’ll soon be right.’

  Fortified with one of Mrs Jones’s strong teas and a slice of her Genoese sponge, I started to feel like myself again.

  ‘You had me worried there, Mollie,’ smiled Alan, stroking my head tenderly. ‘Look after yourself.’

  I stared after him as he left the kitchen, puzzled. That man had more layers than an onion. Funny, yet dark. Strong, yet weak. Jealous, yet strangely light-hearted. He was a complicated one, all right, and yet somehow when the two of us were together, the air seemed electric, highly charged. My top lip still tingled from his touch.

  Mrs Jones stared at Alan as he retreated from the kitchen, then back to me, as she stirred her tea.

  ‘There’s trouble brewing there, Mollie, I tells ya,’ she said, shaking her head slowly. ‘He’s a sandwich short of a picnic, that one.’

  Trouble, it seemed, was brewing all over, not just between kitchen maids and brooding footmen. At more or less the same time as I was being appointed kitchen maid, the German president Paul von Hindenburg had no choice but to appoint Hitler, the Nationalist Socialist leader, as chancellor. Hitler seized the opportunity to cement his growing power. Instead of holding general elections, Hitler and his cabinet passed a new law, which declared presidential powers would be passed to the new head of state, the Führer. This gave Hitler huge power and, most importantly, control of the military. He began to speak at mass meetings and political rallies. These meetings became an everyday part of German life under the Nazis. Throughout this time, Hitler’s opponents became increasingly marginalized and gradually stripped of powerful or influential positions.

  I only knew all this because Mr Orchard would read snippets out from Mr Stocks’s Times in the servants’ hall.

  ‘This man’s trouble,’ he said over lunch. ‘Mark my words. Rumour has it there’s a Nazi group set up in London already, a hundred members strong with new members joining up all the time. Says here the Home Office don’t know what to do with them.’

  ‘They should throw them clean out,’ spat Mrs Jones. ‘Send ’em packing off to Germany.’ Mrs Jones, like my mother, still had strong memories of the first war and the small Welsh village she hailed from had lost a whole generation of menfolk like Norfolk had. ‘We don’t want their sort here,’ she added.

  ‘Surely, Mrs Jones, it’s better to have them here so our security services can monitor them,’ replied Mr Orchard. ‘Keep your enemies close and all that.’

  ‘Well,’ she sniffed. ‘They’re rum sorts, the lot of them. I for one shall be pleased to get back to the peace and quiet of Woodhall.’

  ‘There won’t be a war, will there?’ said Irene, wide-eyed.

  ‘Of course not,’ snapped Mabel. ‘It will never come to that. Our government won’t allow it.’

  I didn’t really understand at that point the full gravity of these changes or the growing threat that Hitler presented, just that it left an anxious atmosphere in the room.

  Shortly before we returned to Woodhall, Mrs Jones gathered us all in the servants’ hall and informed us that during two weeks in August Mr Stocks would be taking a holiday and our services would not be required. Best of all, we were to be paid for our new leisure time. It was like having a Christmas and birthday all rolled into one. The hall was alive with chatter as people discussed how they would spend their new time off.

  Leisure time up until then had barely been recognized, but now, thanks to the legions of people who had started working in offices and factories and the regulation of workplaces, the concept of ‘workers’ rights’ and time off had finally started to sink in. People all over the country were developing something they called a ‘hobby’. Working-class men were starting to go fishing, keep caged birds and pigeons or go to gardening clubs and start up allotments. All over London, dog tracks, skating rings, sports grounds and cinemas were popping up. Television didn’t become available until 1936 but by 1933 half of all homes had a wireless.

  ‘Two weeks,’ chattered Irene. ‘Almost unimaginable, ain’t it? I’m going home to see me mum and sister and take a trip to the seaside.’

  ‘Oh, me too,’ I said. ‘I can’t wait to see my family.’

  Mabel smiled with a faraway look on her face. She, no doubt, would have a liaison with her mystery man behind the woodshed.

  Mr Orchard, paranoid about his privacy, said nothing.

  Suddenly, in and amongst the excited chatter, I realized one person was staying strangely quiet. ‘What’s wrong, Alan?’ I said. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  He sat at the table, staring at the linoleum floor, his hands cupped round his mug, a look of deep sorrow engrained on his face. He waited until the room had emptied, then he f
ixed his gaze on me.

  ‘I’ve got nowhere to go, Mollie,’ he said finally, in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Suddenly I realized I didn’t really know a thing about Alan. Where he came from, where his family were.

  ‘What about your mum’s?’ I asked.

  He stared at me and the look of hurt and devastation in his deep dark eyes took my breath away. ‘My mother’s dead, Mollie. She’s been dead a few years now. Consumption got the better of her. I’m an orphan.’

  I found myself speechless. Finally, recovering from the shock, I took his hand in mine.

  ‘My aunt raised me, but she didn’t have much money,’ he went on. ‘Soon as I turned fourteen she sent me out to work as a hallboy and I haven’t seen her since. So, you see, I haven’t really got a family – or anyone, for that matter,’ he added sadly.

  ‘Oh, Alan,’ I sighed. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no idea …’ My voice trailed off to nothing.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, his mouth suddenly tightening. ‘I grew up fast; I had to, no choice, see? But I won’t pretend it’s been easy not having a mother, like. No one to tell you how clever you are, bring you tea in bed when you’re poorly, give you cuddles when you get scared in the dark. I have a vague memory of a woman. Pretty as a flower she was, holding me hand, and then …’ He shook himself quickly as if to shake off the ghosts of his past.

  My heart went out to him. What a crying shame. Imagine having no mum. I thought of mine, bustling round a cosy kitchen, my father warming his feet by the fire as Mother filled the room with delicious baking smells. Take a mother out of the equation and what you got? A sad and lonely life, that’s what.

  Talk about a light-bulb moment. This explained so much. His brooding intensity, his need to be liked, loved. He’d had a childhood of unfathomable loneliness, unlike me.

  Suddenly the words tumbled from my lips before I could stop myself.

  ‘Come and spend some time with me and my family,’ I said. ‘No one should be alone when they don’t have to be.’

  His face changed in a heartbeat and he gripped my hand tight. ‘Really? You mean that? Oh, Mollie, that’d be smashing.’

  He leapt up and lifted me clean off my feet and swung me round the servants’ hall. ‘You’re a diamond,’ he said, laughing. ‘We can go to dances, cycle, swim – think of the fun we’ll have.’

  ‘Steady on,’ I giggled, trying to hold my mop cap in place. ‘Mr Orchard will see.’

  His eyes glittered and, as he put me down, he pulled me so close I could feel his warm breath on my face.

  ‘You won’t regret this, Mollie,’ he whispered.

  Something told me I was already in way over my head.

  Everybody’s spirits on the return to Norfolk were as high as kites. Summer was here, we were back to the beauty of the countryside and we all had time off to enjoy. But there was just one snag for me: George!

  I hadn’t seen him since we’d left for London three months previous and I knew our relationship was dead and buried. I’d tried kidding myself that I liked him because he was such a nice chap and all, but liking someone is hardly the basis for a future together. And now there was this … thing … with Alan. Ever since I’d told him we could spend time together, the vulnerable man I’d glimpsed that night in the servants’ hall had vanished to be replaced with the old cocky Alan, all cheeky winks and wandering hands.

  As Louis collected us from the station, looking as gorgeous as ever, he waved from the car window. ‘Hello, my lovely,’ he sang. ‘Someone’s been moping round like a dark old cloud since you left. I daresay you’ll get a warm welcome home.’

  I groaned. How was it possible to feel this wretched?

  The beauty of the landscape was lost on me as we whizzed down the country lanes, Louis chattering away ten to the dozen. I felt sick to my very core. My life, what on earth would I say to that poor fella?

  Sure enough, as we pulled up outside, who was waiting, clutching a bunch of flowers and wearing a smart jacket despite the sweltering heat, but dear sweet George.

  ‘Mollie!’ he cried, his rosy cheeks lighting up when he spotted me. ‘I’ve missed you so much. I came to give you …’ His voice trailed off as Alan strode up next to me and placed an arm round my shoulders.

  ‘All right, George,’ Alan winked, sniffing the air. ‘Been spreading muck, have we?’

  George’s face fell and I noticed a little vein on his temple start to twitch. He looked from me to Alan. Then, without saying a word, he smiled sadly, handed me the flowers and walked off, looking utterly defeated.

  I took no pride in breaking his heart, I really didn’t. I could have swung for Alan, I could have. From that day on I never knew George to court again. The tiniest things can alter the course of our lives forever and I often wonder what sort of man he would have become if I hadn’t turned him over. Holding hands at the pictures, a shared sticky bun and a kiss in the snow – some people treasure these memories and make no room in their heart for any more.

  The young lad in the back row, far left, is loyal farmhand George Thornton, Louis’s younger brother, aged about seventeen. I fear I broke that poor man’s heart.

  Back then I was a flighty girl, living for the moment, and I daresay I gave no more thought to his stolen glances at me or the sadness in his eyes when he spotted me and Alan giggling together.

  There was no real start to my relationship with Alan, but like a territorial animal protecting his lands I suddenly found I was drawn into his protective clutches. Like a couple of hormonal young creatures, our courtship was passionate, intense – and deeply unpopular below stairs.

  Alan would use any excuse to sneak up behind me in the game room or the scullery, run his fingers down my back, spin me round and plant a long, lingering, passionate kiss on my lips.

  ‘Steady on,’ I laughed, the first time he cornered me. ‘You’ll bruise my lips.’

  Our eyes would lock over the servants’ hall table and Alan would fix me with a look of longing and lust so intense I’m surprised the table didn’t burst into flames. The air between us crackled.

  At first we managed to keep it secret, meeting in our half-days off or after lunch service. We’d hide behind a haystack for a quick fumble or run through the shady woods and rest against an ancient oak. Summertime at Woodhall was beyond beautiful and there was no shortage of places to meet for secret assignations. A balmy haze spread over the orchards and the fragrant hedgerows made a perfect spot to hide behind and while away a couple of hours.

  The intoxicating scent of wild flowers seemed to have a powerful effect on Alan. ‘Oh, Mollie,’ he moaned one afternoon, ripping off my cap and running his fingers through my red hair. ‘I want you so much. I knew you’d be mine one day.’

  ‘Well, you’ll wait then,’ I said, slapping his hands away. ‘If you really like me, that is.’

  I liked him, I really did, and he was ever so good-looking. His dark eyes shone like conkers and his hair was so black it was almost purple in places. I daresay he could have had the pick of any of the girls at the village dance, but the fact that he had chosen me made me feel special. Whenever he tried to take things a step too far, or pushed things, I reminded myself of his unfortunate start in life. He’d had no one to love him growing up or to teach him boundaries.

  Living and working together in such close proximity, it was almost impossible to keep a secret and soon the cat was out of the bag.

  ‘I know you’re seeing Alan,’ muttered Mrs Jones, soon after we arrived at Woodhall. She was kneading dough to make a tart and I could see her knuckles turn white as she angrily turned the dough over, slapping it down and kneading it between her podgy fingers. ‘I warned you courtship below stairs was forbidden, didn’t I? The very day you started I told you! The boss won’t like it, see, nor will Mr Orchard. Doesn’t pay to date the staff.’

  Biting my tongue, I said nothing, just carried on beating eggs in a large bowl.

  ‘You know,’ she said angrily, ‘someti
mes you don’t know it all.’

  What did she know about young love? She wouldn’t know passion if it came up and slapped her between the eyes.

  ‘Just cool it off, Mollie,’ she said, turning to me with her hands on her beefy hips. ‘I mean it.’

  I stared miserably at my pudding bowl and said nothing. Who was she to say who I could and couldn’t date? It was utterly infuriating. Just why should she and Mr Orchard have the power to rule our lives? It was all right for Mr Stocks’s niece upstairs. She was off being presented at court, with no end of parties and events for her to meet a suitable man. But what about me? How was I ever supposed to meet a man? When I spent ninety hours a week below stairs it was little wonder I ended up being attracted to someone I worked with!

  To escape the heat from my private life I immersed myself in the heat of the kitchen. Cooking provides a wonderful escape to lose yourself in. Under Mrs Jones’s expert tutelage, I was learning so much. I may only have been sixteen but already I could finally pluck, gut, draw, bone and truss a bird, fillet a fish with my eyes shut and make soufflés as light as air. I was forever making sauces, from béchamel to Béarnaise, caper to cardinal, bread to bordelaise, hollandaise to horseradish. Mrs Jones was a firm believer in sauce – the cooking of, not receiving, I hasten to add.

  In 1933 sauces were all the rage. Nothing was served on a gentleman’s dinner plate without some sort of hot accompaniment. Until the end of the eighteenth century, cooking was a neglected art in England. A Frenchman of that age once described us as a ‘nation with one sauce’. Well, not when I was learning to cook. Mrs Jones was often wont to quote Alexis Soyer, who said in Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management: ‘Sauces are to cookery what grammar is to a language.’

  She would hover over me whenever I made any sauce. ‘It’s all in the lightness of hand, Mollie,’ she would say, planting a wooden spoon in my hand. ‘I never ever want to catch you making a sauce with anything other than a wooden spoon.’

  Hollandaise was the worst. I had to make a basic white sauce, put it on the heat and then add stock and egg yolks bit by bit and whisk by the side of the fire until it thickened. Woe betide you let it boil.