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

by Moran, Mollie

  Louis and I were just foxtrotting our way round past the tea urn when a large hand clamped down on Louis’s shoulder.

  ‘I think that’s enough now, don’t you?’ said Alan, his voice pitched dangerously low and calm.

  Louis, unfortunately, couldn’t see the warning signs and batted his hand away. ‘Lighten up, Alan, we’re only dancing. You should learn yourself and then you could keep Mollie company.’

  Big mistake.

  I could see the switch flick behind Alan’s eyes and the vein in his temple twitched angrily.

  ‘I said, take your hands off her NOW!’ he boomed.

  People around us stopped dancing and stared. I felt all eyes swivel and turn to us. Louis looked stunned.

  ‘Alan,’ I said nervously. ‘You’re making a scene.’

  ‘You’re making a fool of me,’ he thundered. ‘I won’t stand for it.’

  I felt humiliation burn inside and I just wanted the ground to swallow me up. Why did he have to ruin everything?

  ‘Come on,’ he spat, gripping my hand and leading me outside. ‘Show’s over, folks.’

  As I was hustled to the exit, I could just make out Phyllis’s and Irene’s worried faces before the door slammed shut behind us. And then we were stood outside in the cold dark air. Angry tears of humiliation pricked my eyes. I’d looked forward to this night for ages. I’d felt like a princess in my dress in the back of the Daimler and now I felt like a silly fool.

  ‘Why, Alan?’ I cried. ‘We were only dancing. Why do you have to ruin everything?’

  Rage flashed over his face and then he was off. Thundering abuse and shouting with his face just inches from mine, his fingers jabbing at the neckline of my black dress, he spewed forth venom.

  I stopped listening. There was nothing worth listening to anyway. I just watched his mouth flap open and shut. Funny how that face that had looked so handsome just a few months before, looked so ugly now. He didn’t hit me that night, but I knew he wanted to and suddenly in a rare moment of clarity I knew just what Alan would become if I married him. I knew the life mapped out for me would have been one of misery and pain.

  My mother had raised me to have respect for myself and others. I had to get away from him.

  Back at Woodhall, with Mr Stocks home from his holiday and normal service resumed, you could have cut the atmosphere in the kitchen with a knife. Tension hung like steam in the air. It wasn’t long before Mr Orchard pulled me to one side, his thin lips pursed in disapproval.

  ‘It’s come to my attention that you are courting Alan,’ he said, looking down his nose. ‘Despite Mrs Jones’s express desire for you not to become involved with your fellow members of staff. You leave me no choice but to swap your half-days so you no longer have time off together. You must call a halt to this now.’

  He’d obviously given the same speech to Alan, who was walking around the place in a foul mood.

  ‘They can’t keep us apart,’ he whispered in a quiet moment. ‘What doesn’t kill us will only make us stronger, Mollie. Needs be I’ll get a job elsewhere and we can still be together.’

  What did I feel? Mainly relief that I had an excuse not to spend time with him. I’d got myself into a hole and now I had to get myself out of it.

  After lunch service that day I stepped outside and gratefully gulped in the fresh air. A low mist hung eerily over the woods and the sound of muffled gunshots rang out from a nearby shoot. I could make out Alan’s face from the servants’ door, staring out into the gloom.

  Shivering, I pulled my coat tight round me, got on my bike and pedalled like the wind back to my mother’s. She took one look at my face and folded me into her arms.

  When she’d finished hugging me, she went to put the kettle on.

  ‘Oh, Mollie,’ she sighed. ‘I knew he was no good. You have to give him up.’

  ‘I can’t, Mum,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘He’ll square me up, I know he will. You don’t know what he’s like.’

  ‘I do know what he’s like,’ she said. ‘He’s been coming in here in his time off, you know. I think he’s trying to butter me up so as he can get closer to me.’

  ‘Creep,’ I spat.

  ‘Look, love,’ she said. ‘He’s not worth a breath of your anger. He’s had a hard life and it’s made him complicated. I feel for him, I honestly do, but I don’t want him dating my daughter.’ Her face fell. ‘It would finish your father off if you married him.’

  That settled it. I had to end it with my footman once and for all.

  ‘I’m scared, Mum,’ I admitted. For all my bravado and cheek, when it came down to it I was just a sixteen-year-old girl who needed her mother.

  ‘Send him over here,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll do it for you.’

  Events were racing to a head as, in my absence, Alan had become locked in a showdown with Mr Orchard over his time off. As soon as I let myself back into the kitchen, one look at Mrs Jones’s face told me all was not well. She stood with her back to the range, staring at Mr Orchard and Alan as they stood face to face, glaring at each other.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ said Alan. ‘We should be allowed time off together when we want.’ He turned to me. ‘Tell them, Mollie,’ he said. ‘Tell them we only want to be together.’

  My blood raced. ‘I – I –’ I stuttered, nervously playing with the hem of my apron. I was paralysed with terror.

  ‘It’s all right, lass,’ said Mrs Jones softly, saving me. ‘I think, Alan, what Mr Orchard is trying to say is that you need to calm down and think about what’s best for the household.’

  ‘What about what’s best for me and Mollie?’ he said, thumping his fist down on the table.

  You could have heard a pin drop as Mr Orchard’s face hardened.

  ‘I’ll leave if you don’t let us have more time together,’ Alan raged. ‘I mean it, so help me God, I’ll go.’

  The silence seemed to stretch on forever.

  ‘Then go,’ said Mr Orchard finally. ‘I’ll write you a reference.’ With that, he turned on his heel and stalked from the kitchen.

  Alan looked from me to Mrs Jones helplessly, before ripping off his green apron and throwing it on the table. He glared at us with such terrifying force, I looked away and stared at the floor. A second later the back door slammed shut so hard the whole kitchen seemed to rattle.

  He was gone.

  I sighed heavily and slumped into a chair. I was surprised to find my hands were actually trembling.

  ‘Right, show’s over,’ said Mrs Jones briskly to everyone. ‘Can we restore this kitchen to the purpose for which it was originally built? Cooking!’

  As everyone quickly went about their business, Mrs Jones came up behind me and, without saying a word, placed her hands on my shoulder and squeezed gently.

  ‘Just take a minute, Mollie,’ she said, when my breathing calmed down.

  Alan went from there to my mother’s and it was then she broke the news to him gently that I didn’t wish to marry him or, in fact, see him again. Where he went and what happened to him I don’t know and in many ways I still feel very sorry for him, despite his jealous rages. Being an orphan had shaped him in ways that had obviously driven him to the brink of madness. I just hope he found the security and love he so obviously craved.

  The whole sorry episode taught me a lot as well – firstly, that when it came to men I had a thing or two to learn and, secondly, a girl really can’t be without her mother!

  You might think after all that drama I would have longed for a quieter life. Well, if you think that, then you obviously don’t know me very well, dear reader, for what happened next back in London, well – how does that old saying go? Out of the frying pan and into the fire …

  Tips from a 1930s Kitchen

  …

  TRIFLE

  If we were lucky at a dance, we might even get a bit of trifle. I love this recipe and have been using it for years. Or if trifle’s not your thing, try making the brandy snaps, perfect for afternoon tea.


  Line a glass dish with sponge cakes and soak with sherry. Add mixed tinned fruit (fruit cocktail is best) and chopped walnuts.

  Cover with custard and, when cold, cover with whipped cream. Pipe cream rosettes on top and decorate with fruit and glacé cherries. Keep in fridge till required.

  BRANDY SNAPS

  2 oz (50 g) sugar

  3 oz (75 g) butter

  3 oz (75 g) syrup

  2 oz (50 g) plain flour

  1 teaspoon ground ginger

  Large splash of brandy (omit for children’s parties)

  For rolling: wooden spoon with a well-greased handle

  Melt sugar, butter and syrup, then allow to cool.

  Add flour and ginger, mix well. Add brandy. Put small teaspoonfuls on to a greased baking sheet, leaving space for each snap to spread to about 4 inches (10 cm). Bake in a moderate oven until golden brown.

  Allow to cool for a moment, lift each one with a palette knife and quickly roll over the spoon handle. Slide off when hardened. To serve, pipe the tubes full of whipped cream and decorate with a glacé cherry. If the biscuits cool too much before they have been rolled into tubes, pop them back into the oven for a moment to soften, then try again.

  HOUSEHOLD TIP

  To refurbish linoleum, melt some beeswax and mix with a little turpentine. Use like a polish on the linoleum. It comes up like new.

  8

  Scandal Below Stairs

  The secret of reaping the greatest fruitfulness

  and the greatest enjoyment from life is to live

  dangerously!

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  The date was April 1934. The location, the Royal Albert Hall in London. Half a mile from Cadogan Square a speech was about to take place that would put one of Mr Orchard’s monologues about the gentry into the shade.

  Just before eight p.m. the spotlights dramatically swung to the main entrance and illuminated a thin man with a well-kept black moustache and a thick head of black hair. Walking with a pronounced limp, he paced across the hall, chest out and handsome head flung back. The limp did nothing to slow his progress and he took his place behind the lectern. In front of the assembled audience he oozed an aura of power and confidence.

  Behind him hung a giant black banner emblazoned with the silver Italian fasces symbol. Copies of the Daily Mail adorned the edges of the balconies. The audience, mostly dressed in black shirts, leapt to their feet, anxious to capture every word uttered by their idol.

  Although slight in stature, the speaker drew himself up, closed his eyes and prepared to talk. You could have heard a pin drop.

  ‘Hold high the head of Britain,’ he boomed. ‘Lift strong the voice of the Empire. Let us to Europe and the World proclaim that the heart of this great people is undaunted and invincible.’ His voice grew as his chest swelled. ‘This flag still challenges the winds of destiny. This flame still burns.’

  As his fist slammed down on the lectern the audience roared their approval. Encouraged by their obvious praise and devotion, and an unshakable conviction that he was born to rule, he went on. ‘This glory shall not die. The soul of Empire is alive, and Britain again dares to be great.’

  By the time he had finished, the crowd was in raptures. ‘Hurrah for the Blackshirts,’ they cried. ‘Hail Mosley!’

  He had spoken for an hour and thirty-five minutes without any notes or hesitations. It was quite a performance.

  Today the Albert Hall is the venue for pop concerts and the Proms. Back in 1934, fascist leaders were packing it to the rafters.

  Such was the fiery force of his oration and the confidence in his beliefs, fascist MP Oswald Mosley held his supporters in the palm of his hand. Fresh from his tour of Italy where he’d studied Mussolini’s new movement, Mosley had returned to London determined to unite the existing fascist movements.

  Just two years previously, in 1932, he had formed the British Union of Fascists. At their first meeting in London, thirty-two members put on black shirts and the Blackshirt movement began.

  As well as the Albert Hall, he took to London’s Hyde Park to preach about his new party. His popularity grew. As a charismatic speaker and able politician, Mosley spoke about ideals such as patriotism, order and discipline and social justice which many people found appealing. He argued that Great Britain needed to become a more advanced civilization and proposed that the Blackshirts would be a new, improved British people capable of achieving this. Many people were attracted by his speeches and were not aware of the dark side of the fascist ideology.

  I was one of them!

  Well, actually, back in them days I didn’t really give two hoots for the politics, being a flighty seventeen-year-old and all. I just liked the look of some of the handsome Blackshirts.

  Most people were taken in that spring when we returned to London for the season. The Daily Mail had just published an open letter of support for them entitled ‘Hurrah for the Blackshirts’ and now, in 1934, their meetings and rallies were attracting thousands. In just two years the BUF had swelled in numbers with a membership approaching 40,000. The Blackshirts came from all walks of life and the membership included both men and women of all ages. Those most closely linked to Mosley were well-educated, often with a military background and from well-off and well-connected families. I’ll never forget the first time I clapped eyes on our Blackshirts, Henry and Percival.

  Phyllis and I had our customary two-hour break after lunch and I was giving her the same tour of London that Flo had shown me. I’d bounced back after my disastrous encounters with Alan and George and my confidence was fully restored. I was pleased as punch to be back in London. My ego hadn’t been too badly bruised and, with all the arrogance of youth, I couldn’t wait to see what men were out there to have a flirt with.

  Now Phyllis was the new girl, all wide-eyed at the sights and sounds of London.

  ‘Come on, Phyllis,’ I’d blustered bossily, secretly chuffed that I knew my way round and she didn’t. ‘We’d best rush. Best tour you’ll get, this. They’ve opened up a new Woolworths on the King’s Road. Let’s go and have a look.’

  Strutting down the road like I owned it, I suddenly heard a whistle.

  ‘I say there, you, the red-headed girl,’ said a rich and deep sexy voice. ‘Where you off to in such a hurry?’

  Whirling round, I was delighted to find myself face to face with a tall, handsome man dressed entirely in black. He looked like the Milk Tray man with muscles.

  ‘Come back here and have a chat with us,’ he smiled. ‘The name’s Henry and I simply insist you don’t pass me by without telling me your name.’

  ‘Mollie,’ I giggled. ‘Why you all dressed in black then? You’ll bake out here.’

  He thrust a pamphlet at me emblazoned with the headline Join the BUF. But I wasn’t really looking at the pamphlet. I was too busy checking out what was beneath the shirt. He had muscles on his muscles. He was tall, well over six foot, and built like a barn with a mass of blond hair that he’d slicked back off his face and a strong jawline. He oozed youth and strength.

  ‘We’re Blackshirts. We’re here to protect our leader, Oswald Mosley. This here is our headquarters, otherwise known as the Black House,’ he went on, gesturing to a large building next to an army barracks.

  ‘You must be very strong then if you’re hired to protect someone,’ I flirted.

  He raised his eyebrows and a slow smile spread over his face. ‘Perhaps you’ll get to find out. What time does a ravishing girl like you get off work then? I can meet you outside your office if you like. Bet a girl like you knows the best places to go in London.’

  ‘Ooh, we don’t work in an office,’ piped up Phyllis. ‘We work in Cadogan Square. I’m a scullery maid and Mollie here’s a kitchen maid.’

  ‘A kitchen maid, eh?’ he drawled slowly, looking me up and down. ‘Well, kitchen maid Mollie, reckon you can come and meet me up at Hyde Park tomorrow? Our boss is making a speech and we’ll be there to protect him from attack from some of these mi
ndless left-wing opponents. You might learn a thing or two.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can teach me,’ I winked, with more bravado than I felt.

  ‘Is that so, Mollie?’ he said, grinning. ‘Ten bob says you come.’

  I could tell by his arrogant smile he already knew I’d come, but I wasn’t about to let him know that. I simply smiled and walked away.

  ‘See you around then,’ he called after me.

  ‘Not if I see you first,’ I shot back.

  Phyllis was full of it. ‘Oh, you’re ever so daring, Mollie. Did you see that lad he was standing with? I liked him. Yours is pretty good-looking too.’

  Feeling very smug at the handsome couple of lads we’d landed a date with, instinct told me to keep quiet about this one and, just before we got back to Cadogan Square, I pulled Phyllis to one side.

  ‘Best keep this one under our hats,’ I whispered. ‘Mrs Jones and Mr Orchard have funny ideas about things sometimes.’

  The next morning Phyllis and I were bubbling over and I could scarcely keep my mind on the hollandaise sauce I was making.

  ‘I’m so relieved that Alan’s not here any more,’ said Mrs Jones, deftly gutting a fish next to me. ‘He was more trouble than he was worth, that one. Caused no end of bother. I knew you’d see sense, Mollie,’ she went on. ‘I’ll make a kitchen maid of you yet. Just got to keep your mind on cooking and not boys.’

  I nodded and smiled, but I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy dreaming of my blond-haired Blackshirt. I didn’t really know what a Blackshirt was, nor – if I’m honest – what a fascist was. Even if I’d had the time to read Mr Stocks’s leftover copy of The Times, by the time it made its way down to the servants’ hall Mr Orchard had taken it to read in the housekeeper’s sitting room. So you see, with no access to newspapers or a wireless to listen to, I knew nothing of world events or the politics of the day.