That may seem barely credible to you, but the kitchen of a big upper-class house was like a bubble. The outside world and current affairs simply never permeated the intense order and day-to-day routine that we lived our lives by. There was some comfort in these ever-present routines, but it also meant we were living in a time warp. We toiled away underground and, metaphorically speaking, in the dark. As long as Mr Stocks’s meals went up like clockwork, the pans were sparkling, the steps gleaming, the servants’ bell always answered, what did it matter that dark forces were brewing on the rarefied streets outside? We would no more discuss politics while working than Mr Orchard would forget to faithfully sound his gong at half past seven each night.
As soon as the last dish was scrubbed and placed on the rack, Phyllis and I tore upstairs like a whirlwind. She started getting changed into an old cotton dress.
‘You can’t wear that!’ I gasped. ‘You’ve got to make a bit of an effort. This is London, not the country.’ With that, I changed into a new polka-dot fitted dress that I’d just bought from Marks & Spencer for half a crown.
‘There,’ I said as Phyllis zipped me up at the back. ‘You’ve got to look the business.’ I smoothed down the dress and noted with satisfaction that it showcased my curves superbly. I was seventeen now and had come on a long way since that shy fourteen-year-old who hated being naked in front of Flo. I’m not saying I knew what to do, but having a couple of boyfriends had given me confidence in my looks and my body. I even put on a pair of short white gloves like I’d seen Flo do.
Soon we were heading for the area steps.
‘Don’t forget to be back by half past four, girls,’ shouted Mrs Jones as she gratefully sank into the small armchair in her sitting room. ‘We have to have tea ready.’
‘Don’t worry, we will,’ I sang, slamming the door behind us.
Out on the streets, the bright spring sunshine bouncing off the gleaming white mansion houses of Cadogan Square was blinding. Coming out of the kitchen basement and up the stairs always reminded me of how a mole must feel when it pushes its way, blinking and dazzled, above ground.
Billy, the Harrods errand boy I’d flirted with back when I’d first arrived at Cadogan Square, cycled past and I wiggled my hips as I strutted along the road.
‘Oi, Mollie, you look lovely,’ he called, whistling appreciatively. ‘Coming to see me, are ya?’
I shook my head. ‘Not today, Billy, sorry,’ I grinned. I had bigger fish to fry now.
We were meeting Henry and Percival at Hyde Park, just behind Speakers’ Corner. If I’d thought the park was busy and raucous that first time I’d seen it, it wasn’t a patch on what it was like now. It was sheer bedlam. Knowing that Mosley was here to make one of his speeches at this rally, his most loyal supporters were out in force – as were vast crowds of anti-fascist demonstrators. They crashed and clashed together, their voices growing louder and louder as they competed with each other for supremacy and the last word. Overhead, a police gyrocopter circled, the first time the Met Police had ever used one to keep an eye on a large meeting, apparently. The noise sounded like the buzzing of a thousand bees growing closer and closer. There must have been hundreds of people there, standing around, waiting for Mosley’s arrival. The air was thick with menace, tension and the threat of violence. All it took was one man to push another and you knew a riot would break out. A line of policemen stood elbow to elbow, poised and ready should violence erupt. They had their hands crossed behind their backs as their eyes darted this way and that, looking for signs of trouble in the crowd. I thought back to dear old PC Risebrough in Norfolk and his campaign to trap a scheming gang of strawberry-thieving kids. Something told me he’d be a bit out of his depth here.
‘I don’t like the look of this,’ trembled Phyllis. ‘I wasn’t expecting this.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I grinned. ‘We’ve got our own personal bodyguards, remember.’
Just then I spotted Henry and Percival. Their striking blond good looks and tall black-clad shoulders towered over the assembled crowd. Henry leant back against a tree, a confident, arrogant smile playing on his handsome face. When he spotted us he looked even smugger.
‘I knew you couldn’t keep away, Mollie,’ he drawled. ‘A girl like you likes danger, doesn’t she?’
Totally oblivious to the foul looks that were thrown our way, Phyllis and I stood next to our respective Blackshirts and proceeded to giggle and flirt outrageously, throwing our heads back with exaggerated laughter at their jokes. Henry didn’t seem much interested in me or my life, just more concerned with telling me about his military background and posh degree. He was a bit up himself, but I reasoned when you looked as good as he did you were entitled to be a bit arrogant.
Just then, a frisson of excitement ran through the crowd and I noticed Henry’s shoulders tense as he leapt upright, his back suddenly becoming ram-rod straight.
‘Mosley’s here,’ he muttered to Percival. ‘Look lively.’
I whirled round to see a tall man with a bristly moustache march confidently through the crowd, flanked either side by more Blackshirts. He may have had a slight limp, but that did nothing to detract from his own obvious sense of self-regard. As he drew close I felt a strange chill wrap itself round my spine.
His eyes were as dark and cold as a shark’s and he had cheekbones you could have cut glass on. As he swept past he threw a chilly look in our direction. Henry stiffened and threw his arm up in a one-handed salute.
‘Hail, Mosley!’ he barked. His manner was one of utter deference.
It was a brief moment, but I knew in an instant that Henry was the sort of man who would never see me as an equal. He was completely in thrall to this strange man.
‘Why does he walk like that?’ I whispered to Henry once he’d passed.
‘Wounded in a plane crash during the war and returned to the trenches before his leg was completely healed,’ he replied proudly. ‘Became infected and he had to have two inches removed.’
He and the other assembled Blackshirts gathered around Mosley as he took to his stage. Phyllis and I followed, eager to get close to the action.
‘Wonder what he’ll say?’ I muttered to Phyllis.
Henry silenced me with a single icy glare. ‘Sssh,’ he said. ‘He’s about to speak.’
Mosley drew himself up straight, raised a single hand aloft and, with that, an enormous roar echoed round Hyde Park.
‘Attention,’ hollered a man to his right, but despite the high pitch of his voice it was drowned out in the general hubbub.
Oblivious to the noise, Mosley launched into his speech.
‘In the lives of great nations comes the moment of decision, the moment of destiny. And again and again in the great hours of its fate, this nation has swept aside convention, has swept aside the little men of talk and of delay, and has decided to follow men and movements that march forward to action. Let those who dare follow us in this hour. And I say, in the ranks of our Blackshirt legions march the mighty ghosts of England’s past with their strong arms around us and their voices echoing down the ages saying “Onwards!”’
Another great roar went round the park and the gyrocopter seemed to circle lower. I glanced across to look at Henry’s face. His handsome features were bathed in adoration as he gazed at his idol and nodded his head in agreement. At that moment I don’t think it would have mattered if I’d ripped off my polka-dot dress and done a naked lap round the park. I doubt he’d even have noticed, so intently was he listening to his master’s speech.
‘We must be worthy in our mission,’ went on Mosley. ‘Because a Blackshirt is a revolutionary dedicated to the service of our country. We must have the power to endure, we have the qualities of a true Britain, and we carry with us the destiny of Britain. I would like to be the companion of every one of you, every man and woman …’
‘We don’t want you as a companion!’ hollered a man.
‘Hear, hear!’ shouted more men.
Ignoring them, he
carried on, his voice growing louder. ‘Our faith is greater than your faith,’ he shouted to the hecklers.
You could almost see their chests rise in furious indignation. A chant started up, slow and steady at first then gradually growing louder …
‘Out fascists out, out fascists out, out fascists out! ’
‘The government is surrendering to Jewish corruption,’ Mosley shouted, his nostrils flaring in rage. ‘But we shall never surrender, we shall triumph over the forces of corruption because in us the flame to light the country and later light the world shines strong.’
‘What’s he on about?’ hissed Phyllis, nudging me in the ribs. ‘What flame?’
I shrugged my shoulders; I didn’t have a clue what he meant. ‘He’s just spouting a load of old claptrap, far as I can tell,’ I whispered, making sure Henry didn’t hear me.
Mosley was coming to the climax of his speech. A vein was twitching in his temple, just like I’d seen on Alan when he got worked up about something, and his fists were swinging about like jackhammers.
‘To all the world a message: England lives and marches on.’ With that, he punched his fist into the air, his moustache twitching in jubilation. The Blackshirts roared their approval.
‘Get rid of the rats!’ shouted an angry heckler. Then he picked up a clod of earth and hurled it at Mosley. The crowd had been tensed and poised like a coiled spring, waiting for someone to strike the first blow. Some things in life are inevitable. As I watched the clod of earth sail through the air in a perfect arc, I knew that single action would be enough to spark all-out chaos.
It missed, but Mosley jerked his head round in surprise.
Seconds later the crowd was a seething mass of elbows and arms. A scrummage of limbs flailed about on the ground as men fought with their fists. Caps were dislodged and grunts filled the air as the crowd erupted. The police blew their whistles and jumped into action, but you could see they had their work cut out restoring peace to this crowd.
‘Got to go, see you soon, Mollie,’ shouted Henry as he and Percival rolled up their sleeves and disappeared into the tangle of flying fists.
Poor Phyllis. Her eyes grew as wide as saucers.
‘Come on,’ I laughed. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ Grabbing her hand, I elbowed people out of the way and we ran for dear life. By the time we reached the far end of the park my blood was racing with sheer exhilaration.
‘Blimey,’ I gasped, leaning against a tree to catch my breath. ‘That was exciting. Don’t think my heart’s ever pumped as fast.’
We were still on a high as we descended the area steps, flushed with the drama of the afternoon.
‘Did you see Mosley’s face?’ I chuckled as we burst into the kitchen.
Mr Orchard was just picking up Mr Stocks’s tea tray to take upstairs but at the mere mention of Mosley’s name his head snapped round.
‘You’re late,’ he barked. ‘And what’s this about Mosley?’
I went to kick Phyllis, but it was too late.
‘We saw him up at Hyde Park,’ she burst out, all innocent excitement. ‘What a palaver. You should have seen it.’
My heart sank as I saw Mr Orchard’s eyes turn to me, then narrow.
‘And what, might I ask, were you doing up there?’
For the love of God, Phyllis, don’t say.
‘Oh, we were meeting some Blackshirts up there,’ she giggled. ‘Right handsome they were too.’
Too late.
Mrs Jones whirled round and dropped her whisk and Mr Orchard’s face was frozen in shock. When he recovered himself, he glared at me.
‘Mollie, might I have a word with you in the housekeeper’s sitting room?’ he said.
I had never seen him so angry in all the years I’d been working there. Words were bandied around like bullets. Totally unacceptable … shame … I forbid you … if the boss finds out … On and on he railed, growing angrier by the second. I’d had enough. As before, when Mother tried to get me to work in that tiny shop or Mrs Jones banned me from the dance or Alan used his aggressive tactics to try and control me, at the sound of Mr Orchard lecturing me about who I could and couldn’t see, something inside me just shut down.
I may have been a seventeen-year-old kitchen maid, but I knew my own mind. I’d had it, simply had it, with people trying to control my life.
I was saved from further scolding by the servants’ bell tinkling in the hall. Mr Orchard shot to his feet.
‘I must tend to Mr Stocks now, but do I make myself perfectly clear, Mollie?’ he asked.
Mr Orchard, the snooty butler who kept a watchful eye on me and my shenanigans. He was always giving me a telling-off but, looking back, I probably deserved it!
‘Perfectly,’ I said, meeting his gaze. On the outside I was calm, but inside I was churned up. Of all the pompous … Why was I always the butt of his sour temper?
Word quickly got round the kitchen of mine and Phyllis’s afternoon activities. For the rest of the day Mrs Jones and Mabel clucked and shook their heads like a couple of hormonal hens.
‘Don’t you be leading that Phyllis astray,’ said Mabel. ‘She’s a nice young girl. Those Blackshirts are nothing but trouble.’
I bit my tongue. Listen to the old crone on her high horse. I knew she’d been having her fun behind the woodshed, not that she’d ever admit as much. How dare she sit in judgement on me!
Mrs Jones, who seemed convinced that most men were the root of all evil, was hopping mad.
‘And I thought you seeing Alan was bad enough,’ she raged, shaking her head. ‘Don’t you be going getting yourselves in trouble, especially not with them.’
Phyllis and I kept our heads down and got on with our jobs, but in our bedroom, after service that night, I was still seething.
‘They’re not telling me how to run my life,’ I muttered to Phyllis. ‘I’m going back there tomorrow, just see if I don’t.’
‘But Mr Orchard said –’
‘I don’t care what he says,’ I raged. ‘I’ve had it with people trying to control me.’
That night I fell asleep with the roar of the crowd and the policeman’s whistle ringing in my ears. The powerful events of the day were to shape all our lives in ways I could not have foreseen or even imagined, but trouble was brewing out there in the streets, back alleys and royal parks of London. To me, though, it was all one big thrill, a tantalizing taste of the unknown and a brush with the dark side.
I knew Henry was trouble, of course I did. But what’s more attractive to a young girl than a bit of danger … a bad boy?
The next day after lunch I went alone back to Speakers’ Corner. This time the sight that greeted me was even more bizarre than the day before. There was handsome Henry, still in his uniform, but hopping about beside him was someone truly astonishing.
I’d never seen a black man before, much less a semi-naked one.
A tall and striking man wearing voluminous purple pantaloons, embroidered African-coloured waistcoat, bare arms and bare feet, cut a striking figure against the sea of Blackshirts. His flamboyant outfit was topped with an elaborate headdress of red, white and blue ostrich feathers that seemed to reach high into the sky.
He was letting Henry have it from both barrels and his feathers quivered as he jumped from foot to foot in excitement. His enormous feet were totally bare as he leapt around doing a sort of strange tribal dance, while simultaneously wielding an umbrella.
It was like watching Mary Poppins on drugs.
‘Each item and every colour I wear symbolizes the brotherhood of man,’ he boomed. ‘Red, white and blue stands for the British Empire, which comprises Jews, Muslims and Blacks.’
I was absolutely flabbergasted by this strange character, not to mention his bizarre rantings, and stood rooted to the spot. Henry, meanwhile, didn’t seem even remotely fazed by the sight of a six-foot-tall black man in purple pantaloons and ostrich feathers spouting off in his face.
London in 1934 was indeed a truly strange place.<
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‘Get away, you old crackpot!’ Henry yelled, dismissing him with a flick of his hand.
‘Crackpot am I?’ the man yelled back. ‘Well, hear this. You know why the Germans hate the Jews, why you hate the Jews?’
Henry and the assembled Blackshirts rolled their eyes.
‘Because they are too much like you,’ he went on.
‘You’re crazy,’ spat one of the Blackshirts and then – somewhat viciously – ‘Get that boot polish off your face.’
‘It’s true,’ he persisted, swinging his umbrella about and ignoring their racist remarks. ‘Contrary to the shallow idea that racism is rooted in otherness, one can truly only hate someone who is like oneself and whom one therefore understands.’
This last speech was too much for them and they pushed him away. I didn’t know it back then, but I was watching the most famous black man in the country. Racing tipster Prince Monolulu was a familiar sight, not just at Speakers’ Corner, but also on racecourses around the country. The British at that time were fascinated by the exotic and had taken this colourful character to their hearts. He appeared on racecourses between the wars in his eccentric outfits where he drew huge crowds. The Prince sold tips in envelopes and engaged in endless banter with people around him, his most famous call being ‘I gotta horse!’
No newsreel of the Derby was complete without a film of him shouting his catchphrase. He embroidered fantastical stories about being descended from a remote royal tribe from Abyssinia and claimed to have been a model in Germany, an opera singer in Moscow and a fortune teller in Rome. In actual fact his real name was Peter McKay and he was from the West Indies.
Prince Monolulu met a rather sad end on Valentine’s Day, 1965. He was being treated in Middlesex Hospital when a friend visited him with a gift of a box of Black Magic chocolates and offered him a strawberry cream, which he accepted and promptly choked to death on. Choked to death on a strawberry cream? You couldn’t make it up, could you? Poor fella. Back then I certainly enjoyed watching him giving the Blackshirts some flack.
Henry spotted me and waved me over. ‘Hello, my ravishing redhead,’ he said with a smile. ‘Wondered whether we’d see you again after all that trouble yesterday.’
Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid Page 20