‘Who was that?’ I asked, staring after the man as his headdress disappeared off amongst the hecklers.
‘Oh, him,’ Henry said nonchalantly. ‘Just some silly old fool.’
He slung a powerful arm possessively round my shoulder and fear nagged in my chest. I had come up here alone, no one knew where I was and if they had known they would probably have imploded with anger. What if he tried something? Thank God we were in broad daylight in London with no hedges to lean up against or haystacks to hide behind. There’s no telling what a man like Henry could get up to there!
Suddenly I felt way out of my depth. Over-possessive footmen were one thing, but bullyboy fascists were in a league of their own. If Mr Orchard or Mrs Jones knew I was here I would be sent home in utter disgrace.
Suddenly a vision of my dad’s face swam into my mind. Exhausted, his poor lungs shrivelled from mustard gas, he had sacrificed his health and his life to fight the Germans in the war. How would he feel if he knew his daughter was cavorting with a fascist follower? And not just a follower but a Blackshirt, paid to enforce his master’s beliefs? I had a feeling he wouldn’t be right happy about it.
I stood feeling intimidated, wishing the ground under Speakers’ Corner would swallow me up, as Henry and his fellow Blackshirts discussed their boss’s next speech and spouted some truly terrible opinions.
Something told me that on this occasion I might just have crossed the line. Using an excuse to get away, I fled back to Cadogan Square, my heart pounding around like a bouncing tennis ball in my chest.
For the rest of the day I put my head down and worked hard, the heat from the kitchen providing the perfect place to escape my troubled mind. Phyllis kept trying to catch my eye, but I ignored her and went about my business. Suddenly I missed Flo desperately. She would have known just the right thing to do or say.
The next day was a lovely hot summer’s day and as I had a half-day I knew the perfect antidote. I’d always loved swimming back in Norfolk as a child and every time I’d passed the Serpentine in Hyde Park I’d looked longingly at the cool strip of sparkling water and thought how much I’d love to bathe in it.
The famous stretch of water, created in 1730, was a magnet for pleasure-seekers and pleasure boats filled with people regularly chugged up and down its long snake-like waters. Four years ago, in 1930, a rectangular area had been opened up specifically for swimmers. Everyone was chatting about Lansbury’s Lido, in fact it was the talk of the town, because for the first time it had permitted mixed bathing. Imagine! Men and women in next to nothing, all swimming in the same waters!
Mr Orchard had virtually spat out his morning coffee when he’d read news of it in Mr Stocks’s Times, back when it had first opened.
‘I don’t believe it! Mixed bathing in the Serpentine,’ he’d gasped. ‘Whatever next?’ He was just as incensed when, two years later, they removed the railings that separated a paid-for area from the hoi polloi. In many ways the removal of those railings was a significant milestone. In marked the start of the breakdown of boundaries between the classes, the gradual erosion of upstairs/downstairs. Little wonder then that it put the wind up our butler and all that he held dear. If he’d had his way there would have been railings all round Cadogan Square and Knightsbridge, marking out the boundaries between the gentry and the commoners. Back then, I couldn’t think why people were so obsessed with boundaries. To my mind they were just there to be pushed anyway. As for the Serpentine’s new mixed-sex pool, honestly, I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. The way he talked about it, you’d think it was some hotbed of raunchy impropriety, not just a swimming lake. But he wasn’t alone in his contempt for it.
While I was hurriedly stuffing my one-piece bathing suit and a towel into a bag, an anonymous police superintendant was airing his considerable disquiet about the pools and the conduct of its bathers. In a memo drafted at Scotland Yard in the summer of 1934, the disgruntled superintendant wrote:
Women of doubtful character are displaying themselves in flimsy bathing dresses. Vulgar men and boys are drawn to the area and some female bathers have complained of their costumes being ripped off by an over-excited male populace.
The practice of many bathers on sunny days of rolling the costume down to the waist can only be overcome by considerable activity on the part of the constable on duty, in patrolling the area and directing such bathers to wear the costume correctly. This direction is very often received with bad grace and sometimes with opposition.
The Yard put much of the misbehaviour down to the removal of the railings, which had had Mr Orchard’s knickers in a twist. The aggrieved superintendant went on:
Hundreds of bathers, including men of an undesirable type, are evading the charge by undressing in the free swimming area, packing their clothes into an attaché case and walking to the paying zone. Subsequent overcrowding has the effect of keeping away many decent-minded women who strongly resent the vulgar gaze of men and boys.
Well, I wasn’t about to roll down my one-piece and go topless, but I wasn’t averse to witnessing a bit of scandal neither, so off I trotted in the direction of Hyde Park.
Unfortunately, English weather being what it is, by the time I’d made it to the park the clear blue skies overhead had been replaced by ominous-looking dark and angry clouds.
‘Storm clouds seem to follow me, all right,’ I noted to myself with a wry grin.
At Lansbury’s Lido there wasn’t so much as a sniff of a fella in sight, vulgar or otherwise. What’s more, it was freezing cold. Wind was whipping over the water, sending ripples along the Serpentine, and leaves spiralled down from the trees and skimmed over the water’s choppy surface.
Popping into a changing hut, I shrugged off my dress and changed into my white one-piece. Teeth chattering, I poked one naked toe out of the hut. A blast of Arctic wind whistled up my bare leg.
‘Brrr,’ I shivered. Then I gave myself a good telling-off. ‘Come on, Mollie Browne. You’re as tough as old boots. You’re from Norfolk, for goodness’ sake.’
Maybe it was the Viking ancestry in me, but I wasn’t about to be put off by a trifling bit of wind. If I could climb three floors down the side of a house, I could brave a bit of cold water.
I strode out in the direction of the swimming area. With every step I took, my legs seemed to turn a more curious shade of blue. Most people had hotfooted it inside into the warmth, but one solitary man stood watching me, amusement and shock twinkling in his eyes. I thought back to the time I’d hurled myself into the Denver sluice as a child. Suddenly, a mad, impetuous urge took hold of me. You could take the girl out of Norfolk, but you couldn’t take Norfolk out of the girl.
Here goes nothing.
‘Geronimo!’ I hollered in a loud battle cry and raced towards the diving board. Soaring through the London skies, I felt brave, invincible, free …
Then I landed in the water with an almighty splash.
‘Cor blimey,’ I gasped, spluttering as I bobbed to the surface. The cold was like icy needles pricking me all over and my breath came in frantic shrieks. Floundering about, I doggy-paddled to the side and pulled myself up, gasping for air. I landed with a slap on the cold concrete floor.
‘Bravo … Bravo,’ came a loud, booming voice.
I looked up to see the man I’d spotted earlier standing over me.
‘A very brave, if somewhat foolish, display,’ he said, smiling down.
The man was dressed in a warm-looking suit and hat. Suddenly, looking at my bare legs and arms, I felt very underdressed.
The man was fiddling with a camera hanging round his neck.
‘W-what you got that for?’ I shivered.
‘I’m a photographer,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, why not pose for a picture over there on the diving board?’
Images of Mr Orchard’s disapproving face popped into my mind.
‘I oughtn’t to,’ I said.
‘Go on,’ oozed the man. ‘It’ll be fun.’
Never let i
t be said that Mollie Browne didn’t know how to have fun. ‘All right then,’ I said, grinning. ‘Just one.’
Strutting my way over to the diving board, I perched on the edge. Sucking in my tummy and sticking out my chest, I smiled as brightly as I could – no mean feat when your teeth are chattering furiously.
Quick as a flash, the man picked up his camera. Pop … pop … pop went the flashbulb.
‘Thanks awfully,’ he said and, packing up his stuff, he made to leave.
‘Just a minute!’ I yelled after him. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Me?’ he said, a wicked smile spreading over his face. ‘Only the Sunday newspapers. Congratulations, you’re tomorrow’s news.’
Oh crumbs.
By the time I’d made it back to Cadogan Square I’d convinced myself there was no way on earth anyone would see it. Besides which, what did it matter? Where was the harm? I hadn’t been cavorting with some vulgar young man, just hanging about on a diving board.
The next morning, one look at Mr Orchard’s face told me that a) he had seen it, and b) it did matter. Very much. His face had gone a funny shade of purple and, without saying a word, he lifted one arm and pointed in the direction of the housekeeper’s sitting room.
I slunk in and sat down heavily on a chair.
Why did I keep getting into trouble? Why?
‘I presume you have seen this … this scandal rag?’ he spluttered, throwing a copy of the News of the World down with a thud on to Mrs Jones’s wooden desk, which she used to write up the day’s menu. ‘You should do, seeing as you appear to have a somewhat prominent position in it.’
The paper fell open and my heart sank. There I was in all my semi-naked splendour, perched on the edge of the diving board. My tummy was sucked in, my chest pushed brazenly out and a cheeky smile was plastered across my face. Over the top of the picture screamed a headline: SHIVERING ON THE BRINK.
I looked up at Mr Orchard’s livid red face and quivering nostrils.
‘It’s me,’ I said lamely.
‘Yes, Mollie, it is you,’ he thundered. ‘Apparently shivering on the brink.’ He said the last words as if he were reading ‘kitchen maid caught in sordid romp’.
‘I’m sorry,’ I blustered. ‘I was only having a swim. I didn’t know there would be a photographer there.’
‘Why, Mollie,’ sighed Mr Orchard heavily, removing his half-moon spectacles and rubbing his eyes, ‘do you insist on repeatedly bringing shame and disgrace on this household?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again.
‘Mr Stocks is an elderly gentleman and if he finds out about this I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he doesn’t give you your marching orders. Imagine, a kitchen maid in his employment appearing in – in –’ He could hardly bring himself to say the words and when he did he spat them out with venom – ‘the News of the World. First the Blackshirts and now …’ He flicked the paper away and sniffed in disdain. ‘Now this unsavoury business. Can’t you ever stay out of trouble?’
It was a good question and, under the circumstances, a fair one. Given my behaviour, shivering on the brink seemed to sum up my current position in Cadogan Square rather neatly. I suppose to you today reading this, appearing in your swimming costume in the News of the World wouldn’t seem like much, but back in 1934 in Cadogan Square it was absolutely scandalous behaviour, at least in the butler’s eyes. No matter that society girls were obviously getting up to far worse – rumour had it that Diana Mitford was having an affair with Oswald Mosley and he himself had cheated on his wife, Lady Cynthia Curzon, with her younger sister and their step-mother.
As always, it was one rule for upstairs and another entirely for downstairs. I was supposed to be seen and not heard, work hard and keep my private life as scrupulously private as Mr Orchard obviously did. I never knew where he went after hours, what he got up to, and I never would. You weren’t supposed to conduct yourself or flaunt yourself publicly, full stop. Much less in a newspaper.
The News of the World was a scandal rag even back then. At a tuppence per issue, my father always took it on Sundays. In fact, it was aimed at the newly literate working classes, something the gentry obviously didn’t approve of. Apparently, Frederick Greenwood, editor of the Pall Mall Gazette, was in his club one day when he met Lord Riddell, the then owner of the News of the World, and in the course of conversation Riddell said to him, ‘You know, I own a paper.’
‘Oh, do you?’ said Greenwood. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s called the News of the World – I’ll send you a copy,’ replied Riddell and in due course did so. Next time they met, Riddell said, ‘Well, Greenwood, what do you think of my paper?’
‘I looked at it,’ replied Greenwood, ‘and then I put it in the waste-paper basket. And then I thought, “If I leave it there the cook may read it” – so I burnt it.’
It quickly established itself as a purveyor of titillation, shock and criminal news. Much of the material came from coverage of vice prosecutions, including alleged brothels, streetwalkers and ‘immoral’ women. That photographer had obviously been hanging about, hoping to catch a bit of the so-called lewd behaviour that had got the Met police all fired up, when he’d chanced upon me.
The paper’s motto was ‘All human life is there’. And now too, it would seem, was Mollie Browne.
After that I crept about like a nervous kitten, under the ever-watchful eyes of Mrs Jones, Mr Orchard and Mabel. I wasn’t daft. I knew they suspected I was up to no good at every turn and sneaking out to meet fascists on my half-days off. Mrs Jones used every excuse to keep me close to her and suddenly I found myself bogged down in some very time-consuming tasks like picking the tiny bones out of mackerel and grating enormous piles of horseradish. I toed the line, but underneath it all I was longing to get out and be free. London was just bursting with adventures to be had and I couldn’t wait to get upstairs and experience it all.
By June of the 1934 season, shortly before we headed back to Norfolk, I found my mind wandering back to Henry. Would it hurt if I saw him again? He was ever so handsome, after all. Surely just one more time wouldn’t matter? After all, we were returning to Norfolk soon.
I was pondering this one morning as I headed to the servants’ hall with my cup of coffee for a well-earned rest at eleven o’clock. I found everyone in there poring over the newspapers.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
All eyes turned to me and I sensed trouble.
Oh no. Not another centrefold of me, please.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ventured nervously. ‘What you all reading?’
‘Your boyfriend’s been up to no good again, I daresay,’ crowed Mabel, hardly able to conceal the glee in her voice.
‘What boyfriend?’ I asked.
Mr Orchard rustled the paper. ‘I warned you against those Blackshirts, didn’t I, Mollie?’ he snapped. ‘They’re bad news.’
‘What have they done?’ trembled Phyllis, instantly fearing the worst.
‘Last night the British Union of Fascists held an indoor rally at Olympia in London which drew a crowd of twelve thousand,’ said Mr Orchard, reading straight from the paper. ‘Some five hundred anti-fascists managed to infiltrate the hall. When they began heckling, they were attacked by one thousand black-shirted stewards. Several of the protestors, illuminated by bright spotlights, were beaten up by the Blackshirts.’
An uneasy silence fell over the servants’ hall as Mr Orchard looked up at me, glared, and then carried on reading.
‘In ugly scenes, Blackshirts began stumbling and leaping over chairs to get at the source of the noise. There was a wild scrummage, women screamed, black-shirted arms rose and fell and blows were dealt. The arena was soon full of hooting and whistling, and chairs, boots and shoes were flying in the air. Mosley interrupted his speaking for these violent outbursts and then calmly continued once each heckler was subdued.’
He threw the paper down on the table and looked at me with a self-satisfied smile. ‘See, I told you so.
Mosley is an imitation Hitler and his Blackshirts nothing but a band of violent bullyboys.’ His voice was quivering with rage. ‘He is simply begging for the opportunity to reduce England to a Nazi German province. Well, now everyone can see them for what they really are.’
He pushed the paper over the table towards me, and there it was: photo after photo of Blackshirts forcibly ejecting men and women. Not only that, but the antics of the Blackshirts at the Olympia rally had made the front pages of most newspapers that fateful day.
The rally was a turning point. A public outcry ensued, Lord Rothermere and his Daily Mail newspaper withdrew its support, they were banned by the BBC and membership of the BUF went into decline. It fell from 40,000 to 5,000 in the following year; people no longer wanted to be associated with the movement, as the violence at the heart of it became more apparent. The scenes were nothing like the famous Cable Street confrontation that was to happen two years later in 1936, where the BUF were prevented from marching through the East End by opposition demonstrators and requests from the police trying to keep the peace, but it was enough. Enough to highlight to me how much of a silly, naive young girl I’d been.
It had a profound effect on me. Shame and humility washed over me that day in the servants’ hall. I was, in many ways, a youngster playing at an adult’s game. First Alan, now this. I always thought I knew best in matters of the heart. As much as I was loathe to admit it, perhaps I wasn’t always right. I made a vow there and then. No more larking about, no more photos in the News of the World, no more unsuitable fellas.
I was never going to be truly respected here by my superiors. Not after this debacle. It was time to knuckle down. It was time I got a new job and proved my worth elsewhere. It was time to seek my fortune, somewhere hot, somewhere far away, where no one had even heard of Blackshirts and scandal rags. Somewhere like … Spain?
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen
Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid Page 21