‘It’s great to see you, Ernie, but you best not stay. You’ll get me in trouble with my new boss.’
‘S’right,’ he said, thrusting something into my hand. ‘I only came to give you these.’
‘What is it?’ I asked, baffled.
‘Tickets to the Chelsea Arts Ball at the Albert Hall.’
‘How on earth did you get these?’ I gasped. Servants never went to dos like this. I didn’t know how much the tickets cost, but I knew the cost of them put them out of the reach of girls like me.
‘Captain Eric gave them to me. His lungs ain’t so good at the moment so he doesn’t feel well enough to go. He said I could invite who I wanted, so I thought who better to have a laugh with than you!’
‘Well, what about that?’ I gasped, hugging the precious tickets to my chest like they were made of solid gold. ‘He’s a gent and no mistake.’
Ever since I had listened to Uncle Arthur tell fantastical tales about the goings-on at the society balls he worked at, I had longed to see one for myself. Village halls were one thing, but this was something else altogether!
What a glorious, glorious night that was. For that one night only, I wasn’t a kitchen maid. I was almost one of them.
In the black satin dress that Flo had made me and with my red hair freshly washed and gleaming, I thought I was it. I didn’t have a scrap of make-up on. Not that it mattered – I was so fresh-faced I could carry it off. I completed my look with a green velvet bolero jacket, and by the time I jumped off a red double-decker bus to meet Ernie outside, I had ants in my pants.
‘Mollie,’ he gasped, ‘look at you! You scrub up well.’
‘Ta,’ I smiled. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’
Ernie was wearing a smart tuxedo, probably one of Captain Eric’s, and as I linked my arm through his, I reckoned we looked quite the couple.
‘’Ere, Mollie,’ he whispered in my ear as we walked up to the Albert Hall. ‘They’ll never know we’re a kitchen maid and a valet!’
The Chelsea Arts Ball was one of the most important events in the London social calendar of the 1920s and 1930s. It was attended by up to 7,000 socialites, artists and other Londoners in extravagant costumes. We knew from reading Mr Stocks’s newspaper that it always caused a stir and attracted a lot of media attention.
On the door, a private steward, hired to keep the undesirables out, checked our tickets. I could hardly believe it when we were ushered inside.
Once in, Ernie and I stared around open-mouthed in wonder. It was a glimpse inside another world. The Albert Hall sparkled like a giant snow globe. Vast glitter balls hung from the ceiling and lights of all different colours glinted from every corner.
‘I’ll go and get you a lemonade,’ said Ernie.
A bar serving cocktails and champagne was set up in the corner, but I didn’t care for alcohol. I just wanted to dance.
‘Can’t believe we’re here,’ I whispered when Ernie returned with our drinks. ‘It’s so lavish, ain’t it?’
I’ve heard tell that people dressed in extravagant fancy dress, but I don’t recall seeing anyone like that, though the women were done up to the nines in backless or slinky evening gowns and all the men in the full fig.
‘Come on then,’ I said to Ernie. ‘I haven’t come here to hang around like a coat stand all night.’
‘You’re mad as a hatter,’ he grinned. With that he set down his drink and held out his hand. ‘Would madam care to dance?’ he asked.
‘Yes, she would,’ I replied.
What a night! Dance? We didn’t stop. I didn’t care who I danced with – Ernie, any strange bloke, it didn’t matter to me. I just wanted to be up there on the dance floor. I must have foxtrotted, waltzed and two-stepped my way round the Albert Hall until the soles of my shoes were nearly worn through. The band played ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’, ‘Lullaby of Broadway’, ‘Chapel in the Moonlight’ and ‘The Way You Look Tonight’, all marvellous songs of that era. As Ernie swung me across the dance floor I felt like Ginger Rogers being swept around the room by Fred Astaire in the film Swing Time.
By the time our eleven p.m. curfew drew near and Ernie told me it was time to go, I was on cloud nine. No matter that the ball would go on until three a.m. and we had to leave before the end. Or that the only thing that passed my lips was lemonade and not the champagne cocktails other people were quaffing. I didn’t care. When I’d first visited London all those years ago as a knock-kneed twelve-year-old, I’d sworn that one day I’d attend a big fancy society ball, and now finally I had. And the cherry on the top of my dazzling night? When we got outside, rain was drumming on the pavement so Ernie paid for us to get a taxi home. A taxi! This might not sound much to you, but servants never got taxis, so this was a very big deal. In fact, it was the first time I’d ever been in one.
Alighting from the taxi outside Lord Islington’s huge house opposite Hyde Park, I felt like Cinderella! I might not have had Wallis Simpson’s life of luxury or the king and queen’s wealth and privilege, but I was doing all right, just the same.
‘Well, Mollie,’ I murmured as I snuggled dreamily down under my eiderdown up in the attic of the huge house. ‘You did make it to the ball.’
The next day I could scarcely wipe the smile off my face as I helped prepare the boss’s breakfast. I would dine out on this night for years to come.
Spain and high-society balls! Life was definitely looking up!
It was only a matter of weeks before my fairytale life came crashing down around my ears.
I was just laying out Cook’s table when Mrs Pickering came into the kitchen and clapped her hands. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked up expectantly.
‘I have some news,’ she said in a tone of voice that instantly struck dread into my heart. ‘It is with great regret that I have to inform you that Lord Islington died here at home last night on the sixth of December 1936. It goes without saying that there will be no need to continue packing for Spain.’
My whisk fell on to the stone floor with a clatter. It may sound callous that my only thought was for myself, but my heart plunged into my boots. No. No. No … he can’t be dead.
And just like that, my dreams of Spain and faraway adventures under a red-hot sun melted away to nothing.
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen
…
LEMONADE
Not being a terribly sophisticated girl, I drank lemonade when I went to the Chelsea Arts Ball. Truth be told, I preferred it to the taste of champagne. It’s easy to make your own and when served chilled on a hot summer’s day is absolutely delicious. It’s no secret that every cook of my era used Mrs Beeton’s recipes and the lemonade recipe in her Book of Household Management remains one of the best to this day.
Strain the juice of two lemons into a half pint (285 ml) of cold water and then sweeten to taste with 4 oz (110 g) of caster sugar. Next stir in a teaspoonful of bicarbonate soda, add plenty of ice and mint, and drink while cool. I sometimes adapt Mrs Beeton’s recipe by adding a grating of fresh ginger, which adds a nice zing.
HOUSEHOLD TIP
To get rid of greasy fingermarks and spills on polished wood, simply wipe with a cloth soaked in vinegar before polishing with wax.
10
A Cook at Last
I have always thought that there is no more fruitful
source of family discontent than a housewife’s
badly-cooked dinners and untidy ways.
Mrs Beeton,
Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management
Four days after Lord Islington’s death, on 10 December 1936, Edward VIII abdicated. His reign had lasted 326 days. My own ill-fated job had lasted just a few months.
I thought of that innocent young girl I had witnessed from the top deck of the bus playing in her back garden in London. Now Elizabeth would be ten and all too aware of the huge responsibilities facing her and her family as they moved into Buckingham Palace and the harsh glare of intense public scrutiny. But wha
t about me? What new role did I have in life now that I was officially out of a job?
Lord Islington’s body was still warm when we all trooped back to Rushbrook Hall to start the tedious task of unpacking all the boxes once bound for Spain. A month later my job finished and I was on a train back to Norfolk. As the train puffed its way across the fens, my dream of a new life in Spain grew more distant with every mile passed. And by the time I walked down the Lynn Road, a heavy January fog cloaking the fields in a grey drizzly gloom, it had vanished.
With each weary, rain-sodden step I took, fresh waves of humiliation and frustration washed over me. I had bragged to anyone who would listen about my grand job. What’s more, I’d given up a perfectly good job to join that household. I couldn’t just go back to Woodhall and ask for my old job back. Old snooty knickers would have a field day. Besides which, Phyllis had my job now.
What a daft fool I’d been to walk away from that position. Castles in Spain? I really had been painting castles in the sky if I thought I could ever actually live in one!
All along the way neighbours and friends popped their heads out of their doors to call out a cheery greeting.
‘Ar ya reet, Mollie love?’ cried my mother’s friend when she spotted me. ‘What you doing here then? I thought you was off to Spain.’
Mortified, I mumbled the whole sorry story about Lord Islington’s untimely death. By the time I made it home I must have told that story a hundred times. Had I really boasted to that many people about my future?
Once inside, the door slammed and I collapsed on to a kitchen chair with an exaggerated groan. Mother, busy raking out the coal fire, looked up and raised her eyebrows.
‘My life’s over,’ I sighed dramatically. ‘Why did I tell all those people I was off to Spain? I’m going to be a laughing stock. There won’t be a person in Downham who won’t know of my misfortune by now.’
My head hit the wooden kitchen table with a thud.
‘I know what they’ll be saying,’ I mumbled. ‘That’ll larn her, old big mouth Mollie with her fancy job.’
Mother simply smiled, wiped her hands on her apron and came and sat next to me. Gently lifting my head up from the table, she cupped my chin in her hands and gazed at me with her lovely soft hazel eyes.
‘Chin up, love,’ she soothed. ‘You’re a clever girl with some decent experience under your belt. You’ll get a new job in no time. You’ll see. How’s about I see if I can’t rustle up a bit of steak and kidney pudding for your supper tonight?’
Now that really is a sign of a wonderful mother. She’d probably been up cleaning and washing since the crack of dawn and, what’s more, my father’s health had deteriorated and he was currently having a spell in a sanatorium, but instead of telling me to pull my socks up, she simply offered me words of love, a hug and a big serving of steak and kidney pud. Thank God a mother’s love is unconditional or else she’d have been well within her rights to boot me up the bottom.
For the next few days I moped about the place and even Mother’s home-cooked suet and apple pudding drowned in double cream couldn’t put so much as a flicker of a smile on my sorry face. My brother was irritating me, the relentless rain drumming on the window sills was boring into my skull and all my old school friends were either married with babies or working every hour God sent in apprenticeships.
I thought of Flo. How I longed to see her, but she was working for her marquess at Hatfield House, which was too far to bike.
As always, my mother, quiet force that she was, had the answer. Thanks to her Friday-morning market gossip she knew everyone and everything that went on round our way. I came in from fetching in the eggs from the garden one Friday morning to find one of Mother’s friends, Elsie Jackson, and her husband, Tom, sitting warming their feet by the fire.
‘Hello, Mollie.’ Elsie smiled brightly when I walked in. ‘Bumped into your mother at the market. Happen I heard of your misfortune. What a shame. Spain’s supposed to be a lovely place, so they say.’
My heart sank. Did everyone have to know everyone’s business round these parts?
‘Tom here’s a chauffeur up at Wallington Hall. They’re looking for a cook. If you’re looking, that is.’
I frowned. ‘Cook? I’m not sure I’m up to that just yet, Elsie,’ I said, putting the eggs down carefully on the table. ‘Besides, I’m only twenty. I can’t run a kitchen.’
‘Course you can,’ smiled Mother. ‘I’ve seen your cooking. No one can make pastry like you and you’re a grafter, all right.’
‘Besides,’ said Elsie, ‘they’re desperate. Their cook’s ill.’
Mother was sitting forward in her chair now. ‘Why not, Mollie?’ she urged. ‘Try it and if you don’t like it, then leave.’
‘That’s settled then,’ said Elsie. ‘Tom here’ll run you up there directly.’
Tom up until now had done what most men do in the company of chattering women – he’d stopped listening and dozed off. At the mention of having to leave his comfy fireside seat, his head jerked up.
‘What, now?’ he spluttered. ‘I was looking forward to one of them sausage rolls I can smell cooking.’
Elsie booted him swiftly and, sighing, he stood up. He knew when he was beat. The power of two strong Norfolk women when they’ve set their mind to something is almost impossible to overcome.
‘Come on then, lass,’ he sighed, reluctantly dragging himself away from the warmth of the flickering fireside. ‘Let’s see if we can’t make a cook of you.’
On the way I had a think about it. A cook’s job at a country estate was a big job all right, and virtually unheard of at my age, but what did I have to lose? I’d learnt a lot at Mrs Jones’s side and cut my teeth on her apron strings, so to speak. And just like that, with all the exuberance of youth, I bounced back from my Spanish setback and set my sights on a bigger goal.
Wallington Hall was buried deep in the fens around the River Great Ouse and only four-and-a-half miles from my mother’s. As we drove, ancient villages with strange names like St John’s Fen End, Barton Bendish, Wormegay and Marshland St James whizzed past.
‘Wallington’s a shooting lodge set in six hundred acres of private grounds,’ said Tom. ‘Pheasants, duck, geese, woodcock, partridge, pigeon – you name it, they shoot it. It was a shooting lodge for the Earls of Warwick, but it’s been in the Luddington family for years now. It was built in 1525, mentioned in the Domesday Book, so it was.’
‘Nearly as old as you then, Tom,’ I joked.
‘Don’t you be showing Mrs Luddington your saucy side,’ he warned.
We fell into a comfortable silence as we drove through the estate’s grounds. The patchwork of fields, woodland, copses and duck ponds was teeming with wildlife. Suddenly the car lurched off the road and started to bump its way through a field. ‘Hang on tight,’ said Tom as we ricocheted over mole hills. ‘No road up to the Hall.’
Through the drizzly January gloom I got my first look at Wallington Hall.
‘I’ll be,’ I gasped, quite spellbound.
Tom glanced sideways and chuckled when he saw my face. ‘Quite something, ain’t it?’ he said.
Looming up out of the misty fields, the Hall rose into the grey skies like something from a Gothic fantasy. Some parts looked to be Tudor, some medieval and other parts eighteenth century. Least that’s what Tom had told me. To my untrained eye it just looked big, impressive and dark. It was definitely a house with a story to tell. You got the feeling that there was things, inexplicable forces, watching you from behind the stepped gables and moulded battlements.
‘It’s haunted, so they say,’ nodded Tom.
‘Get away,’ I laughed.
But he wasn’t laughing back.
‘No, really, Mollie,’ he whispered. ‘That there facade hides a grizzly Elizabethan tale of tragedy, betrayal, dark deeds and a slow and agonizing death. Rumour has it there’s buried treasure in the parkland too.’
Gobsmacked, I was about to ask more when he brought the
car to an abrupt stop. ‘Out you get then,’ he said brightly. ‘You get this job and you’ll be the youngest cook in history, I reckon.’
I gulped. At the mention of slow and agonizing deaths my confidence suddenly seemed to vanish. By the time I knocked on the vast porch door it had all but deserted me.
The door swung open and a butler stared back at me.
This is beautiful Wallington Hall where I worked as a cook. The ancient shooting lodge, set in 600 acres of private grounds, is mentioned in the Domesday Book. It even had its own resident ghost.
‘I’m here about the cook’s job,’ I said, trembling.
He surveyed me coolly.
‘I have references,’ I added.
‘This way,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if the lady of the house can see you now.’
I followed him through the servants’ quarters to the servants’ hall until eventually I was led through the baize door and on to ‘their side of the house’.
I knew from my brief glimpses at Woodhall and Cadogan Square that the other half liked to live opulently, but this was something else. The fireplaces seemed as big as Mother’s cottage. Rich and ornate tapestries hung from wood-panelled walls and hardly a spare inch of wall wasn’t covered with the head of some poor deer, whose eyes followed me malevolently as I scurried after the butler. Mahogany cupboards groaned with sparkling crystal and family silver, no doubt heirlooms passed down through the generations.
Finally I was taken into the drawing room and told to wait. Not since watching Frankenstein at the cinema had I felt this unnerved. I half-expected a ghoul carrying his own head to walk into the room! A grandfather clock ticked ominously in the corner and some poor stuffed stag stared down at me from on high. Gripping my references tightly, I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.
Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid Page 24