Dinner was more of the same except a bit fancier. I’d make some of those nice savouries that Mr Stocks had when he was entertaining, a consommé, a lovely bit of sea bass and roasted pheasant, and perhaps my mother’s special recipe for steamed suet pudding with apples and cream.
How could they resist?
I duly presented my menu to Mrs Luddington at our ten thirty a.m. meeting in her office.
‘This sounds lovely, Mollie,’ she said with a smile.
This was easy.
I stood up, beaming, and was just about to leave when she called me back.
‘In two days’ time my husband has a shooting party coming down from London for the rest of the week. There will be ten in all to cater for, as well as the beaters and the groundsmen, and meals for the household, of course.’
I paled.
‘Is that OK?’ she asked, tapping her notebook impatiently.
‘Course, Mrs Luddington,’ I said. ‘As you wish.’
I walked back through the baize door, my legs shaking, and saw the hallboy and kitchen maid look up nervously at me. Suddenly for the first time I realized perhaps why Mrs Jones had always been flustered and grumpy. This was an awful lot of responsibility, especially for one so young. I had nearly twenty-five people to cook breakfast, lunch and dinner for day after day for a week. I couldn’t afford to get it wrong either. No wonder she could be a little sour at times!
‘Right,’ I bellowed. ‘We’ve got a lot to do this week. Mr Luddington has a shooting party coming. Let’s get to it.’
From that moment on I barely drew breath. At just twenty I was in a position of huge responsibility, but I didn’t worry as much about it as I would if I were, say, forty. I daresay if you were looking nowadays to talk to a cook in service in a big house in the 1930s, you wouldn’t find any alive as most of them were in their forties and fifties. There’s probably only Flo and me left who can recall this age. We both made cook’s position in our twenties, which was rare.
I do feel, though, that youth served me well back then. I just got on with it. I channelled my fizzing energy into conjuring up feasts three times a day, seven days a week. By the end of that first week, mind you, I was beat. Parts of my body throbbed that I hadn’t known existed. I had mashed, scrambled, stirred, basted, sliced and diced, all the while keeping my eye on five different bubbling pans and my mind focused on what needed doing next.
On the first day of the shoot I’d sent out twenty portions of hare soup, piping hot Irish stew, apple pie and bread and butter pudding for dessert followed by cheese and biscuits, baked potatoes and salt beef sandwiches for the beaters and groundsmen, shepherd’s pie for the children, then for dinner twenty servings of consommé, lemon sole, roast beef and all the trimmings, followed by trifle, spotted dick and savouries. All totally home-made and all made from scratch without the use of any kind of electronic equipment. I’m not saying this to brag. I just want people to know how different cooking was back then compared to now. We didn’t have blenders, microwaves, steamers, electric kettles, electric whisks or food processors. Nothing could be made at the touch of a button. Everything was whisked, stirred, grated, chopped, beaten and blended by hand. By me! I grafted, and I mean properly grafted, to cook feasts and all from scratch. I do think the food tasted better for it too.
Fortunately all the plates came back clean, no one choked on a stray bone and Mrs Luddington even sent the butler down to tell me how well the food was received.
At the end of the shooting party I was just about to haul myself up the back staircase to bed when I realized that I hadn’t even made a start on ordering food for the next month! Woe betide we ran out. There were no supermarkets nearby we could just nip to, to top up supplies. Everything had to be individually ordered from local stores and bread and meat from local bakers and butchers. Fortunately the Luddingtons got all their creamy milk in fresh from a local farm they owned and vegetables came from the magnificent kitchen garden that backed on to the house. I stayed up until nearly midnight making sure I knew exactly what supplies we had in and just what we needed. I remembered how Mrs Jones knew to within an ounce how much sugar, butter and flour she had and seemed to instinctively know when to get more supplies and by how much to keep her going.
My brain was so fuddled I got in a dreadful muddle trying to make sense of it.
The next day I had a half-day off. After lunch it was all I could do to drag my weary body back to my mother’s, but even then I didn’t rest. I took my order book so I could run over my supplies and make sure I had it just so. Once there, I let myself in, rested my head on the kitchen table and within seconds felt myself drifting off.
‘Knock knock,’ came a cheery Welsh voice from the back door.
‘Mrs Jones!’ I gasped. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Half-day off, Mollie. Thought I’d come and see how you’re getting on.’ Now she was no longer my boss she was certainly a lot more pleasant to me.
‘You haven’t changed a scrap,’ I smiled.
‘Fancy you have, Mollie,’ she smiled back. ‘When you started at Woodhall you couldn’t cook water and now look at you. So, how you finding it?’
‘It’s pretty hard keeping on top of it all,’ I confessed. ‘I don’t know how you’ve done it for so many years.’
She chuckled and patted my arm. ‘Think you can cope?’
‘I reckon,’ I said, rubbing my eyes. ‘I’ll say this though. It’s a lot easier having a boss than being a boss.’
Mrs Jones’s rotund body shook like a jelly as she heaved with laughter. ‘I won’t say I told you so, but don’t worry. You were trained by the best. Now come on, lass, move over and let’s talk over your provisions and check you’ve got all you need so as you don’t run short.’
The softening of Mrs Jones was a godsend and I picked her brain on many an occasion after that. She and I even became friends, regularly meeting at my mother’s for afternoon tea on our half-days off or going to see films like Gone With the Wind at the Regal in Downham. For all the lip I gave her, and all my antics, I like to think she was as fond of me as you would be a cheeky niece.
That night, back at Wallington Hall, when my head finally hit the pillow, it wasn’t ghosts and buried treasure chasing through my dreams but sinking soufflés and burnt saucepans dancing before my eyes.
By the end of that first month I felt more like a conductor in an orchestra than a cook in a big house. I lived and breathed food. Every plate had to be turned out to perfection and my brain was razor sharp. I regularly found myself stirring consommé with one hand and basting meat with the other. And before each service I would lay all my utensils out like a surgeon does before he operates.
Mistakes just couldn’t happen. They’re not easy to rectify when you haven’t got a microwave or blender or any other labour-saving device to hand. The only time I did make a mistake was when my meringues didn’t rise. Cooking food in an Aga where you can’t control the temperature is very tricky, but I always managed somehow to bluff it. Pavlova often became Eton Mess, crushed up and served with strawberries and cream, to disguise a saggy meringue. I got away with it, mind, as at the end of the month Mrs Luddington called me into her office.
‘I’m frightfully pleased with your progress, Mollie. You’re a very good cook for such a young woman.’
‘I was trained by the best,’ I grinned.
‘Would you please stay on?’ she urged. ‘I don’t think our cook is ever going to be well enough to return.’
The offer of a permanent job was beyond my wildest dreams. Once I got used to the workload, I actually began to really enjoy it. I even began to get a bit experimental, cooking such delicacies as beef Wellington. Mother bought me my own copy of Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management and in time it became so well thumbed it actually fell apart.
It was all utterly marvellous. I was my own boss. As long as I got all the meals out ready for the butler to take through, three times a day, then the evenings were my own. I ear
ned a pound a week (a fortune for a twenty-year-old in 1937), ran a kitchen that looked out over glorious parkland and I even had a fridge. Better yet, Mrs Luddington was a really lovely woman and didn’t affect any airs and graces. I didn’t see much of her husband, but she actually took time to treat me like a human being. I like to think it’s because I always took time to get things right and go the extra mile that she was so sweet to me.
Here I am, a fresh-faced cook, aged about twenty-two.
After my first Christmas there she even came ‘below stairs’ and handed me a beautifully wrapped gift of a silk scarf and buttery soft brown leather gloves. ‘Just a little something to show our appreciation, Mollie,’ she’d smiled. ‘We’d hate to think you were unhappy and wanted to leave.’
I was nearly at a loss for words when I unwrapped the beautiful presents and couldn’t wait to get them home to show Mother. I even stopped and got Father a bottle of whisky out of my wages.
‘I am so proud of you, Mollie,’ Mother said.
Sadly things weren’t looking quite so rosy for my father. His ‘bad spells’, as my mother called them, were becoming more and more frequent. His face wore a permanently haggard and drawn look and you got the feeling he was hiding the worst of it. The explosive coughing fits he had were now so frequent, all you could do was rub his back and get the cloths ready for when the blood bubbled out of his mouth.
‘This is for you, Dad,’ I said proudly, handing him the bottle of whisky I’d bought. ‘Cost me nine and sixpence out my wages. Thought it would do your lungs good.’
Sadly, if you’ve been gassed by the Germans it takes more than a wee dram of whisky to make you feel normal again.
‘Bless you, Mollie,’ he croaked, stroking my hair and shaking his head. ‘My little Mollie all grown up and a cook for a grand family. What about that?’
‘Yeah,’ I laughed. ‘Bet old PC Risebrough would have a blue fit if he knew.’
Despite my success in the kitchen, I was still no closer to finding the love that eluded me. Where were the husband and kiddies to call my own?
True, there were no fascist bodyguards or explosive footmen here, but there wasn’t much in the way of men full stop, unless you counted the odd weather-beaten farmer.
Not that I didn’t get my share of offers, mind you …
I’ll never forget the grand high-society wedding we hosted at Wallington Hall and all the saucy scenarios it threw up. That was an eye-opener all right on the comings and goings of the other half.
Major James’s sister, Anna, was to be married, and the Luddingtons had agreed to host the wedding at Wallington Hall. Mrs Luddington broke the news to me over our morning meeting.
‘We will of course be getting in caterers, as even you can’t cater for that many, Mollie,’ she said. ‘But we’d be honoured if you could make the wedding cake.’
‘Oh, I’d be delighted,’ I gushed, secretly thinking that I’d never actually made a wedding cake before. That was a real measure of my confidence back then. I’d never attempted a wedding cake, but I reasoned it couldn’t be that hard. Like anything in cooking, planning is key. I realized if I made it a fruitcake I could make the actual cake weeks in advance, then ice it nearer the time.
As I busied myself baking, Wallington became a hive of activity. The wedding seemed to breathe new life into the estate. The butler and housemaids were working non-stop as a stream of family silver came below stairs to be cleaned. A huge marquee went up in the parkland outside, teams of gardeners tended to the grounds and countless bottles of champagne were placed in the scullery to keep cool. The Hall hummed with nervous anticipation and the smell of fresh roses and carbolic soap wafted down its wood-panelled corridors.
By the time a steady stream of Daimlers and Rolls-Royces bumped over the fields on a sunny summer morning, the old Hall was in a state of near nervous exhaustion. Many of the Luddingtons’ close friends were staying in the Hall for a few days over the period of the wedding festivities and a lot had arrived the day before. Most of them were society folk and the servants’ hall had been alive with gossip about them.
‘’Ere, there’s a famous society lady staying in one of the guest bedrooms,’ said the young housemaid one morning. ‘Verity’s her name. Ever so pretty she is. You should see her clothes, so delicate and fine. She’s got the most beautiful skin, too.’
I had heard of her and seen her in the society pages of the newspapers too.
Soon after, I had my own brush with the other half. I was just finishing off the icing on the top tier of the wedding cake and had stood back to admire it when the door to the kitchen swung open.
‘Well, that really is a thing of beauty,’ drawled a deep voice.
I twirled round to find myself staring at a man named Johnnie. Johnnie was one of Mr Luddington’s friends. He often came down from London to stay at weekends. I’d also seen him at Wallington before on shooting parties and I reckoned he fancied himself. By the way his eyes roamed over my body, I could see that wasn’t all he fancied. He was also clutching a half-drunk champagne bottle in one hand and his dog’s bowl in the other.
‘I say, Mollie,’ he said, weaving his way across the kitchen. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Mollie, do you? I just need to fill up my dog’s bowl with water.’
‘No, sir, that’s fine,’ I said nervously.
‘Don’t call me sir.’ His red face came within inches of mine. The smell of booze on his breath made my eyes sting. ‘Just call me Johnnie, why don’t you?’ he said softly and winked at me. ‘I do so love this glorious red hair of yours, Mollie.’ With that, he set down his champagne bottle and dog’s bowl on the kitchen table and took a lock of my hair in his fingers.
Suddenly I became aware of his other hand, snaking round behind until it came to rest on my bottom.
‘Do you know what room I’m staying in, Mollie?’ he leered, giving my bum a hearty squeeze.
Johnnie may have been stinking rich, but to me he was just stinking.
‘Get yer hands off me!’ I said loudly, pushing him away. ‘You’ll get me the sack, you will.’ I laughed it off so as not to create a situation but as Johnnie retreated from the kitchen, I was bristling.
Daft toff, who did he think I was?
He may have been handsome, rich and still only in his twenties, but I wouldn’t have dared risk a dalliance with Johnnie. I’d have been given my marching orders if Mrs Luddington ever found out.
Thankfully, the rest of the wedding passed without incident. The bride looked glorious, the sun shone, and when the butler and the footman took my three-tier cake outside and placed it on a table dressed with white roses, I felt proud as punch.
The sound of upper-class voices, the clinking of champagne glasses and a swing band rang out over the fields until night sneaked in over the estate. As we were cleaning up the kitchen at the end of the evening, the butler came in carrying an ice bucket containing a few bottles of champagne.
‘Compliments of Mrs Luddington,’ he said, popping a cork and pouring all the staff a glass of champagne.
‘She was ever so impressed with the cake, Mollie,’ he smiled, handing me a glass. ‘To a job well done,’ he added, raising his champagne flute aloft.
‘A job well done,’ we all agreed. I raised the glass to my lips and took a sip. Spluttering, I set the glass down. ‘Blimey,’ I giggled. ‘The bubbles just went right up my nose.’
You might find this hard to believe, but I had never touched so much as a drop of alcohol before, much less fancy French champagne. Women, at least not respectful women, just didn’t.
It was curious how, after just a few sips, a warmth snaked down my chest and I found my voice growing a little louder. ‘S’good stuff this,’ I slurred, taking another healthy swig from the glass.
Within half an hour I was roaring drunk.
‘Tresshure …’ I slurred, gesturing wildly with my hands. ‘Buried tresshure … s’out there in s’dark.’
The butler looked baffled as I weaved my
way to the back door of the servants’ quarters.
‘Off to find tresshure,’ I said, making a lunge for the handle and missing.
Eventually I staggered out into the dark of the night and was seized with a sudden desire to cycle home to Mother’s. It was pitch black out there in the fields as I swerved like a maniac to avoid the bushes that seemed to loom up out of nowhere. I had no lights and still managed to cycle nearly five miles home, drunk as a lord. I don’t remember much of anything after that. How I got home unscathed is nothing short of a miracle.
When I awoke in the morning it was to the realization that I hadn’t stumbled across Sir Francis’s hidden hoard of treasure, but I did have an absolutely cracking hangover.
Mother chuckled when she saw me in my old bed.
‘Looks like someone had a good time last night,’ she said. ‘Whatever do you look like?’
Groaning, I lifted my head off the pillow and peeled my eyes open. My eyeballs throbbed and my mouth was as dry as a sun-baked ditch.
‘Why do people drink when it leaves you feeling this wretched?’ I whispered. ‘I’m sick as a dog.’
‘Shouldn’t you be back at Wallington making breakfasts?’ said Mother.
Hells bells, I was late!
Getting on my bike, I pedalled like the wind, all the while seized with the urge to stop and vomit into a hedgerow. Never in all my life have I felt as sick as I did that morning after the wedding. Why people drink is utterly beyond me. I have never touched so much as a drop of champagne since.
That morning, I turned out nearly fifty rounds of kippers, growing greener by the second. My stomach was churning when the housemaid rushed in, brimming over with excitement. She was obviously oblivious to my pain as she screeched at the top of her voice, ‘You’ll never guess whose socks I found at the bottom of Miss Verity’s bed!’
I stared blankly.
‘You know,’ she urged. ‘That society lady.’
‘Whose?’ asked the kitchen boy, eager for any snippet of gossip.
Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid Page 26