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

by Moran, Mollie

  On my last day, Mrs Luddington summoned me to her office and presented me with an exquisite silver tea service.

  ‘Just a little token of our appreciation and to wish you well in your new life,’ she smiled.

  I was at a loss for words.

  ‘This is just so … so generous, Mrs Luddington,’ I stuttered.

  I could have wrapped her in a big hug. Instead we shook hands politely and said our goodbyes.

  I was to stay with Mother in the two-week run-up to my wedding. It was safe to say she was as excited as me about the big day and soon we had filled the kitchen with delicious baking smells and laughter as we cooked up a storm for the reception. I even baked and iced my own three-tier wedding cake.

  Six days before, I was just trying on my wedding dress to show Mother, when there was a knock at the door. There stood the flushed face of Tom Jackson, the chauffeur. He looked like he’d been running and was as red as a beetroot.

  ‘Tom,’ I said, ‘whatever’s wrong? Come in and sit down.’

  ‘You’ve got to come back, Mollie,’ he gasped, gripping the back of the chair as he tried to catch his breath. ‘Mrs Luddington’s in a right pickle. You look lovely, by the way.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ I asked, pulling Tom up a chair and lighting a fire on the stove for tea.

  ‘They’ve got a big shooting party arriving tomorrow and staying for five days and the new chef has just left them in the lurch. He reckons the kitchen’s not smart enough and he can’t possibly cook for twenty people on an Aga. What’s more, he says he can’t do it all with just one kitchen boy for help.’

  ‘What rubbish,’ I scoffed. ‘I’ve managed perfectly well this past two years.’

  ‘Exactly! Mollie, please say you’ll come back! Mrs Luddington’s tearing her hair out. The shooting party’s full of VIPs, including the British Ambassador to Berlin, Nevile Henderson.’

  ‘But, Tom,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Politician or no politician, it’s the week before my wedding. Brides should be making themselves beautiful. Not slaving in a hot kitchen.’

  ‘I know, Mollie,’ Tom pleaded, suddenly looking overcome with tiredness. ‘We wouldn’t ask if we weren’t desperate. You’re our only hope.’

  I glanced over at Mother.

  ‘It’s your choice, Mollie,’ she shrugged.

  I thought of lovely Mrs Luddington and how badly it would look on her if she couldn’t supply food to her important guests. She’d been so kind to me, I really couldn’t let her down. Perhaps the years I’d spent in the service of the gentry had engrained in me a total devotion, but I knew there was no way on earth I could say no.

  ‘I’ll be along as soon as I can,’ I sighed. ‘Mother, can you help me out of this dress?’

  So much for relaxing before my big day. Already my mind was whirring with menus to serve up to Mrs Luddington’s VIPs. I didn’t know much about Nevile Henderson, other than he had his work cut out trying to negotiate peace with Hitler.

  Over the coming days I churned out meal after meal, but on the very last day of the shoot I got to wondering about what I could make for the guns and my final dinner at Wallington Hall.

  Fish? Not restorative enough. Pork? Too common. No, Nevile Henderson needed something to put fire in his belly.

  Then it came to me. I figured that what that politician needed was a nice hearty bowl of Mollie’s Irish stew. That would make him forget his troubles with Hitler all right!

  I made a beautiful one by slow-cooking a neck of mutton in the Aga with button onions, potatoes, stock and parsley. The meat was so tender by the time it was ready it looked like it might melt to the touch. I even baked a couple of loaves of crusty bread to mop up the juices with. A great hunk of that served with some fresh salted butter and a piping hot bowl of stew and Hitler would be a distant memory.

  By the time the kitchen boy and butler had taken it through to the dining room on a silver tray, I felt quite happy with myself. That poor man had God knows what on his plate when he returned to Berlin. Least I could do was put a good meal in his tummy and fortify him for tough times ahead. I even followed it up with Mr Luddington’s favourite – sticky, sweet bread and butter pudding and a jug of fresh cream big enough to drown a German battleship.

  Later on I was just clearing away and getting ready to take my leave when Mrs Luddington burst into the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t know what you put in that stew, Mollie, but the gentlemen of the shooting party were most impressed and have asked to meet you.’

  ‘Certainly,’ I smiled, wiping my hands on my apron and following her through the green baize door into the corridor that led to the dining room. I was never usually invited into these parts!

  Mrs Luddington ushered me into the beautiful wood-panelled dining room where ten or so men in tuxedos with their wives sat around an enormous mahogany table. I felt like I should take a curtsey.

  Mr Luddington was seated at the head of the table with Nevile Henderson to his right. He was a tall, thin man with a hook nose and bushy moustache. He smiled right at me, an empty plate in front of him.

  ‘Meet Mollie,’ said Mrs Luddington. ‘She’s come to our rescue by cooking for you all and she’s getting married tomorrow. Above and beyond the call of duty, wouldn’t you say?’

  The men clapped politely and smiled at me.

  And just like that I was ushered out again.

  Back in the kitchen, Mrs Luddington pressed a brown envelope into my hand. ‘A tip from our guests,’ she whispered.

  I had a sneaky look and was stunned to see two large crisp five-pound notes. Ten pounds! Bearing in mind I earned a pound a week, this tip was the equivalent of ten weeks’ wages. Perhaps it was down to the high calibre of the guns on the shoot, but I’d never had a tip as generous as this before.

  ‘That’s a fortune!’ I shrieked. ‘I can’t accept this.’

  ‘You can and you will,’ insisted Mrs Luddington.

  Along with the tip was a card signed by all the guns, including Nevile Henderson, expressing their warmest wishes and thanks.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You deserve it.’ She placed her hand on my shoulder and smiled sadly. ‘Good luck, Mollie. I hope you are very happy in your new life. Make sure to visit, won’t you?’

  ‘I will and good luck to you too, Mrs Luddington.’ I smiled back.

  We may have come from opposite ends of the social spectrum, but for that brief moment I felt genuine affection and kinship towards her. She was a proper lady through and through.

  When I left Wallington Hall that day, on the eve of my new life, I realized something – I may never have discovered Sir Francis’s hoard of hidden treasure, but I was still leaving with a fortune.

  The wedding ceremony went like a dream and afterwards my new husband and I, and all our guests, returned to Mother’s for tea.

  I was just chatting to a guest when out of the corner of my eye I saw my father sink into a seat. His face had gone a deathly grey and I knew a coughing fit was imminent. Rushing to his side, I started to rub his back, when all of a sudden he began to cough uncontrollably and a fountain of blood gushed from his mouth all over my cream wedding dress. A haemorrhage I think they’d call it now, but my poor, poor father – imagine the mortification and pain he must have been in.

  Me and Timothy on our wedding day, Saturday 5 November 1938. We’re outside my mother’s farmhouse, where we held the reception. Only the day before I’d been cooking for politicians and VIPs.

  ‘Mollie,’ he gasped, horrified, when he spotted my dress.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I soothed. And it didn’t, not in the grand scheme of things. I saw my mother’s stricken face and a horrible feeling of doom settled in my stomach. As we raced ever closer to a second world war, the terrible legacy of the first was finally catching up with my father.

  This is me, a newly-wed, just before the outbreak of the Second World War. Every so often my husband would take me out to dances and I’d dress up beautifully, always in a hat
and pearls.

  I settled down to married life in a cottage near Timothy’s new base in Saffron Walden in Essex. Cooking for just one man was certainly a whole lot easier than cooking for an entire household of the gentry. Dare I say it, my life even became one of ease. Rising late, doing a few chores and a bit of housework before cooking Timothy his favourite dinner and a pudding ready to have on the table, piping hot, when he finished work.

  Life as a newly-wed was like easing myself into a hot bubble bath and soon I had slipped into a warm and comfortable routine.

  In April 1939, five months after our wedding, I even discovered I was pregnant. And I suppose that would have been that, the end of the story. Except life has a funny way of pulling the rug from under your feet when you least expect it.

  In some ways we all knew it was about to happen, but it was still a shock when, on 3 September 1939, Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain announced the news that we were at war with Germany. Seems the Irish stew I cooked for our ambassador to Germany, Nevile Henderson, wasn’t enough to help him negotiate peace with Hitler.

  Life changed in an instant. Timothy was summoned to stay on base where he would remain for the foreseeable future and I packed my bags and returned home to live with Mother. She and Father were in a state of shock and sat glued to the wireless, just as I’m sure everyone did that day.

  As I sat stroking my blossoming baby bump, the king’s hesitant voice crackled out of the wireless:

  ‘In this grave hour, perhaps the most fateful in our history, I send to every household of my peoples, both at home and overseas, this message, spoken with the same depth of feeling for each one of you as if I were able to cross your threshold and speak to you myself. For the second time in the lives of most of us, we are at war.

  The man of my dreams, Timothy, on active service in India, where he was stationed for most of the war. I worried about him out there more than I did about the threat of invasion.

  ‘Over and over again, we have tried to find a peaceful way out of the differences between ourselves and those who are now our enemies; but it has been in vain. We have been forced into a conflict, for we are called, with our allies, to meet the challenge of a principle which, if it were to prevail, would be fatal to any civilized order in the world. It is a principle which permits a state, in the selfish pursuit of power, to disregard its treaties and its solemn pledges, which sanctions the use of force or threat of force against the sovereignty and independence of other states.

  ‘Such a principle, stripped of all disguise, is surely the mere primitive doctrine that might is right, and if this principle were established through the world, the freedom of our own country and of the whole British Commonwealth of Nations would be in danger. But far more than this, the peoples of the world would be kept in bondage of fear, and all hopes of settled peace and of the security, of justice and liberty, among nations, would be ended. This is the ultimate issue which confronts us.

  ‘For the sake of all that we ourselves hold dear, and of the world order and peace, it is unthinkable that we should refuse to meet the challenge. It is to this high purpose that I now call my people at home, and my peoples across the seas, who will make our cause their own. I ask them to stand calm and firm and united in this time of trial. The task will be hard. There may be dark days ahead, and war can no longer be confined to the battlefield, but we can only do the right as we see the right, and reverently commit our cause to God. If one and all we keep resolutely faithful to it, ready for whatever service or sacrifice it may demand, then with God’s help, we shall prevail. May he bless and keep us all.’

  My father, God bless him, looked exhausted by the end and retired to his hut. Mother had never said as much, but I knew how she worried about him. He’d already survived one war and had witnessed unimaginable loss of life and horrors in those muddy trenches in France. The poisonous gas he’d inhaled had left him a shadow of the man he’d once been. Now we were at war with Germany again and this time it looked like it might be right on our doorstep.

  There was a real fear that the Germans would drop poison gas bombs on us civilians and the government had already issued thirty-eight million gas masks.

  The big question for us was: could my father survive another war?

  Four months after war broke out, in January 1940, I gave birth to a little girl, Ruth.

  She was the sweetest little thing you can ever imagine, with copper-coloured hair and her daddy’s bright blue eyes. I was utterly entranced from the first time her tiny fingers curled round mine. When I kissed her musky little head and breathed in the sweet smell, it didn’t matter to me that we were at war and facing God knows what dangers. I felt an overwhelming rush of love for this tiny little soul. Protecting her was all that mattered.

  ‘You’ll be safe with Mummy,’ I whispered as she slept in my arms.

  Sadly, her daddy didn’t get to see her that much. From the moment war was announced he was informed he was to wear his uniform at all times and he barely got to leave base, apart from the odd visit. The RAF was gearing up for the fight of its life. In some ways my father had been right when he’d said I’d barely see Timothy. As a corporal in the RAF during the war, his first loyalty had to be to king and country.

  As little Ruth started to wake up to the world and open those magical blue eyes, my father took his leave of it. His death, shortly after her birth, hadn’t been a surprise. Ever since his haemorrhage on my wedding day he’d been in and out of a sanatorium and seemed to shrink with every passing hour.

  That brave man had fought for so long, but the prospect of another war in his lifetime had just been too much for him.

  My mother was heartbroken. She’d lost her soulmate.

  ‘How many more good men need to die before we see peace?’ she sobbed.

  I only thank God her granddaughter gave her a new focus to detract from her grief.

  By the time Ruth was two, Timothy had been posted to India and Mother and I had moved to a rented flat in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire. It was nice, but it wasn’t Norfolk.

  ‘I’m going to visit friends in Downham,’ Mother announced one day. ‘Why don’t you and Ruth come too?’

  It was the perfect opportunity to pay a visit to Mrs Luddington. It had been over two years since we’d last seen each other, but I’d never forgotten her kindness to me. Besides, I couldn’t wait to show her my little girl.

  Ruth had blossomed into the most adorable little toddler. Her cheeky face and bright blue eyes were topped with a mop of shiny copper curls.

  ‘We’re going to a very grand house indeed,’ I said as I dressed her in a lemon-yellow Viyella dress I’d made. Lacing her into a little pair of white boots, I stood back to admire her.

  ‘There,’ I grinned. ‘You look just like Shirley Temple.’

  We got the train to Downham and I picked up my old bike from our cottage for the last leg of the journey. By the time I popped Ruth in my wicker basket ready to cycle to Wallington Hall, I was bursting with pride and was looking forward to showing her off to Mrs Luddington.

  As I cycled, I reflected on the hugely different times in which we were all living. Everything my former employers cherished was now under threat – no more glittering parties, presentations at court, five-course dinners on a silver service and front steps so clean you could eat your dinner off them. Now we all had to ration and stretch, substitute and make do. Preparing a lavish five-course meal for one man dining alone would be viewed as an extravagant and wasteful habit – selfish, even.

  The ways of the old world were changing. A new life was being thrust upon us all. But even I was surprised at the life that had been thrust upon Mrs Luddington.

  As I cycled across the fields I was startled to see army vehicles parked outside the magnificent hall. And when I dismounted, I was stunned to see Mrs Luddington frantically waving at me from outside a small workers’ cottage on the estate.

  ‘Mollie!’ she cried. ‘We’re over here now. The army have requisitioned the Ha
ll so we’re living here.’

  As I stared at her I realized with a jolt how different she looked – less groomed and definitely a lot more frazzled. Her three children tore round the garden looking, dare I say it, a little scruffy. The cottage was cramped for all those children and wet clothes were hanging over every surface to dry.

  She turned to face me, despair etched over her beautiful face.

  ‘It’s gone, Mollie,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all gone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, shocked.

  ‘This war is terrible. Connie the nanny’s been called up to do war work, Mr Luddington is working elsewhere. All the staff have gone. It’s just me, on my own, in this little cottage with the children.’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I’m not really sure I know how I’m coping. It’s quite tough, I confess.’

  My heart went out to her and, as we sipped tea together, I felt for her, desperately. It wasn’t her fault she’d been brought up in a life of privilege and ease. She’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth and, sadly, it hadn’t prepared her for the demands and rigours of this new life. No more nannies, under nannies, champagne, cooks or servants to summon up at the ringing of a bell. Now, for the first time in her life, she had to do it all, alone.

  I felt quite guilty as I left.

  ‘You take care of yourself, won’t you?’ I said.

  On the cycle home I was struck by the irony. Working for Mrs Luddington and others like her had prepared me well for this new life. A life of rationing, of stretching and making do and hard, hard work. Oh yes, I knew a thing or two about that. Watching what you ordered and managing food rations was second nature to me, as was making my own clothes. Life was tough, but so was I.

  And, as the sun set and Hitler’s bombs began to rain down on our once-peaceful land, I knew this was the end of an era.