Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Foreword
Chapter 1 - Childhood
Chapter 2 - I Go into Service
Chapter 3 - Meeting the Astors
Chapter 4 - My Lady and My Duties
Chapter 5 - Coming to Terms with My Job
Chapter 6 - Entertaining in the Grand Manner
Chapter 7 - The Astor Family
Chapter 8 - A Family in Wartime
Chapter 9 - Achieving My Ambition
Chapter 10 - Religion and Politics
Chapter 11 - Last Years
PENGUIN BOOKS
ROSE: MY LIFE IN SERVICE TO LADY ASTOR
Rosina Harrison (known as Rose) was born in Aldfield, North Yorkshire, in 1899. Her mother was a laundry maid and her father a stonemason. Rose went into service 1918, and she was later lady’s maid to Lady Astor for thirty-five years. She retired to Worthing where she died in 1989.
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First published in Great Britain by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing,
a Random House Group company 2011
Published in Penguin Books (USA) 2011
Copyright © The Estate of Rosina Harrison and The Estate of Leigh Crutchley 1975
All rights reserved
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Harrison, Rosina.
Rose : my life in service to Lady Astor / Rosina Harrison.
p. cm.
Originally published: London : Cassell, 1975.
ISBN : 978-1-101-56570-4
1. Astor, Nancy Witcher Langhorne Astor, Viscountess, 1879-1964. 2. Great Britain—Social life and customs—20th century. 3. Great Britain—Politics and government—20th century. 4. Women legislators—Great Britain—Biography. 5. Americans—Great Britain—Biography. 6. Nobility—Great Britain—Biography. 7. Harrison, Rosina. 8. Women household employees—Great Britain—Biography. I. Title.
DA574.A8H37 2012
941.082092—dc23
[B] 2011034501
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To Leigh ‘Reggie’ Crutchley,
who made it possible
Foreword
Although this book is about domestic service it is also about people, and apart from myself about one person in particular: Nancy, Lady Astor. There have been others who have written of my lady’s personal and political life. Some have spoken highly of her, others have been savagely critical. I am not like any of them. To begin with I haven’t the use of words that they have, nor have I their education or their kind of background, so I have kept away from the parts of Lady Astor’s life that I was not able to understand and have written about those that I could. This may have given an uneven portrait of her, but everyone has to write from a position and mine was at least one that kept me in contact with her every day for thirty-five years. There were times and places where I was not able to observe her closely and to tell of these I have had to rely on the memories of those of her staff who were present. Always though they have been the servants’ views of her, not the opinions of associates and friends in her own class.
My life with my lady was one of constant conflict and challenge, and despite occasional wounds on both sides, one that we enjoyed hugely. Although divided by rank and money we had similar natures and I think it is true to say that we always respected each other. I hope my writing will cause no hurt to anyone. None is intended and the last thing I wish to do is to spoil the image of a lady who over the years became the expression of my own life. Whatever else it is, this book is the truth as I saw it.
I am grateful to so many people for helping me to prepare it. To Cyril Price; to Frank and Ronald Lucas of Walton-on-Thames, to Edwin Lee, Charles Dean, Frank Copcutt, Noel Wiseman and Gordon Grimmett, who have filled in the gaps; to my sisters Olive and Ann, who always had faith and so gave me courage; to Desmond Elliott, my agent, Michael Legat, my publisher, and Mary Griffith, my editor; to Jenny Boreham, who typed and retyped with unflagging energy, and finally to Leigh ‘Reggie’ Crutchley, to whom I dedicate this book.
1
Childhood
I was born in 1899 in a pretty little village, Aldfield, near Ripon in Yorkshire. It’s very near that famous old ruin Fountains Abbey. The village and the land surrounding it were owned then by the Marquess of Ripon who lived at Studley Royal. I suppose, though I was never conscious of it, that he dominated our lives and those of everybody who lived on his estate from the farmers downwards. He was a kind of benevolent dictator. The men would touch their forelocks or doff their caps to him and to her ladyship and the women would curtsy. It wouldn’t have done to have offended him in the slightest way, but speaking for our family this was unlikely; we knew our place. By that I don’t mean that we were subservient. Knowing your place was a kind of code of behaviour at that time and we followed it to the letter. In any case there wasn’t time to think about the rights and wrongs of it; people were all too busy working and bringing up a family for that.
My father was employed as a stonemason by the Marquess of Ripon. It was a skilled trade, fashioning the stones or slates and repairing buildings on the estate. He also helped to preserve Fountains Abbey. His wage was £1 a week. He was also sexton and caretaker for our church at Aldfield and the one at Studley. This brought in another thirty shillings a year and it was augmented when there were weddings or funerals. He was also the gravedigger and earned a few extra shillings by tending the graves, weeding them and seeing to the flowers. He even made a little more in the summer by scything the grass in the churchyard, stooking it into a small hayrick and selling it to a nearby farmer.
Before she married, my mother was laundrymaid at Tranby Croft and Studley Royal which was how she met my father. They must have been pleased with her work at the big house because when Dad and she set up home together she continued to do the household and personal laundry for the Marquess and Marchioness at our home. Clothes! I grew up hating the sight of them. The only time our kitchen was free of them was on Saturdays and Sundays. I must have seen more of ladies’ and gentlemen’s underwear than was good for me by the time I left home. We only saw the fire at weekends or when we were baking or cooking; at all
other times there would be a clothes-horse surrounding it. Dad used to complain but he knew there was really no use his grumbling, it brought in the extra money that was so necessary. I never knew how much and I don’t think Dad did, but Mum always seemed to have what was needed in a crisis.
There were four of us children: I was the eldest, then came my brother Francis William and sisters Suzanne and Olive, all at two-yearly intervals. I was christened Rosina, but since this was bound to be abbreviated to Rose, my mother’s name, and since she was not going to have the distinction of ‘Old’ Rose, I have always been called ‘Ena’ by my family. It’s the sort of situation that should have been thought about before I was christened, as it has caused a lot of confusion and irritation during my life.
People have often said to me how lucky I was to be brought up in a village in the beautiful countryside with the freedom of the fields and lanes, the simplicity of life among animals and above all in peace. It sounds lyrical as I write it and perhaps in a way it was, but people forget and sometimes I do that for the most part life was continual hard work even as a young child. From the time any of us can first remember we had to play our part in the running of the house. Mum and I would get up before six every morning. Dad had to set off for work at half-past. He walked to the lodge at Fountains Abbey to get his orders from the foreman and be told where he had to go to for the day. At one time he cycled but he had been struck by lightning which made him too nervous to ride a bicycle ever again.
My first job was to lay the kindling wood and to get the fire going. We burnt logs which Dad and I had to cut with a cross-cut saw from a load of timber he bought off the estate. We didn’t use coal; it wasn’t necessary and it cost money. Even the baking was done with wood, thin pieces cut to size which we poked under the oven to get it to the right heat. Then there was the water to be fetched in buckets from the pump outside or, if it was a fine summer and the well there had dried up, from the one farther down in the village. The small boiler in the fireplace had to be filled. This and the kettle were the only supplies of constant hot water. After that I helped Mum get Dad’s breakfast and of course there were my brother and sisters to be got up, helped with their dressing and generally hurried up and shouted at.
It was a relief to get to school. I enjoyed learning. The building was typical of the time. There were two classrooms and we were taught by the headmaster and his wife, a Mr and Mrs Lister, just the three R’s with a little geography, history, art and, for the girls, sewing and embroidery. Opposite the school there was a field where we used to play football. I used to keep goal at one end and Mr Lister at the other. I loved it. Apart from the fact that I was good at it and very few balls got past me, it gave me the opportunity to use my voice. I’d scream encouragement and advice from beginning to end of the game and I could be heard all over the village. When I went home my mum would be angry with me and tell me off about my unladylike behaviour. It didn’t make any difference – I’d be at it again the next time. The game used to take the toes out of my shoes so eventually Mum made me wear clogs. I didn’t mind, it was after all true Yorkshire footwear. I remember once being dressed in a lovely little bolero with a wide skirt and with orders to take great care of them. I couldn’t resist playing football and I caught my foot in the hem of the skirt and nearly tore it away. I didn’t dare go back home for Mum to see so I went into the schoolhouse and together Mrs Lister and I sewed it back again.
I learnt a lot in school which was to be useful to me in later life, particularly through reading and writing. I always enjoyed writing and receiving letters. I kept many that I think are going to refresh my memory as I write this book. Whereas most children left school when they were fourteen I stayed on until I was sixteen. There were reasons for this as Mum and I had plans for my future. I believe that those two extra years when Mr and Mrs Lister gave me occasional individual tuition were of the greatest value to me.
During the lunch break, or as we called it, the dinner hour, I’d go home for my meal. When I’d eaten it I’d go into the wash-house and turn the mangle while Mum fed it with the morning’s washing. When school finished in the afternoon I’d go back to help Mum get Dad’s tea, which was his meal of the day. After that was cleared up I’d have to knit so many rows of Dad’s socks. This I found unrewarding work and they never seemed to get any longer. They did, of course, since I kept him provided with them for many years.
After knitting there was the needlework, the darning and mending, getting the children to bed and then getting there myself. On Saturdays as well as the ordinary jobs I had to clean and blacklead the kitchen range. The blacklead came in blocks like soap. It was kept in a jam-jar and every time I used it I’d have to pour cold water on it and work at it until it produced a sort of paste. This was brushed on to the stove and finally polished until it shone. When I’d finished I must have looked a terrible sight for I had porous skin which absorbed any of the blacklead that got on it, and plenty seemed to. The family all got a good laugh out of me on Saturdays which I thought was very unkind of them at the time and more so now that I think of it again. Then the steel fender had to be emery-papered and polished.
I must say that by the time I had finished with it the stove looked a lovely sight. It deserved to be, because it was the most important piece of furniture, if I can call it that, in the house. It was the means whereby we lived. I shall never forget it; there was the oven on one side, the boiler on the other, and in between the grate and a wreckin, a sort of iron bar across the top. From this we would hang the kettle, a big black iron one which was almost permanently over the fire, or, when required, the frying-pan, one with a long vertical handle that hung over the flames. It could be adjusted by a chain which was fastened to the wreckin. In the evening our two cats would creep into the kitchen, jump up and sit each side of the grate, one on the oven and the other on the boiler. It’s the kind of family scene one never forgets.
Another of my Saturday jobs was to clean Dad’s boots for Sunday. In the afternoon whenever it was fine, we children would go out gathering wood for kindling. Studley Park was a good hunting-ground and there was a big copse near us, but we didn’t dare go often since pheasants were reared there and the keepers didn’t care to have anyone disturbing them. We almost used to welcome a storm or a high wind during the week because it made our task so much easier.
As I grew older Dad developed what was called in those days a weak heart, so it was the duty of the family to relieve him of whatever work we could. Then it was that I acquired another Saturday chore: lighting and stoking the church boilers as well as helping Mum with the cleaning and polishing there. Saturday was also bath-night which was just as well with me having done so much dirty work. In the winter I had to make do with a sort of wash-down. I’d stand naked in a large tin bowl of water in front of the kitchen fire, but in summer I used to luxuriate in the wash-house outside by heating the water in the copper and then filling the big dolly tub. Eventually the day arrived when Dad came back from Studley Royal with a lovely hip bath which they had discarded. We felt like millionaires from then on. I didn’t know what it was like to lie in a bath until I went into service.
However, Sundays, while they were different, were not days of rest. I was awake more or less at the usual time, and went up to the church to stoke the boilers. If there was an eight o’clock communion service I’d ring the church bell and then act as server to the vicar. I went back home for breakfast and we all got ready for the morning service. Dad and 1 used to sing in the choir. I enjoyed that; occasionally I’d have to sing a solo which I liked even better. Sunday lunch, or Sunday dinner as we called it, was a sort of ritual. It was the meal of the week with the best of whatever was in the larder at the time and of course always a Yorkshire pudding followed by pies and tarts.
Nobody could accuse my mum and dad of being sectarian because as soon as lunch was over and cleared up, we children were sent to the Wesleyan chapel for Sunday School. I questioned Mum about the rights and wrongs of t
his one day. ‘One place is as good as another,’ she said, ‘and I know where you are and that you’re out of mischief.’ I suppose it made a change. It also started our library, for as regular attenders we each of us got a book a year, an improving one like John Halifax, Gentleman which I found very hard going and didn’t read until many years later.
The evening found us in church once again. You might think that we would have sickened of religion but I never did. Among the memories that I hold dearest are the services in Studley church. They were happy occasions with the farmers and villagers all cleaned and polished and dressed in their best clothes, singing at the tops of their voices. It was these weekly get-togethers that gave us a feeling of community and a sort of pride in belonging to our village. Studley church was very beautiful and it was ours. During my life in service I was helped by my religion and my childhood memories of it. Although we were expected to behave in a Christian manner it was seldom possible for us to go to church and be practising Christians as it would have interfered with our duties. I don’t say this with rancour but as a fact.
Sunday was the only day our parlour came alive. No one was allowed in it during the week. It was the same in all the village homes. We had a piano, it was the symbol of respectability, which Mum had bought from her laundry money. We children had lessons at fourpence a week as we got older and although none of us learnt a lot we were able to strum a few notes to help as a background for our sing-songs. When the 1914 war came and the military camps were built nearby, Sunday nights at the Harrisons’ were great occasions for the troops and for us. Mum used to sparkle as she sang ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray’, ‘Two Little Girls in Blue’, ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ and the other popular songs of the time, and even Dad would relax and be merry, partly as a result of the drink the soldiers had brought with them. It’s odd, but to me the war was a happy time, the village and the countryside seemed to come alive with the marching feet, the guns and the uniforms. There were dances, Garrison concerts, more fun generally and of course a few more babies around than there should have been!
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