Mr Lee kept a guest list of many of the dinner parties in his little black book. Whether he got bored or blasé after I joined the staff I don’t know, but he stopped doing it and just recorded the event. He lent me his book and it was fascinating to read the names of those invited in the years from 1911 onwards; it was like dipping into history. The list was impressive both socially and politically. These were people who were used to the best and were prepared to be highly critical since they, themselves, were accustomed to entertaining on a similar scale. It was not only the dinner either, for immediately after dinner there was often a reception of up to a thousand people. This was generally held in the ballroom, depending on its size, as of course were the dances when they were given.
It was a feat of organization to mount occasions of this kind. Each department had its own task, though often these as it were interlocked. Mr Lee as butler was in charge of the whole production and it was for him to see that everything finally came together. The first thing his men had to do was select the silver from the safe at Cliveden. This safe was a sight to behold. It was the size of an average room and as you walked round it, it was like looking at a treasure trove. His lordship had inherited and bought gold and silver ornaments, silver cups, candelabra, candlesticks, plates and cutlery, and had added to them the trophies his horses had won. All service was done from silver plates and salvers. Although everything in the safe was kept polished it was always refurbished before use. Mr Lee had set his standards when he was a footman and under-butler, and was famed for the condition of his silver. He saw to it that his demands were met. It was an unpleasant task. It began with red rougeing; this gave the silver a dark appearance which looked so much better, particularly under light. This rouge was put into saucers, mixed into a paste and then rubbed on with the fingers and rubbed in hard. The silver was then highly polished with cloths and leathers. Polishing silver this way played havoc with the footmen’s hands, but Mr Lee insisted that there were no short cuts; and he was not above showing a new footman himself how he should do it.
Many of the visitors remarked on our beautiful silver and once the Argentine Ambassador, a Mr Carcano, asked Mr Lee to show him how it was done. He took him into his pantry and demonstrated, and then wrapped up a packet of the rouge for him to take back to the Embassy. The next time they met the Ambassador said, ‘It’s no use, Lee, my men refuse to dirty their hands with the stuff. I suppose you won’t come as my butler and make them?’ He knew it was a vain hope as he said it.
Only once did Mr Lee nearly leave the Astors. Needless to say it was her ladyship’s fault with her goading, her unreasonable demands and lack of appreciation. He could stand it no more and one evening announced to her that he would be leaving at the end of the month. Quick as a flash her ladyship saw the danger she was in. ‘In that case, Lee, tell me where you’re going because I’m coming with you.’ That finished it; they both fell about laughing, and of course Mr Lee stayed.
But back to the silver; it was driven down to London from Cliveden in what we nicknamed the ‘Black Maria’. Gordon Grimmett, one of the footmen, used to travel with it. He remembers the early 1920s when they used an open lorry and slung a canvas sheet over the boxes. ‘It must have been worth well over a hundred thousand pounds, even in those days, and we never had a thought about it being stolen. Today we’d probably have an armoured car and three outriders to protect it. There’s a moral in it somewhere, Yorkie,’ he said. Mr Lee was proud to boast that he had never lost any silver, though recently he admitted to me that that was not strictly true. ‘As far as the family were concerned I didn’t. There was once though when a silver dish went missing. We hunted high and low for it, but with no luck. So the next day I went to the silversmiths with a similar plate and had it copied. I paid for it personally. Of course I knew I didn’t have to, but it kept my record straight with the Astors.’
The seating plan for the guests was prepared by her ladyship with the help of Miss Kindersley, the controller. This was more difficult than one would think: there were so many things to be considered. First was precedence. Royalty was easy, so really were the dukes. It was when you came to the lords, marquesses, generals, bishops and such-like that the trouble started. Rarely were mistakes made. Burke’s Peerage, Debrett and Who’s Who, the books of reference, saw to that. But we did occasionally get mixed up with Indians, and with their caste system they were the quickest to take offence. Mention of Indians reminds me of the time when Mr Gandhi came to dinner. His meal took a lot of sorting out. During it her ladyship offered him some American pecan nuts. ‘Oh, Lady Astor,’ he retorted, ‘be British and buy British.’
As well as the business of precedence there was the question of who should sit next to or opposite whom! Political or social adversaries or personal ‘bêtes noirs’, and incompatibles, had to be separated. Of course in the choosing of guests this had been considered, but it was occasionally impossible to leave opposites out. Sometimes there would be two or more tables, which made things easier, but as Miss Kindersley confided to me, Lady Astor then tried to hog the most important or interesting guests for her table. Eventually Mr Lee would get the plan and have name cards printed so there could be no mistakes. Sometimes on his advice places would be changed. He was, as it were, overseer at these parties and knew more than anyone who got on well with whom.
There was one particular thing about parties that always seemed to get her ladyship and Mr Lee hot under the collar: that was the size of the chairs and the seating accommodation. Her ladyship would insist on getting as many people round a table as possible and this gave little room for manoeuvre either for the guests or the footmen. Mr Winston Churchill always complained. One particular night he refused to eat anything, but he must have been watching throughout the meal because at the end he said, ‘Thirty dishes served and no damn room to eat one.’ Sir Montagu Norman, Governor of the Bank of England, also used to grumble, but it didn’t worry her ladyship when she was told about it. ‘They can both afford to lose a little weight,’ she said to Mr Lee, but he was testy about it and took their criticism personally.
The butler and footmen were of course liveried servants. The everyday livery was brown with yellow and white striped waistcoats, and a red and yellow piping down the side of the trousers. The dress livery was brown jackets, striped waistcoats, breeches, white stockings and black pumps with gold buckles, and of course white gloves; no serving was done with bare hands except by Mr Lee, who only served the wines and liqueurs. I must say that when I first saw the footmen in their get-up, although they looked very smart I couldn’t stifle a laugh; to me they looked like a swarm of wasps. Mr Lee as butler was more distinguished than the others. He wore a navy blue tail coat, black breeches, black stockings and the same black pumps. The men were provided with two sets of livery and these were changed regularly, usually every two years. Less formal wear for them was morning suits, and in the evening, dress suits, black tie and tails.
Gordon Grimmett tells the story of how he joined the Astors, as second footman in the early 1920s, and of his experience with the tailors. ‘I’d been to Campbell & Hearn, the footmen’s agency in North Audley Street, and was given a card and instructed to go and be interviewed by Mr Lee, butler to Viscount and Viscountess Astor at 4 St James’s Square. I went down the area steps of this imposing building wondering what was in store for me. I pressed the back-door bell and was greeted by a young lad. “What’s your business?” he inquired. I handed him the card and he said, “Hmm, Grimmett, not, I take it, the Australian cricketer?” and he smirked. “I’m Eric, the schoolroom boy, follow me and I’ll take you to see the skipper.”
‘I met Mr Lee in his sitting-room. “What’s your Christian name?” he said.
‘“Gordon, sir,” I answered.
‘“Very well, Gordon, where have you worked over the past years?”
‘“With the Marquess of Bath, the Honourable Claud Portman and Mr C. H. Sanford.”
‘I thought this an imposing list, but by
Mr Lee’s expression I could see he was not impressed.
‘“Done any valeting?” I said I had. After a few more brusque questions he rose and said, “Right, Gordon, we’ll go and see her ladyship.” By the way he said it I was convinced I was not going to get the job. He took me to what I learnt later was Lady Astor’s boudoir, told me to wait outside while he informed her ladyship of my presence and left me for what seemed a long time, with my heart now nearly in my boots. Finally the door opened. He beckoned me in and said, “This is Gordon, my lady, applying for the post of second footman.” I looked at Lady Astor, a beautiful trim figure of a lady with a smile like a spring day (I was to learn later how quickly it could turn to winter).
‘“A very good afternoon to you, Gordon,” she said. “He looks a big strong boy, Lee. Where is your home, Gordon, and have you a mother and father?”
‘“I have a mother and father and my home is in Ascot in Berkshire, your ladyship,” I replied.
‘“Well now, isn’t that nice. We have a country house at Cliveden, near Taplow in Buckinghamshire. You will be able to go home to your parents’ regularly.” Then she sped towards the door. “How soon can you join us? We want you in one week’s time. Goodbye, I must fly to the House of Commons.” And out she went.
‘“You can consider yourself engaged,” said Mr Lee, I thought a trifle unnecessarily. He told me my wage would be £32 a year, with two shillings and sixpence a week beer and laundry money, not for my general washing, just for the starching of white shirts and collars. I discovered that any beer I wanted would have to be bought outside, but that was not encouraged. It had to be mentioned in the terms though because it was the tradition of that time. I was then instructed to proceed to visit Robert Lillico, their tailors in Maddox Street, to be measured for suits and livery.
‘“Are we allowed to choose our own patterns, sir, for the morning suit or do you insist on ‘pepper and salt’?” This was a footman’s term for a grey and white pinhead suiting which many families instructed their tailors to supply their menservants with, which looks, as it was intended, a servants’ suit.
‘“Within reason you may select any pattern you wish,” was Mr Lee’s noncommittal reply.
‘I went to Maddox Street and was duly measured by Mr Lillico. When he’d finished he drew me aside by the arm and whispered, “Dear boy, you are entitled to a long pair of woollen pants to go under your livery trousers; we give them with each suit. If however like many other footmen you don’t choose to wear them, go downstairs and my brother will give you something in their place.”
‘“Downstairs” I found was the cutting-room. Seated at the table was brother Bob surrounded by three other men who, like myself, were being fitted for livery. All had glasses in their hands. “Ah,” he greeted me, “another no-nonsense pants man, I presume. Come and sit down and join us.” He then took a glass and filled it with whisky from a cask at the end of the table. “Here you are, Astor, this is your reward.” He replenished his glass and wished me luck in my new job.
‘I eventually staggered out into the air a little worse for drink, but not so far gone as not to wonder what my clothes would be like when I got them, for brother Bob was the cutter and how he could work after paying the footmen for their pants and drinking the health of each one was beyond my comprehension. In the event my clothes fitted perfectly and I was later to join Bob in many similar celebrations, but I never ceased to wonder at his capacity.’
For any big dinner and reception Mr Lee would have to engage additional footmen. He had his own list of trained men who were willing to do extra work. They were mostly retired servants from the Colonial Office or the India Office. He was constantly being praised for their smartness and bearing. The business of serving and clearing dishes was done like a drill. It was something that Mr Dean learnt while he was with us, and practised later when he was at the British Embassy in Washington. He recalls an occasion there when Lady Dean, the Ambassador’s wife, decided that they must give a served dinner party for Princess Alexandra during her visit there.
As Mr Dean said to me, ‘The trouble about having royalty in the States, Rose, is the number of people who expect to be invited to meet them, which is why generally they go in for buffet suppers and cocktail parties. But Lady Dean felt that Her Royal Highness must be tired of these affairs and wanted to do it in the old style. “How many could we seat in the ballroom?” she asked.
‘“It’s no good guessing,” I said, “we’ll have to try it and see.” We did a mock layout and decided that we could cope with a hundred and ten guests.
‘“How many footmen will you need?” she asked. ‘“That depends, my lady, on the menu.”
‘“On the menu?” This surprised her.
‘“Yes, you see if you have a simple menu we can manage with one man a table, but if we are serving sauces and side dishes, we shall need two.”
‘She went to the chef and it was decided that it would be a complicated menu. So I needed twenty-two to serve and since with a large party of that kind I would only be able to supervise, I engaged another four to serve the wines. I was able to have a short rehearsal with them, as Mr Lee did. I told them to look to me for their cues to serve and to clear, and apart from one man who jittered with nerves and had to be quietly removed, the whole thing went off like clockwork. The following day Lady Dean asked me to go and see her and, unlike Lady Astor, who could never bring herself to do such a thing, congratulated me on the evening. “How did you manage to control all those footmen?” she asked.
‘“That, my lady,” I said, “was as a result of my training under ‘Lord Lee of Cliveden’, Lady Astor’s butler.” Her ladyship always got some of Lee’s credit, I suppose she deserved it.’
Although Dean is not an uncommon name it was in a way extraordinary that our Mr Dean should have been butler to Sir Patrick Dean. It was also occasionally embarrassing, particularly when he was answering the phone. Mr George Brown, when he was Foreign Secretary, found it all a bit bewildering, as Mr Dean told me. ‘His Excellency and Lady Dean with their two sons had been to meet Mr George Brown at the airport. When they arrived back at the door I opened it and said, “Welcome to the Embassy,” to sort of make the Foreign Secretary feel at home. Some Labour ministers I knew looked on us as a stuffy lot and seemed a bit ill at ease in our presence. Sir Patrick then introduced me: “This is Dean, our butler.” I was wrong to have worried about Mr George Brown not feeling at home. “Another bloody Dean! That makes five. What sort of place is this, Barchester bloody Towers?” Everyone laughed of course, and I took to him right away. He seemed to be able to get on with anyone and his visit was a great success.’
Although our footmen were liveried they did not ‘powder’. ‘Powdered’ service more or less went out after the First World War, though Mr Lee remembers it well. ‘It was only done for the more formal parties. It was not resented by the men even though it made the top of your head feel as if it was in plaster. When we had dressed we put a towel over our shirts, damped our heads and then sprinkled our hair with the flour we’d been given from the kitchen. It pulled a bit at the roots as it dried but there’s no doubt it looked very smart indeed,’ he said, almost wistfully. Nor did we have ‘matching’ footmen. These were what they sound; men of the same height and build. They had them at Buckingham Palace and probably still do, and at ducal establishments.
Again, when I was talking about them to Mr Lee, he went into a reminiscent mood. ‘You know, Miss Harrison, I was only turned down once for a job when I went to be interviewed, and that was for Lord Derby’s place. They wanted to match one of their footmen and I was an inch and a half too short.’
‘Too short!’ I was amazed, for Mr Lee stood six foot one and a half in his stockinged feet.
‘Yes, his lordship liked them tall, it gave tone.’ Mr Lee liked ours tall too, none were under six foot, but they didn’t ‘match’.
I haven’t yet mentioned the food and the kitchens. I think of the kitchens even now with trepidation.
On big party days, or even the day before, they were places I kept out of, and if they were sensible so did everyone else. They were hives of activity but you were likely to get stung if you interfered with the staff in any way. Some days beforehand her ladyship would have worked out the menu with the chef. We had two chefs while I was there, though Monsieur Gilbert was the one I knew best. Mr Lee of course had known many. ‘Papillion was the finest of them all,’ he confided to me, ‘a truly great chef.’ Papillion was with the Astors before the First World War. He died in 1914.
As with footmen, the number of extra chefs who had to be called in depended on the size and kind of dishes on the menu. At times we engaged four, one for each main course, but generally it was two. As I’ve said, I kept away from the kitchens, but after I’d been there a number of years and Gilbert had got to know me, my sister Olive, who was working as a kitchen-maid, was allowed by him to watch occasionally when a dinner party was on. She had been used to good service, but our parties were an eye-opener to her. She particularly loved to watch the sugar chef at work. He’d decorate the sweets with spun sugar, and was an artist first and a chef after. Apart from decorating the sweets he made decorative sugar baskets for the petits fours in various designs: beehives, letterboxes, birds’ nests. Once I took a rose basket he’d made home to Mum, she kept it until it became a dirty brown colour and disintegrated in the sun. She said she just couldn’t bear to throw it away.
It was dangerous work this chef had to do, because the sugar had to be kept near boiling-point all the time, but by the way he worked at it you’d have thought that he was playing with plasticine. What most people, and this included Lady Astor, don’t realize is that with a dinner party the kitchen is working to almost split-second timing. One minute a dish is ready to serve and the next it’s past its best, as anyone who has cooked a soufflé will know, and it’s the same with many other dishes. It’s heartbreaking for a chef when he sees hours of his work spoilt, and four heartbroken chefs in one kitchen is the stuff nightmares are made of.
Rose: My Life in Service to Lady Astor Page 12