I got used to being a sort of yo-yo. Up in London, down in Plymouth, and occasionally in between at Cliveden. I got blooded in the London air raids when they started, but since there was no point in staying at St James’s Square overnight when we were safer just outside London at Cliveden, I didn’t see a lot of them. Plymouth had twenty-odd small raids during the first year, but compared with what was to follow, these were of little consequence except to those who were directly affected. All that really merits reporting of our first year of the war was that my lady busied herself sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, and therefore so did I.
We were first directly affected in October 1940 when some incendiary bombs hit 4 St James’s Square. It was the same night that Mr Bobbie was injured during an air raid in Kent. It was the first of four hits that the house was to receive. Fortunately it only affected a top corner. Lord and Lady Astor were both away at the time so Mr Lee and I went down from Cliveden to help. Her ladyship’s and my bedrooms were both badly burnt. I managed to salvage a few things, but she lost everything. As often happens when there’s a fire, it’s the water that puts it out that does the damage. Lady Astor’s boudoir was swimming in it. We salvaged whatever we could; fortunately there was nothing of great value there since the best things had been moved to Cliveden and stored in the stables. Shortly after this, the Free French Forces took over the house as their headquarters in London. We still retained the offices at the back and made them into a small flat where we could sleep from time to time. This had its own front door in Babmaes Street, a cul-de-sac near Jermyn Street. Although this wasn’t part of the history I learnt at school I understand that Jermyn Street was, during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, a place where gentlemen had their little love-nests and accommodated their mistresses. I was further given to understand that in this century the mistresses were disposed elsewhere, but ladies who entertained gentlemen more by quantity than quality had moved in and personally advertised their wares on the street corners. If I hadn’t have learnt it I would have soon discovered it when we lived there. Her ladyship must also have found out because the nearest she ever came to a sexy joke was when she would announce to her friends to try to shock them that she was the most important woman in Jermyn Street, the queen of the tarts. One night when she was coming to the house she saw a young American soldier lying drunk on the pavement. She helped him to his feet and as he staggered up she said, ‘Come on, get up, you’re coming home with me.’
‘Oh no, I’m not,’ he said, and he slumped down again. ‘My mother warned me against women like you.’
‘Women like me?’ she screamed at him, ‘I’m old enough to be your grandmother.’
Eventually she got the protesting soldier into the flat, and had him put to bed. The next morning she gave him a lecture on the evils of drink and a £5 note, and sent him packing. She loved drunks, they gave her a chance to preach what she practised.
Babmaes Street as the war progressed became a proper sort of courting place. It was not far from Rainbow Corner, the American Forces Club near Piccadilly Circus, though I think it was used by all nationalities. It was embarrassing for anyone coming in at night, and according to William, our odd man, it was the same in the morning when he went out to scrub the steps. I remembering him complaining, ‘I don’t mind them feeding on the fruits of love but I wish they wouldn’t leave the skins around for me to sweep up.’ We were all of us to suffer from the wretched things. A few mornings after William’s complaints he came into the kitchen grinning all over. ‘It was his lordship,’ he said. ‘He went off early this morning and I hadn’t had a chance to do my sweeping. It had been a particularly bad night and as he came to the step he couldn’t help but see them. He stopped in his tracks, sort of shuddered down his back and then walked off with his head held high as if ignoring them. This was a pity because one stuck to his shoe. He couldn’t ignore that. He removed it with the ferrule of his umbrella and moved off, but it had now stuck to his brolly. He stopped again and trod it from there with his foot. “Here we go again,” I thought. “It’s a sort of perpetual motion.” Well, he made certain he got rid of it this time. Then he turned round and he must have seen me grinning at him. “I shall report this to the police,” he said, as though it was all my fault, and then he stalked off.’
As I’ve said, I’ve suffered from one and so did her ladyship. I was embarrassed but she apparently wasn’t. I was astonished that she told me about it. She’d always been so squeamish over such things, but somehow she became more tolerant during the war. I suppose we all did.
The unexpected was something I learnt to expect from my lady. One evening, quite early on in the war, when Jim Brand, her nephew, was spending part of his leave with us at St James’s Square, she suddenly said to me, ‘Get your best bib and tucker on, Rose, Jim’s taking you out to dinner.’
‘That’s news to me, my lady, because he hasn’t asked me,’ I said.
‘No, quite rightly he asked me, but let’s have none of your North Country stubbornness. Go and get changed.’
Off we both went and had a whale of a time. As we left the restaurant he said, ‘Let’s go to a nightclub, Rose.’ Since her ladyship had given her permission I agreed, but like Cinderella my eye was constantly on the clock. Jim was in no hurry to go home. ‘But your aunt will be waiting on the doorstep for us,’ I protested.
‘Nonsense, Rose, she’ll have been in bed hours ago.’
‘Like to bet?’ I said, and we settled on a five-shilling wager, a fortune for me, but I had no worries about losing it. We rang the bell and within seconds there her ladyship was at the front door and it was one o’clock in the morning! Nowadays people get the key of the door at an early age, but it wasn’t until my lady was eighty that I was allowed one.
After the Free French took over, a kind of plague hit St James’s Square – rats. With the bombing they’d been disturbed in London. Whether it was that they liked French food or what, I don’t know, but they invaded us. They were everywhere, under the floorboards, running along the gutters, in amongst the garbage cans. It was like living in Hamelin. If only I’d had the courage I’d have introduced a cat into the house, but I knew what it would mean if her ladyship saw it. The rats were worse at night. At around midnight, when the streets had quietened down, I’d hear them scuffling to get outside like a regiment on the move, then at about four in the morning they’d pour back in again. I used to nearly suffocate with my head under the bedclothes. As far as I’m concerned I class rats with creepy crawlies; I can’t abide either.
The war really began and ended for me at Plymouth. It began on 20 March 1941. I had been down there for some days beforehand with my lady getting ready for a visit of the royals. Although such visits were informal, obviously certain preparations had to be made, since his lordship and my lady as first citizens of Plymouth would have to escort the King and Queen around the city and to entertain them. The day was a success; their Majesties were given a great welcome and were obviously impressed with what they saw. I remember Lady Astor telling me some time later that a matron at one of the hospitals told the Queen that she thought they were ready if the hour ever came. By the following morning she’d given living proof that they were and she was to be called upon to do so constantly for many months afterwards.
Their Majesties had tea with us at 3 Elliot Terrace. Just as they were leaving the sirens sounded. Nobody took any particular notice as daylight raids were very rare at that time, particularly so far from the French coast. Although we weren’t to know at the time it was a reconnaissance plane. The King and Queen left by train and on the Astors’ return from the station, dinner was served.
I remember Mr Ben Robertson, the American journalist, was staying with us. He was one of the brave band of newspapermen from the States who reported on how Britain was taking it and he felt that he’d got to be in the front line where the trouble was. I don’t know whether he was looking for trouble when he came to Plymouth but he certainly found it. Just as they
were having coffee the sirens sounded and within seconds the anti-aircraft guns were in action. Then it seemed as though all hell was let loose. I said to myself, ‘This is it, my gal,’ and as I was a member of the fire-fighting team for the Terrace, got my tin helmet on and saw to it that we had buckets of water and stirrup pumps on all the floors. Every available vessel was called into action. The bombs and the incendiaries started raining down, though fortunately not on us. Her ladyship was nowhere to be seen. Foolishly and fearlessly she and Mr Robertson were standing outside in the street watching it all happen. I called her in, but she took no notice. I persevered and over the noise of the bombs and guns I heard a few, ‘Shut up, Rose’s. ‘What a time and under what circumstances to hear that,’ I remember thinking.
I don’t know whether it was my voice that summoned him, but after a while an air raid warden came along and ordered them both into the house. It was just as well he did because as they came into the hall a stick of bombs fell nearby and blew the glass of the front door out. Both Mr Robertson and my lady had the good sense to throw themselves on the floor as they heard them coming down. I helped my lady up and we went to the shelter in the basement, with Mr Robertson sensibly following. As we were going down she was reciting the 23rd Psalm: ‘The Lord is my shepherd: therefore can I lack nothing …’, and when we were in the shelter she began on the 46th Psalm, ‘God is our hope and strength: a very present help in trouble…’ She seemed serene as she sat there and quite without fear. She chatted about her childhood days in Virginia as though she was trying to put the fear out of our hearts. I occupied myself picking the bits of glass from her hair which had lodged there as the door pane smashed. She started talking to Mr Robertson about me and my time with her, how we had worked together for thirteen years. I loved her for using the word ‘together’ and not ‘for’; it made it seem like a partnership, not a job. Then she went on to say that I was the only woman who would put up with her and she was the only woman who would put up with me. I thought it was time I said something. ‘Mr Robertson, her ladyship is the kind of woman who takes a lot of understanding. It took me nearly three years.’ Bombs or no bombs, her ladyship still had the last word. ‘There, Rose,’ she laughed, ‘you have the advantage of me because I’ve never got to understand you.’
During this time Plymouth was being subjected to a bombardment comparable only with that of Coventry. The house constantly trembled and the noise of the guns and bombs was terrifying. Then young Jim Brand, my lady’s nephew (later to be killed in a tank in Germany), who was staying with us and was with Arthur Bushell (who had been an officer in the Machine Guns in the First World War), fire-watching on the roof, ran down to tell us that an incendiary bomb had gone through the slates and set light to a beam. Up we all went with buckets of sand and water and eventually got the fire under control. There were four more incendiaries in the street which had to be dealt with. By the time we had done this the raiders had gone, leaving the city burning and in ruins. I eventually got my lady to her room. She wanted to be out in the street, but as his lordship and I told her, her work would begin the next day and she must be ready for it. Thank God she was able to get some rest and we could clear things up a bit before snatching a couple of hours in armchairs.
We were all of us up and about early the following morning. Before breakfast my lord and lady went walking the streets, and came back looking very sad and strained. They had a big day in front of them: Mr Menzies the Australian Prime Minister was visiting Plymouth, and as well as looking after him there was the tremendous job of assessing the damage, reviewing the efficiency of the services, rehousing, feeding, clothing and comforting. It seemed an impossible task but they set about it sensibly and efficiently. There were no theatricals from my lady, just confidence and strength. His lordship was authoritative and efficient, a great organizer. Mr Menzies fell in step with them, his schedule of visits was cancelled, he was content just to go along. He was to have been entertained at Elliot Terrace, but that was out of the question now so he dined at the residence of the Admiral.
We servants spent the day clearing and cleaning. We could have saved ourselves the trouble, as events turned out. Almost to the minute of the night before, the sirens sounded and, what seemed only seconds later, we were showered with incendiaries. Arthur Bushell, Florrie the housemaid and I rushed upstairs, making for the roof. As we were nearing the top landing there was a scream of bombs falling. Fortunately the landing windows had been left open to get rid of the smell of burning, because as we reached them we got the blast of bombs which knocked us against the wall. We were out of breath, but we must have found some from somewhere because the next thing I remember was being down in our basement shelter. There was just nothing we could do, the onslaught was too terrific. If the house was burning over our heads it would have to. If we went up there we were likely to be blown to bits anyway. It was the feeling of helplessness that got me down, not being able to do anything but just wait, hope and pray. But what a comfort prayer is at such a time. I don’t think it was just selfish prayer either. I found myself thinking of all sorts of people and of course I was desperately worried for my lady. It didn’t seem possible that people could live through what was going on outside. The raid continued for about three hours, then just as suddenly as it had started the noise ceased, but the comparative silence was punctuated by the crackle of the fires and the occasional burst of a time-bomb.
We went to look on the roof. The incendiaries there had burnt themselves out and by some miracle we had escaped once again from the high explosives, but as I looked over Plymouth it seemed as though nowhere else had. It was a horrifying yet magnificent sight, like a gigantic volcano crater, a city on the boil. All immediately around us had been destroyed. No. 1 Elliot Terrace had been hit, though much of it was still standing. A house at the back had been completely destroyed and the whole street seemed in ruins. There was nothing for me to do so I turned back and went to see what damage our house had sustained. I looked into my lady’s room and when I saw it with windows shattered, walls cracked, part of the ceiling down, glass splinters everywhere, I couldn’t help thinking about the useless work I’d done the day before. I got a broom, swept up a bit and got my lady’s bed sleepable in, but by now I was worried out of my wits thinking that something must have happened to her. I went down to join the others. Just as I got to the foot of the stairs her ladyship came rushing in; she looked frantic. ‘Rose,’ she screamed, ‘thank God you’re safe,’ and she flung her arms round me. ‘I’ll never leave you again,’ she sobbed. My tears started to flow too though I was astonished at her outburst. It later transpired that as she approached the house she saw the shells of the buildings at the back of us and thought that we had been hit too. It was an astonishing show of emotion, particularly from my lady, but they were emotional hours when we were all on the brink of eternity.
My lady was completely exhausted. She and Lord Astor had been on duty all day and had been out with the services during the raid. His lordship was little better, but having delivered Lady Astor into my hands, he set off walking the ruined streets. We tried to stop him. We told him it was foolishness, but he wouldn’t listen, or rather didn’t seem to hear. He was like an automaton, all feeling had drained from him. After I’d got her ladyship to bed fully clothed, since her room was freezing, I thought about sleep; there seemed to be nowhere for me except the basement, and I felt claustrophobic after the hours I’d spent there during the raids, so I made for the roof again and joined Arthur Bushell. We stood there watching the city burn, seeing the flames from one house moving to the next and demolishing that, and eventually the whole row. There was nothing we could say about it, we’d said everything and seen everything.
Arthur eventually decided to walk along the roofs of the terrace to check that all was right with the other houses. I just stayed and watched. Suddenly I saw a huge black mass rising from over the road. I don’t know whether I threw myself down or was blown down. A time-bomb had exploded in a nearby
garage. I lay on my face deafened by the explosion, but not so much that I couldn’t hear the rubble falling around me. One or two bits hit me. Luckily I had two coats on so I got away with a few bruises. Arthur at the time was behind a chimneystack on the roof of No. 8 and escaped everything. He came running to me and picked me up. ‘I thought you were a goner, Rose,’ he said as we staggered together downstairs. ‘No,’ I replied, ‘I’m a cat. I’ve got nine lives.’ Her ladyship was none the worse for the explosion, but claustrophobia or no claustrophobia, I spent the rest of the night in the basement with the others because though I’d boasted of having nine lives, I wasn’t sure how many I’d got left.
Though it hadn’t seemed possible, the next morning was worse than the one before. I went out at daybreak to see the devastation around us. Somehow it looked worse in the daylight: skeletons of houses, twisted girders, wrecks of cars, the rubble that was once a home and possessions strewn across the streets; pathetic things like children’s dolls, lying dirty and lonely. I saw a wounded spaniel dog with a little boy standing guarding it, and then eventually the R.S.P.C.A. men who came and lifted it tenderly away. People were standing around helplessly; exhausted, dirty and apathetic. I couldn’t watch, I felt I was intruding on their private grief.
I made my way back to the house and tried to rouse myself to start tidying and cleaning it up. My lady had left. There was no routine now, no ringing of bells, no ‘Where have you been, Rose?’ It was all for one and one for all. Only our French chef Monsieur Lamé kept to his place, the kitchen, and he was hard put to it because there was no gas now or electricity. He found an oil stove somewhere and worked a few miracles with that. ‘We must eat to beat the Hun,’ he said to everyone, as a sort of personal slogan. Then he would go into a string of expletives about the Germans as though they were his own particular enemies. I had to remind him that we British weren’t feeling too kindly disposed towards them either. I must say Lamé worked wonders in the kitchen throughout the war and was particularly good to me. ‘Eating keeps your strength up,’ he would say when I protested he was giving me too big a portion.
Rose: My Life in Service to Lady Astor Page 19