Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid (37 page)

‘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 earned 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.

‘Only Mr
Johnnie’s,’ she giggled. ‘I know they’re his as
they’ve got a sort of grey lining.’

The staff were full of it.

‘Never!’ gasped another
housemaid. ‘Dirty old scoundrel.’

Silly old Johnnie. You really
couldn’t keep anything hidden from the servants! Whether Mrs Luddington ever
found out about randy Johnnie and her friend Miss Verity I don’t know, but I
daresay he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t keep it zipped up.
Nevertheless, the wedding was a resounding success for Wallington Hall and the
Luddington family and I was very proud to have played my part in it.

‘We’re all going out on
Mr Luddington’s boat for the day,’ Mrs Luddington announced one
morning, not long after the wedding. I knew Mr Luddington had a boat he liked to take
out on the Norfolk coast, and he’d often return at dusk with some big old fish
he’d slap down on the kitchen table for me to gut, fillet and serve up for
dinner. Now it seemed the whole family was going to enjoy some time out. ‘Why
don’t you take the day off?’ Mrs Luddington continued with a smile.
‘You deserve it.’

‘Thank you, Mrs
Luddington,’ I replied. ‘Very generous.’

Finding myself in the rare position of having
nothing to do, I strolled across the parkland to find Tom the chauffeur leaning over a
fence and stroking the mane of one of Mr Luddington’s magnificent horses.
Joining him, I stroked the horse’s velvety neck. Taking fright, he flared his
nostrils, tossed his mane back and took off over the fields.

‘Thoroughbred,’
explained Tom. ‘He’s a booty all right, but a flighty one, make no
mistake. Won’t let anyone ride him. Everyone’s tried, even Mr
Luddington, but no one can stay on him for long,’ he chuckled. ‘They
all end up face down in the dirt.’

Uh-oh. There was that feeling!
The
same feeling I always got when there was a challenge or dare being issued. The words
were out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop myself.