Servants’ Hall (7 page)

By the time we got to Redlands, neither of us were very cheerful; and Cook said if that was all a day out did for us we’d as well to be working.

The following week was enlivened for us by the fact that Miss Sarah, the niece who was having her London Season, got engaged. Mr Hall and Mrs Buller wore such benign smiles one would have thought Miss Sarah was their daughter. They said how nice it was for Madam, after all the time she had spent arranging parties and dances, and Madam would be glad to have a rest. Not so glad as
we
would be who’d had all the extra work to do, was the opinion of us under servants; though naturally we didn’t voice it.

Miss Sarah hadn’t found herself a titled swain from the London Season; nevertheless, her prize came from a good family and had money; so the expenditure on Miss Sarah was well worth it.

So now, the strife being over and the battle won, we could all take things easier and feel that we’d done a good job. I should think that Miss Sarah was even more thankful than us. She was no longer in a market where there were far more sellers than buyers; she’d be able to retire from the competition and contemplate further London Seasons with equanimity, knowing that hers had been a success. How lucky are girls of today, for whom it is no disgrace not to have acquired a husband, and who have been educated to support themselves.

I too would soon be leaving Redlands as Mrs Buller’s niece would be coming in three weeks’ time. I wouldn’t be altogether sorry to leave; I was used to town life and could never settle down in the country. I liked to be amongst crowds of people, and preferred the roar of traffic to bird song.

Mrs Buller was very gracious to me, saying that I was the best kitchenmaid she’d ever had. I expect she thought it was safe to tell me that since I was leaving; if I got a swollen head it wouldn’t matter.

All was peace and harmony below stairs at Redlands until one Friday morning, ten days before I was due to finish there.

10

Thursday had been a pleasant day, apart from some discord between young Fred and Mr Burrows. Cook came in to tea looking very amiable; she’d been to a funeral. Cook loved to follow a funeral procession; the slow-moving horses with their black plumes, the carriages full of relatives, the service at the graveside. She always noted whether or not the principal mourners had wept copiously. Nowadays, Cook would need to ride a motor-cycle to be able to follow a funeral.

Violette came in carrying a flowery hat that Madam had just given her. When she tried it on Mr Burrows laughed rudely, and I must admit that although it was a lovely hat it did look rather incongruous perched on top of Violette, with her somewhat dumpy figure and round face.

But young Fred, always kind-hearted, said in what I guessed was bad French, ‘Violette, à mon avis, n’importe quoi Beau Brummel ici, votre chapeau est charmant.’

I suppose that Violette knew what he meant, certainly nobody else did. Mr Burrows, who was of the opinion that in the hierarchy of servants, under-gardeners were lower down the scale than valets who were personal servants to gentlemen, couldn’t forbear to sneer, though he should have known better than to tangle with young Fred.

‘Well, well! Aren’t we something with our bit of French. I can see that it won’t be long before our Frederic will be tending the gardens at Luxembourg and saying, “Oui, oui Monsieur”, instead of all that “Yes, sir, certainly sir”, we get at present.’

I had never seen young Fred angry, but for some reason this remark of the valet’s seemed to get under his skin; and it made him do something which I’m sure he never meant to do. Pulling a watch from his pocket, young Fred said that his present boss had given him this pocket watch so that at least he’d never be late when he was abroad. That did it as far as the valet was concerned, he was too furious to speak another word. I don’t think it was so much that he envied young Fred’s acquisition, after all the watch was somewhat shabby. No, what upset Mr Burrows was that the accepted order and tradition of service had been violated. Anything that a madam gave away should go to the ladies’ maid, and occasionally the head housemaid, and anything that one’s gentleman disposed of should go first to the valet and then to the butler. But I think that Mr Wardham disliked indoor servants as much as he seemed to dislike his own family. And so, having nobody to talk to indoors, he made a confidante of young Fred who, for a working-class man, was better educated than most.

Friday was a catastrophic day. Well, to be honest, Mary, Doris and I thought it an exciting day, the like of which we’d never seen before and were not likely to see again. The trouble started while Mr Wardham was having breakfast and reading his letters. Suddenly, the breakfast-room bell started ringing; it rang and it rang and, when Mr Hall hurried to answer it, he was told by a furious Mr Wardham to fetch Mr Gerald down immediately. What took place then we learnt only gradually. First from the butler and valet, who were hovering in the hall listening to the loud and angry altercations between Mr Wardham and Gerald. Later on we heard it from Rose herself.

It transpired that Mr Wardham had received a letter from Rose’s father. After she had told her mother about Gerald, knowing that the father would be enraged, her mother had let a day or so elapse before telling him. The following evening, Rose’s father had written a long and bitter letter to Mr Wardham, to the effect that no daughter of his was going to marry into a class of idle rich who lived off the blood and sweat of the poor. Some months later, Rose showed this letter to Mary and me. Her father had certainly poured out old rancours and grievances; no doubt they’d been smouldering over the years. It was as though all the hunger and hardships he’d suffered in his youth had crystallised into the shape of Mr Wardham and his son.

He had written that as one of ten children, he’d gone into the mill at ten years old and worked in his bare feet from seven o’clock in the morning until eight o’clock at night; and anybody who wasted even a minute talking to another worker was fined or got the sack. And the stinking rich mill owner would drive up to the mill in his carriage and pair and the coachman would open the door for him as though he was bloody royalty. When he came into the mill everybody had to be working full out or they’d get sacked; the mill owner didn’t care who starved or died from overwork so long as he could live in a big house with servants to wait on him. But the time was coming when the workers would rise up and unite against bosses who ground down the workers.

There was more in the same vein but, as Rose said, what had it got to do with her and Gerald. He was different from his father as shown by the fact that he wouldn’t let Mr Burrows valet him.

But on the morning of the row between Mr Wardham and his son, Rose couldn’t speak so calmly about the affair; in fact she was weeping most of the day. When Madam came downstairs, looking very upset, she said that she wanted to speak to Rose privately in our servants’ hall. They were there over half-an-hour, and when Mrs Wardham came out she told the butler that Rose wasn’t to wait at table, for that day at least. And she told all of us that she hoped we wouldn’t discuss the matter – what a forlorn hope – and in particular the upper servants were not to reprimand Rose in any way. I thought how kind she was to say that and how well she understood servants; because most assuredly the upper servants would have attacked Rose. As it was, all they could do was to look hostile. Mrs Buller wasn’t too bad, though when she heard Doris and me whispering in the scullery she came in and caustically told us not to worry, such an astonishing event, in the nature of things, could never happen to us. Doris merely giggled but I was secretly annoyed, for, although I hadn’t the attractions of Rose, I was better looking than Doris. The butler came into the kitchen to complain to Cook about having to do the waiting at table on his own and he’d like to know what was going to happen after that day. Cook commiserated with him, saying that the late, loved and lamented Mr Buller – one of nature’s gentleman – would turn in his grave to hear of such a thing. The late Mr Buller had been highly respected by his employers because he always knew his place; he’d never at any time become familiar.

When the day was over and we went to bed, none of us took any notice of Cook’s admonishment that we were not to gossip half the night. With the under servants Rose became more cheerful, though evasive about any future plans. It was obvious to us that already she was feeling a ‘somebody’ and not just Rose, a parlourmaid. We didn’t blame her for it, we’d all have felt the same in the circumstances – well, perhaps Doris wouldn’t; any contact with them above stairs reduced her to a mute figure. Mary and I freely gave Rose the benefit of our advice, though as we’d never been in a similar situation our advice wasn’t worth much. We told her not to be persuaded to give up Gerald, such a golden opportunity might never present itself again, and what was the point of throwing away her youth and beauty on that Len her Mum wanted her to marry. If she married him, she’d be living in a ‘two up and downer’, have half-a-dozen kids and in no time at all lose her looks and figure. We went on talking until Cook knocked on our door and told us to go to sleep. When Mary and I woke the next morning the third bed was empty and Rose had gone. There was a note on the bed saying that she’d left with Gerald and would write to us later on.

Mary and I, though sorry that we hadn’t been able to say goodbye to Rose, were nevertheless gratified to be the bearers of such portentous news, and great was the consternation of the upper servants when they heard. The butler all but directly accused Mary and me of knowing that Rose was departing in the night, but we hadn’t known that she was going. Sometime during the day Rose must have packed her small suitcase – she’d left most of her clothes in the wardrobe – hidden it under the bed and crept out so silently that we’d heard no noise at all. Madam was shown the note that Rose had left and told Cook that she hoped all was well with Rose.

Naturally, it was the one and only topic of conversation at dinner. Mr Hall seemed to be particularly incensed, as though Rose had done him a personal injury. Sitting at one end of the table, looking like a modern Mr Bumble, he started to say, very pompously, ‘In all my years in service, man and boy’, when young Fred interrupted, ‘Boy and man’.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You can’t say, “man and boy”,’ young Fred explained, ‘it’s the wrong way round.’

Ignoring this, beyond glaring at the interrupter, Mr Hall went on to say that, man and boy, he’d never known the like. It was all owing to Gerald being in Rhodesia and coming back with all those mad ideas that white people shouldn’t be servants. And what, Mr Hall demanded to known, would happen to all of us; what other work could we do? Mark his words, Rose would live to regret it.

‘I think that it will be Mr Gerald who will regret it,’ said young Fred.

‘Ah!’ sneered Mr Burrows, ‘You would say that, you were sweet on Rose yourself.’

‘Sweet on Rose, I never was, I always thought that apart from being extremely pretty, there was nothing to her. She’d no conversation, never read a book, took no interest in politics or the world around her. I reckon that unless she gets herself an education, learns to speak well, can discuss the theatre and the arts, Mr Gerald will get bored with just gazing at a pretty face.’

Hearing this, Mary and I, not having pretty faces, endeavoured to appear as intelligent as possible, while Doris looking at us just giggled; then, receiving a severe look and a rebuke from Mr Hall, she burst into tears.

Mrs Buller who, although she sometimes reprimanded poor Doris, never allowed anybody else to do so, gave the butler a hard look and said, ‘Mr Hall, I’ll thank you not to exceed your obligations by assuming responsibility for my staff – in the absence of your own.’

That just about did it. Mr Burrows tittered and young Fred burst out laughing – old Fred being deaf hadn’t heard a word. Mr Hall slowly rose from the table, the very embodiment of outraged dignity – though being fat and balding the effect wasn’t all that impressive – and left the room. In the normal way, Mrs Buller wouldn’t have made such a sarcastic remark; but for the time being the whole discipline of below stairs was suspended. Events were too much out of this world. Rose and Gerald gone, and Mr Wardham raging and venting his spite and anger on poor Madam and Miss Helen. Why, according to Mr Hall, the Master had turned on Miss Helen and said that nobody was likely to run away with her in the night.

I wasn’t sorry when my time was up and I left Redlands. Mrs Wardham, kind as ever, gave me an extra £5, and Cook even kissed me goodbye. Mary too would soon be leaving to become a housemaid, she reckoned she’d done her time as an ‘under’.

11

My first place as a cook was in Kensington, and it was certainly a contrast to working at Redlands. For one thing, there were only three servants; cook, housemaid and parlourmaid. And for another, my employer, a Lady Gibbons, was a very different type of person from Mrs Wardham. Lady Gibbons was harsh and tyrannical; so much so that there was a constant procession of housemaids and parlourmaids who found her impossible to work for. As a cook, I saw her only in the mornings when she came down to give the orders for the day. I was dismayed to find that I had to cook on a kitchen range. Many houses, especially in London, were doing away with these coal-consuming objects and using gas stoves for the cooking and coke boilers for a constant supply of hot water. I know that some people can cook to perfection on a kitchen range, but I never could. Either it would be roaring like a furnace, or not hot enough. There was a small gas stove but it was only allowed to be used to boil kettles for early morning tea and for filling the hot-water bottles at night. Such was Lady Gibbons’s distrust of servants that she seemed to have developed a sixth sense about them. If I’d let the fire get low and used that gas stove, sure enough she’d come to the top of the basement stairs and call down, ‘Cook, can I smell gas?’ I’d make out that a tap had inadvertently got turned on.

Mind you, Lady Gibbons had plenty to put up with from me for I was by no means a good cook. I thought I could cook when I got the job, but I found that the amount I knew as a kitchenmaid was somewhat inadequate when it came to doing everything. The first dish I came a cropper over was a very simple dish; you wouldn’t have thought that I could go wrong making it – well, I wouldn’t have if Lady Gibbons had had it made the way I’d seen cooks make it. The dish was a bread-and-butter pudding. I’d always seen cooks make it with nice thin slices of bread and butter, interspersed with currants and sugar, and a custard made with eggs poured over before baking the dish. But the first one I made for Lady Gibbons was on a Monday night, using all the crusts that had accumulated through the week, with a dab of margarine on, and a custard made with custard powder poured over before baking. I’d never made custard with powder before but, if I’d had the sense to realise that I shouldn’t have let it thicken before pouring it over the chunks of bread, it wouldn’t have been so bad. As it was, the thick custard never penetrated through the bread. Still, I can’t see that it was my fault and, if they suffered above stairs with my cooking, our life was pretty grim. The attic bedroom I shared with the parlourmaid was barely furnished; a cupboard each for our clothes, two wooden chairs, a strip of matting on the linoleum and one washstand for the two of us. There was no bathroom for the servants, only one of those old hip-baths.