Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid (28 page)

‘Ooh, we don’t work in
an office,’ piped up Phyllis. ‘We work in Cadogan Square.
I’m a scullery maid and Mollie here’s a kitchen maid.’

‘A kitchen maid, eh?’ he
drawled slowly, looking me up and down. ‘Well, kitchen maid Mollie, reckon you
can come and meet me up at Hyde Park tomorrow? Our boss is making a speech and
we’ll be there to protect him from attack from some of these mindless
left-wing opponents. You might learn a thing or two.’

‘There’s nothing you can
teach me,’ I winked, with more bravado than I felt.

‘Is that so, Mollie?’ he
said, grinning. ‘Ten bob says you come.’

I could tell by his arrogant smile he
already knew I’d come, but I wasn’t about to let him know that. I
simply smiled and walked away.

‘See you around then,’ he
called after me.

‘Not if I see you
first,’ I shot back.

Phyllis was full of it. ‘Oh,
you’re ever so daring, Mollie. Did you see that lad he was standing with? I
liked him. Yours is pretty good-looking too.’

Feeling very smug at the handsome couple of
lads we’d landed a date with, instinct told me to keep quiet about this one
and, just before we got back to Cadogan Square, I pulled Phyllis to one side.

‘Best keep this one under our
hats,’ I whispered. ‘Mrs Jones and Mr Orchard have funny ideas about
things sometimes.’

The next morning Phyllis and I were
bubbling over and I could scarcely keep my mind on the hollandaise sauce I was
making.

‘I’m so relieved that
Alan’s not here any more,’ said Mrs Jones, deftly gutting a fish
next to me. ‘He was more trouble than he was worth, that one. Caused no end of
bother. I knew you’d see sense, Mollie,’ she went on.
‘I’ll make a kitchen maid of you yet. Just got to keep your mind on
cooking and not boys.’

I nodded and smiled, but I wasn’t
really listening. I was too busy dreaming of my blond-haired Blackshirt. I
didn’t really know what a Blackshirt was, nor – if I’m honest – what
a fascist was. Even if I’d had the time to read Mr Stocks’s leftover
copy of
The Times
, by the time it made its way down to the servants’
hall Mr Orchard had taken it to read in the housekeeper’s sitting room. So you
see, with no access to newspapers or a wireless to listen to, I knew nothing of world
events or the politics of the day.

That may seem barely credible to you, but the
kitchen of a big upper-class house was like a bubble. The outside world and current
affairs simply never permeated the intense order and day-to-day routine that we lived
our lives by. There was some comfort in these ever-present routines, but it also meant
we were living in a time warp. We toiled away underground and, metaphorically speaking,
in the dark. As long as Mr Stocks’s meals went up like clockwork, the pans
were sparkling, the steps gleaming, the servants’ bell always answered, what
did it matter that dark forces were brewing on the rarefied streets outside? We would no
more discuss politics while working than Mr Orchard would forget to faithfully sound his
gong at half past seven each night.

As soon as the last dish was scrubbed and
placed on the rack, Phyllis and I tore upstairs like a whirlwind. She started getting
changed into an old cotton dress.

‘You can’t wear
that!’ I gasped. ‘You’ve got to make a bit of an effort.
This is London, not the country.’ With that, I changed into a new polka-dot
fitted dress that I’d just bought from Marks & Spencer for half a
crown.

‘There,’ I said as
Phyllis zipped me up at the back. ‘You’ve got to look the
business.’ I smoothed down the dress and noted with satisfaction that it
showcased my curves superbly. I was seventeen now and had come on a long way since that
shy fourteen-year-old who hated being naked in front of Flo. I’m not saying I
knew what to do, but having a couple of boyfriends had given me confidence in my looks
and my body. I even put on a pair of short white gloves like I’d seen Flo
do.

Soon we were heading for the area steps.

‘Don’t forget to be back
by half past four, girls,’ shouted Mrs Jones as she gratefully sank into the
small armchair in her sitting room. ‘We have to have tea ready.’

‘Don’t worry, we
will,’ I sang, slamming the door behind us.

Out on the streets, the bright spring
sunshine bouncing off the gleaming white mansion houses of Cadogan Square was blinding.
Coming out of the kitchen basement and up the stairs always reminded me of how a mole
must feel when it pushes its way, blinking and dazzled, above ground.

Billy, the Harrods errand boy I’d
flirted with back when I’d first arrived at Cadogan Square, cycled past and I
wiggled my hips as I strutted along the road.

‘Oi, Mollie, you look
lovely,’ he called, whistling appreciatively. ‘Coming to see me, are
ya?’

I shook my head. ‘Not today,
Billy, sorry,’ I grinned.
I had bigger fish to fry now.

We were meeting Henry and Percival at Hyde
Park, just behind Speakers’ Corner. If I’d thought the park was busy
and raucous that first time I’d seen it, it wasn’t a patch on what
it was like now. It was sheer bedlam. Knowing that Mosley was here to make one of his
speeches at this rally, his most loyal supporters were out in force – as were vast
crowds of anti-fascist demonstrators. They crashed and clashed together, their voices
growing louder and louder as they competed with each other for supremacy and the last
word. Overhead, a police gyrocopter circled, the first time the Met Police had ever used
one to keep an eye on a large meeting, apparently. The noise sounded like the buzzing of
a
thousand bees growing closer and closer. There must have been
hundreds of people there, standing around, waiting for Mosley’s arrival. The
air was thick with menace, tension and the threat of violence. All it took was one man
to push another and you knew a riot would break out. A line of policemen stood elbow to
elbow, poised and ready should violence erupt. They had their hands crossed behind their
backs as their eyes darted this way and that, looking for signs of trouble in the crowd.
I thought back to dear old PC Risebrough in Norfolk and his campaign to trap a scheming
gang of strawberry-thieving kids. Something told me he’d be a bit out of his
depth here.

‘I don’t like the look
of this,’ trembled Phyllis. ‘I wasn’t expecting
this.’

‘Don’t worry,’
I grinned. ‘We’ve got our own personal bodyguards,
remember.’

Just then I spotted Henry and Percival.
Their striking blond good looks and tall black-clad shoulders towered over the assembled
crowd. Henry leant back against a tree, a confident, arrogant smile playing on his
handsome face. When he spotted us he looked even smugger.

‘I knew you couldn’t
keep away, Mollie,’ he drawled. ‘A girl like you likes danger,
doesn’t she?’

Totally oblivious to the foul looks that
were thrown our way, Phyllis and I stood next to our respective Blackshirts and
proceeded to giggle and flirt outrageously, throwing our heads back with exaggerated
laughter at their jokes. Henry didn’t seem much interested in me or my life,
just more concerned with telling me about his military background and posh degree. He
was a bit up himself, but I
reasoned when you looked as good as he did
you were entitled to be a bit arrogant.

Just then, a frisson of excitement ran
through the crowd and I noticed Henry’s shoulders tense as he leapt upright,
his back suddenly becoming ram-rod straight.

‘Mosley’s
here,’ he muttered to Percival. ‘Look lively.’

I whirled round to see a tall man with a
bristly moustache march confidently through the crowd, flanked either side by more
Blackshirts. He may have had a slight limp, but that did nothing to detract from his own
obvious sense of self-regard. As he drew close I felt a strange chill wrap itself round
my spine.

His eyes were as dark and cold as a
shark’s and he had cheekbones you could have cut glass on. As he swept past he
threw a chilly look in our direction. Henry stiffened and threw his arm up in a
one-handed salute.

‘Hail, Mosley!’ he
barked. His manner was one of utter deference.

It was a brief moment, but I knew in an
instant that Henry was the sort of man who would never see me as an equal. He was
completely in thrall to this strange man.

‘Why does he walk like
that?’ I whispered to Henry once he’d passed.

‘Wounded in a plane crash during
the war and returned to the trenches before his leg was completely healed,’ he
replied proudly. ‘Became infected and he had to have two inches
removed.’

He and the other assembled Blackshirts
gathered around Mosley as he took to his stage. Phyllis and I followed, eager to get
close to the action.

‘Wonder what he’ll
say?’ I muttered to Phyllis.

Henry silenced me with a single icy glare.
‘Sssh,’ he said. ‘He’s about to
speak.’

Mosley drew himself up straight, raised a
single hand aloft and, with that, an enormous roar echoed round Hyde Park.

‘Attention,’ hollered a
man to his right, but despite the high pitch of his voice it was drowned out in the
general hubbub.

Oblivious to the noise, Mosley launched into
his speech.

‘In the lives of great nations
comes the moment of decision, the moment of destiny. And again and again in the great
hours of its fate, this nation has swept aside convention, has swept aside the little
men of talk and of delay, and has decided to follow men and movements that march forward
to action. Let those who dare follow us in this hour. And I say, in the ranks of our
Blackshirt legions march the mighty ghosts of England’s past with their strong
arms around us and their voices echoing down the ages saying
“Onwards!”’

Another great roar went round the park and
the gyrocopter seemed to circle lower. I glanced across to look at Henry’s
face. His handsome features were bathed in adoration as he gazed at his idol and nodded
his head in agreement. At that moment I don’t think it would have mattered if
I’d ripped off my polka-dot dress and done a naked lap round the park. I doubt
he’d even have noticed, so intently was he listening to his master’s
speech.

‘We must be worthy in our
mission,’ went on Mosley. ‘Because a Blackshirt is a revolutionary
dedicated to the
service of our country. We must have the power to
endure, we have the qualities of a true Britain, and we carry with us the destiny of
Britain. I would like to be the companion of every one of you, every man and woman
…’

‘We don’t want you as a
companion!’ hollered a man.

‘Hear, hear!’ shouted
more men.

Ignoring them, he carried on, his voice
growing louder. ‘Our faith is greater than your faith,’ he shouted
to the hecklers.

You could almost see their chests rise in
furious indignation. A chant started up, slow and steady at first then gradually growing
louder …

‘
Out fascists out, out
fascists out, out fascists out! 
’

‘The government is surrendering to
Jewish corruption,’ Mosley shouted, his nostrils flaring in rage.
‘But we shall never surrender, we shall triumph over the forces of corruption
because in us the flame to light the country and later light the world shines
strong.’

‘What’s he on
about?’ hissed Phyllis, nudging me in the ribs. ‘What
flame?’

I shrugged my shoulders; I didn’t
have a clue what he meant. ‘He’s just spouting a load of old
claptrap, far as I can tell,’ I whispered, making sure Henry didn’t
hear me.

Mosley was coming to the climax of his
speech. A vein was twitching in his temple, just like I’d seen on Alan when he
got worked up about something, and his fists were swinging about like jackhammers.

‘To all the world a message:
England lives and marches on.’ With that, he punched his fist into the air,
his moustache twitching in jubilation. The Blackshirts roared their approval.

‘Get rid of the rats!’
shouted an angry heckler. Then he picked up a clod of earth and hurled it at Mosley. The
crowd had been tensed and poised like a coiled spring, waiting for someone to strike the
first blow. Some things in life are inevitable. As I watched the clod of earth sail
through the air in a perfect arc, I knew that single action would be enough to spark
all-out chaos.

It missed, but Mosley jerked his head round
in surprise.

Seconds later the crowd was a seething mass
of elbows and arms. A scrummage of limbs flailed about on the ground as men fought with
their fists. Caps were dislodged and grunts filled the air as the crowd erupted. The
police blew their whistles and jumped into action, but you could see they had their work
cut out restoring peace to this crowd.

‘Got to go, see you soon,
Mollie,’ shouted Henry as he and Percival rolled up their sleeves and
disappeared into the tangle of flying fists.

Poor Phyllis. Her eyes grew as wide as
saucers.

‘Come on,’ I laughed.
‘Let’s get out of here.’ Grabbing her hand, I elbowed
people out of the way and we ran for dear life. By the time we reached the far end of
the park my blood was racing with sheer exhilaration.

‘Blimey,’ I gasped,
leaning against a tree to catch my breath. ‘That was exciting. Don’t
think my heart’s ever pumped as fast.’

We were still on a high as we descended the
area steps, flushed with the drama of the afternoon.

‘Did you see Mosley’s
face?’ I chuckled as we burst into the kitchen.

Mr Orchard was just picking up Mr
Stocks’s tea tray to
take upstairs but at the mere mention
of Mosley’s name his head snapped round.

‘You’re late,’
he barked. ‘And what’s this about Mosley?’

I went to kick Phyllis, but it was too
late.

‘We saw him up at Hyde
Park,’ she burst out, all innocent excitement. ‘What a palaver. You
should have seen it.’

My heart sank as I saw Mr
Orchard’s eyes turn to me, then narrow.