Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid (30 page)

At Lansbury’s Lido there
wasn’t so much as a sniff of a fella in sight, vulgar or otherwise.
What’s more, it was freezing cold. Wind was whipping over the water, sending
ripples along the Serpentine, and leaves spiralled down from the trees and skimmed over
the water’s choppy surface.

Popping into a changing hut, I shrugged off
my dress and changed into my white one-piece. Teeth chattering, I poked one naked toe
out of the hut. A blast of Arctic wind whistled up my bare leg.

‘Brrr,’ I shivered. Then
I gave myself a good telling-off. ‘Come on, Mollie Browne. You’re as
tough as old boots. You’re from Norfolk, for goodness’
sake.’

Maybe it was the Viking ancestry in me, but
I wasn’t about to be put off by a trifling bit of wind. If I could climb three
floors down the side of a house, I could brave a bit of cold water.

I strode out in the direction of the
swimming area. With every step I took, my legs seemed to turn a more curious shade of
blue. Most people had hotfooted it inside into the warmth, but one solitary man stood
watching me, amusement and shock twinkling in his eyes. I
thought back
to the time I’d hurled myself into the Denver sluice as a child. Suddenly, a
mad, impetuous urge took hold of me. You could take the girl out of Norfolk, but you
couldn’t take Norfolk out of the girl.

Here goes nothing.

‘Geronimo!’ I hollered
in a loud battle cry and raced towards the diving board. Soaring through the London
skies, I felt brave, invincible, free …

Then I landed in the water with an almighty
splash.

‘Cor blimey,’ I gasped,
spluttering as I bobbed to the surface. The cold was like icy needles pricking me all
over and my breath came in frantic shrieks. Floundering about, I doggy-paddled to the
side and pulled myself up, gasping for air. I landed with a slap on the cold concrete
floor.

‘Bravo … Bravo,’ came a
loud, booming voice.

I looked up to see the man I’d
spotted earlier standing over me.

‘A very brave, if somewhat
foolish, display,’ he said, smiling down.

The man was dressed in a warm-looking suit
and hat. Suddenly, looking at my bare legs and arms, I felt very underdressed.

The man was fiddling with a camera hanging
round his neck.

‘W-what you got that
for?’ I shivered.

‘I’m a
photographer,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, why not pose for a picture
over there on the diving board?’

Images of Mr Orchard’s
disapproving face popped into my mind.

‘I oughtn’t
to,’ I said.

‘Go on,’ oozed the man.
‘It’ll be fun.’

Never let it be said that Mollie Browne
didn’t know how to have fun. ‘All right then,’ I said,
grinning. ‘Just one.’

Strutting my way over to the diving board, I
perched on the edge. Sucking in my tummy and sticking out my chest, I smiled as brightly
as I could – no mean feat when your teeth are chattering furiously.

Quick as a flash, the man picked up his
camera.
Pop
…
pop
…
pop
went the flashbulb.

‘Thanks awfully,’ he
said and, packing up his stuff, he made to leave.

‘Just a minute!’ I
yelled after him. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Me?’ he said, a wicked
smile spreading over his face. ‘Only the Sunday newspapers. Congratulations,
you’re tomorrow’s news.’

Oh crumbs.

By the time I’d made it back to
Cadogan Square I’d convinced myself there was no way on earth anyone would see
it. Besides which, what did it matter? Where was the harm? I hadn’t been
cavorting with some vulgar young man, just hanging about on a diving board.

The next morning, one look at Mr
Orchard’s face told me that a) he had seen it, and b) it did matter. Very
much. His face had gone a funny shade of purple and, without saying a word, he lifted
one arm and pointed in the direction of the housekeeper’s sitting room.

I slunk in and sat down heavily on a
chair.

Why did I keep getting into trouble? Why?

‘I presume you have seen this …
this scandal rag?’ he spluttered, throwing a copy of the
News of the
World
down with a thud on to Mrs Jones’s wooden desk, which she
used to write up the day’s menu. ‘You should do,
seeing as you appear to have a somewhat prominent position in it.’

The paper fell open and my heart sank. There
I was in all my semi-naked splendour, perched on the edge of the diving board. My tummy
was sucked in, my chest pushed brazenly out and a cheeky smile was plastered across my
face. Over the top of the picture screamed a headline:
SHIVERING ON THE
BRINK
.

I looked up at Mr Orchard’s livid
red face and quivering nostrils.

‘It’s me,’ I
said lamely.

‘Yes, Mollie, it is
you,’ he thundered. ‘Apparently shivering on the brink.’
He said the last words as if he were reading ‘kitchen maid caught in sordid
romp’.

‘I’m sorry,’ I
blustered. ‘I was only having a swim. I didn’t know there would be a
photographer there.’

‘Why, Mollie,’ sighed Mr
Orchard heavily, removing his half-moon spectacles and rubbing his eyes, ‘do
you insist on repeatedly bringing shame and disgrace on this household?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I
said again.

‘Mr Stocks is an elderly gentleman
and if he finds out about this I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he
doesn’t give you your marching orders. Imagine, a kitchen maid in his
employment appearing in – in –’ He could hardly bring himself to say the words
and when he did he spat them out with venom – ‘the
News of the World
.
First the Blackshirts and now …’ He flicked the paper away and sniffed in
disdain. ‘Now this unsavoury business. Can’t you ever stay out of
trouble?’

It was a good question and, under the
circumstances, a
fair one. Given my behaviour, shivering on the brink
seemed to sum up my current position in Cadogan Square rather neatly. I suppose to you
today reading this, appearing in your swimming costume in the
News of the World
wouldn’t seem like much, but back in 1934 in Cadogan Square it was absolutely
scandalous behaviour, at least in the butler’s eyes. No matter that society
girls were obviously getting up to far worse – rumour had it that Diana Mitford was
having an affair with Oswald Mosley and he himself had cheated on his wife, Lady Cynthia
Curzon, with her younger sister
and
their step-mother.

As always, it was one rule for upstairs and
another entirely for downstairs. I was supposed to be seen and not heard, work hard and
keep my private life as scrupulously private as Mr Orchard obviously did. I never knew
where he went after hours, what he got up to, and I never would. You weren’t
supposed to conduct yourself or flaunt yourself publicly, full stop. Much less in a
newspaper.

The
News of the World
was a scandal
rag even back then. At a tuppence per issue, my father always took it on Sundays. In
fact, it was aimed at the newly literate working classes, something the gentry obviously
didn’t approve of. Apparently, Frederick Greenwood, editor of the
Pall
Mall Gazette
, was in his club one day when he met Lord Riddell, the then owner
of the
News of the World
, and in the course of conversation Riddell said to
him, ‘You know, I own a paper.’

‘Oh, do you?’ said
Greenwood. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s called the
News of the World
– I’ll send you a copy,’ replied
Riddell and in due course did so. Next time they
met, Riddell said,
‘Well, Greenwood, what do you think of my paper?’

‘I looked at it,’
replied Greenwood, ‘and then I put it in the waste-paper basket. And then I
thought, “If I leave it there the cook may read it” – so I burnt
it.’

It quickly established itself as a purveyor
of titillation, shock and criminal news. Much of the material came from coverage of vice
prosecutions, including alleged brothels, streetwalkers and
‘immoral’ women. That photographer had obviously been hanging about,
hoping to catch a bit of the so-called lewd behaviour that had got the Met police all
fired up, when he’d chanced upon me.

The paper’s motto was
‘All human life is there’. And now too, it would seem, was Mollie
Browne.

After that I crept about like a nervous
kitten, under the ever-watchful eyes of Mrs Jones, Mr Orchard and Mabel. I
wasn’t daft. I knew they suspected I was up to no good at every turn and
sneaking out to meet fascists on my half-days off. Mrs Jones used every excuse to keep
me close to her and suddenly I found myself bogged down in some very time-consuming
tasks like picking the tiny bones out of mackerel and grating enormous piles of
horseradish. I toed the line, but underneath it all I was longing to get out and be
free. London was just bursting with adventures to be had and I couldn’t wait
to get upstairs and experience it all.

By June of the 1934 season, shortly before
we headed back to Norfolk, I found my mind wandering back to Henry. Would it hurt if I
saw him again? He was ever so handsome, after all. Surely just one more time
wouldn’t matter? After all, we were returning to Norfolk soon.

I was pondering this one morning as I headed
to the servants’ hall with my cup of coffee for a well-earned rest at eleven
o’clock. I found everyone in there poring over the newspapers.

‘What is it?’ I
asked.

All eyes turned to me and I sensed
trouble.

Oh no. Not another centrefold of me, please.

‘What’s
wrong?’ I ventured nervously. ‘What you all reading?’

‘Your boyfriend’s been
up to no good again, I daresay,’ crowed Mabel, hardly able to conceal the glee
in her voice.

‘What boyfriend?’ I
asked.

Mr Orchard rustled the paper. ‘I
warned you against those Blackshirts, didn’t I, Mollie?’ he snapped.
‘They’re bad news.’

‘What have they done?’
trembled Phyllis, instantly fearing the worst.

‘Last night the British Union of
Fascists held an indoor rally at Olympia in London which drew a crowd of twelve
thousand,’ said Mr Orchard, reading straight from the paper. ‘Some
five hundred anti-fascists managed to infiltrate the hall. When they began heckling,
they were attacked by one thousand black-shirted stewards. Several of the protestors,
illuminated by bright spotlights, were beaten up by the Blackshirts.’

An uneasy silence fell over the
servants’ hall as Mr Orchard looked up at me, glared, and then carried on
reading.

‘In ugly scenes, Blackshirts began
stumbling and leaping over chairs to get at the source of the noise. There was a wild
scrummage, women screamed, black-shirted arms
rose and fell and blows
were dealt. The arena was soon full of hooting and whistling, and chairs, boots and
shoes were flying in the air. Mosley interrupted his speaking for these violent
outbursts and then calmly continued once each heckler was subdued.’

He threw the paper down on the table and
looked at me with a self-satisfied smile. ‘See, I told you so. Mosley is an
imitation Hitler and his Blackshirts nothing but a band of violent bullyboys.’
His voice was quivering with rage. ‘He is simply begging for the opportunity
to reduce England to a Nazi German province. Well, now everyone can see them for what
they really are.’

He pushed the paper over the table towards
me, and there it was: photo after photo of Blackshirts forcibly ejecting men and women.
Not only that, but the antics of the Blackshirts at the Olympia rally had made the front
pages of most newspapers that fateful day.

The rally was a turning point. A public
outcry ensued, Lord Rothermere and his
Daily Mail
newspaper withdrew its
support, they were banned by the BBC and membership of the BUF went into decline. It
fell from 40,000 to 5,000 in the following year; people no longer wanted to be
associated with the movement, as the violence at the heart of it became more apparent.
The scenes were nothing like the famous Cable Street confrontation that was to happen
two years later in 1936, where the BUF were prevented from marching through the East End
by opposition demonstrators and requests from the police trying to keep the peace, but
it was enough. Enough to highlight to me how much of a silly, naive young girl
I’d been.

It had a profound effect on me. Shame and
humility
washed over me that day in the servants’ hall. I
was, in many ways, a youngster playing at an adult’s game. First Alan, now
this. I always thought I knew best in matters of the heart. As much as I was loathe to
admit it, perhaps I wasn’t always right. I made a vow there and then. No more
larking about, no more photos in the
News of the World
, no more unsuitable
fellas.

I was never going to be truly respected here
by my superiors. Not after this debacle. It was time to knuckle down. It was time I got
a new job and proved my worth elsewhere. It was time to seek my fortune, somewhere hot,
somewhere far away, where no one had even heard of Blackshirts and scandal rags.
Somewhere like …
Spain
?

Tips from a 1930s Kitchen
…
PROPER FISH AND CHIPS

In my day, fish and chips were always wrapped in newspaper (sometimes even the
News of the World
– I often wonder if anyone had the pleasure of seeing me in my swimmies smiling back at them while they ate their cod and chips). We used to pay 3d for a portion of fish and chips. If you saved up your old newspapers and took them in with you when you bought your fish and chips they’d pay ha’penny for twelve papers so it was worth doing! Fish and chips served in newspaper always tasted better. It’s such a shame the health and safety brigade got on to it and banned it. Course, at Cadogan Square, we could never have served up fish and chips to Mr Stocks wrapped in a paper. Mr Orchard would have had a blue fit! This is the way we did them and they tasted delicious.

Peel and slice potatoes into chips. Heat enough lard in a pan to cover chips and wait until lard is hot, put chips in pan and cook until soft. Take out of pan. Reheat fat until very hot and place chips back in for two minutes or until they’re really crisp. Drain on kitchen paper. Save lard for next time.

Cut fish into required sizes and dry with kitchen paper. Flour well and dip into beaten egg. Cover well with white breadcrumbs and shake off surplus. Heat lard, put in fish and cook until golden brown, then drain and serve with anchovy sauce.

For the anchovy sauce, melt 2 oz (50 g) butter, add 2 level tablespoons flour and mix well over a low heat. Add milk until the sauce reaches required thickness. Add anchovy essence, salt and pepper, and simmer for one minute.

HOUSEHOLD TIP

A cotton bud dipped in mouthwash is the perfect thing to clean those hard-to-reach places on ornaments, etc. – also good on computer keyboards and mobile phones, so I’m told.