Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid (40 page)

In some ways we all knew it was about to
happen, but it was still a shock when, on 3 September 1939, Prime Minister Neville
Chamberlain announced the news that we were at war with Germany. Seems the Irish stew I
cooked for our ambassador to Germany, Nevile Henderson, wasn’t enough to help
him negotiate peace with Hitler.

Life changed in an instant. Timothy was
summoned to stay on base where he would remain for the foreseeable future and I packed
my bags and returned home to live with Mother. She and Father were in a state of shock
and sat glued to the wireless, just as I’m sure everyone did that day.

As I sat stroking my blossoming baby bump,
the king’s hesitant voice crackled out of the wireless:

‘In this grave hour, perhaps the
most fateful in our history, I send to every household of my peoples, both at home and
overseas, this message, spoken with the same
depth of feeling for each
one of you as if I were able to cross your threshold and speak to you myself. For the
second time in the lives of most of us, we are at war.

The man of my dreams, Timothy,
on active service in India, where he was stationed for most of the war. I worried about
him out there more than I did about the threat of invasion.

‘Over and over again, we
have tried to find a peaceful way out of the differences between ourselves and those who
are now our enemies; but it has been in vain. We have been forced into a conflict, for
we are called, with our allies, to meet the challenge of a principle which, if it were
to prevail, would be fatal to any civilized order in the
world. It is
a principle which permits a state, in the selfish pursuit of power, to disregard its
treaties and its solemn pledges, which sanctions the use of force or threat of force
against the sovereignty and independence of other states.

‘Such a principle, stripped of all
disguise, is surely the mere primitive doctrine that might is right, and if this
principle were established through the world, the freedom of our own country and of the
whole British Commonwealth of Nations would be in danger. But far more than this, the
peoples of the world would be kept in bondage of fear, and all hopes of settled peace
and of the security, of justice and liberty, among nations, would be ended. This is the
ultimate issue which confronts us.

‘For the sake of all that we
ourselves hold dear, and of the world order and peace, it is unthinkable that we should
refuse to meet the challenge. It is to this high purpose that I now call my people at
home, and my peoples across the seas, who will make our cause their own. I ask them to
stand calm and firm and united in this time of trial. The task will be hard. There may
be dark days ahead, and war can no longer be confined to the battlefield, but we can
only do the right as we see the right, and reverently commit our cause to God. If one
and all we keep resolutely faithful to it, ready for whatever service or sacrifice it
may demand, then with God’s help, we shall prevail. May he bless and keep us
all.’

My father, God bless him, looked exhausted
by the end and retired to his hut. Mother had never said as much, but I knew how she
worried about him. He’d already survived one war and had witnessed
unimaginable loss of life and
horrors in those muddy trenches in
France. The poisonous gas he’d inhaled had left him a shadow of the man
he’d once been. Now we were at war with Germany again and this time it looked
like it might be right on our doorstep.

There was a real fear that the Germans would
drop poison gas bombs on us civilians and the government had already issued thirty-eight
million gas masks.

The big question for us was: could my father
survive another war?

Four months after war broke out, in January
1940, I gave birth to a little girl, Ruth.

She was the sweetest little thing you can
ever imagine, with copper-coloured hair and her daddy’s bright blue eyes. I
was utterly entranced from the first time her tiny fingers curled round mine. When I
kissed her musky little head and breathed in the sweet smell, it didn’t matter
to me that we were at war and facing God knows what dangers. I felt an overwhelming rush
of love for this tiny little soul. Protecting her was all that mattered.

‘You’ll be safe with
Mummy,’ I whispered as she slept in my arms.

Sadly, her daddy didn’t get to see
her that much. From the moment war was announced he was informed he was to wear his
uniform at all times and he barely got to leave base, apart from the odd visit. The RAF
was gearing up for the fight of its life. In some ways my father had been right when
he’d said I’d barely see Timothy. As a corporal in the RAF during
the war, his first loyalty had to be to king and country.

As little Ruth started to wake up to the
world and open
those magical blue eyes, my father took his leave of
it. His death, shortly after her birth, hadn’t been a surprise. Ever since his
haemorrhage on my wedding day he’d been in and out of a sanatorium and seemed
to shrink with every passing hour.

That brave man had fought for so long, but
the prospect of another war in his lifetime had just been too much for him.

My mother was heartbroken. She’d
lost her soulmate.

‘How many more good men need to
die before we see peace?’ she sobbed.

I only thank God her granddaughter gave her
a new focus to detract from her grief.

By the time Ruth was two, Timothy had been
posted to India and Mother and I had moved to a rented flat in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire.
It was nice, but it wasn’t Norfolk.

‘I’m going to visit
friends in Downham,’ Mother announced one day. ‘Why don’t
you and Ruth come too?’

It was the perfect opportunity to pay a
visit to Mrs Luddington. It had been over two years since we’d last seen each
other, but I’d never forgotten her kindness to me. Besides, I
couldn’t wait to show her my little girl.

Ruth had blossomed into the most adorable
little toddler. Her cheeky face and bright blue eyes were topped with a mop of shiny
copper curls.

‘We’re going to a very
grand house indeed,’ I said as I dressed her in a lemon-yellow Viyella dress
I’d made. Lacing her into a little pair of white boots, I stood back to admire
her.

‘There,’ I grinned.
‘You look just like Shirley Temple.’

We got the train to Downham and I picked up
my old bike from our cottage for the last leg of the journey. By the time I popped Ruth
in my wicker basket ready to cycle to Wallington Hall, I was bursting with pride and was
looking forward to showing her off to Mrs Luddington.

As I cycled, I reflected on the hugely
different times in which we were all living. Everything my former employers cherished
was now under threat – no more glittering parties, presentations at court, five-course
dinners on a silver service and front steps so clean you could eat your dinner off them.
Now we all had to ration and stretch, substitute and make do. Preparing a lavish
five-course meal for one man dining alone would be viewed as an extravagant and wasteful
habit – selfish, even.

The ways of the old world were changing. A
new life was being thrust upon us all. But even I was surprised at the life that had
been thrust upon Mrs Luddington.

As I cycled across the fields I was startled
to see army vehicles parked outside the magnificent hall. And when I dismounted, I was
stunned to see Mrs Luddington frantically waving at me from outside a small
workers’ cottage on the estate.

‘Mollie!’ she cried.
‘We’re over here now. The army have requisitioned the Hall so
we’re living here.’

As I stared at her I realized with a jolt
how different she looked – less groomed and definitely a lot more frazzled. Her three
children tore round the garden looking, dare I say it, a little scruffy. The cottage was
cramped for all those children and wet clothes were hanging over every surface to
dry.

She turned to face me, despair etched over her
beautiful face.

‘It’s gone,
Mollie,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all gone.’

‘What do you mean?’ I
asked, shocked.

‘This war is terrible. Connie the
nanny’s been called up to do war work, Mr Luddington is working elsewhere. All
the staff have gone. It’s just me, on my own, in this little cottage with the
children.’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I’m not really sure I
know how I’m coping. It’s quite tough, I confess.’

My heart went out to her and, as we sipped
tea together, I felt for her, desperately. It wasn’t her fault she’d
been brought up in a life of privilege and ease. She’d been born with a silver
spoon in her mouth and, sadly, it hadn’t prepared her for the demands and
rigours of this new life. No more nannies, under nannies, champagne, cooks or servants
to summon up at the ringing of a bell. Now, for the first time in her life, she had to
do it all, alone.

I felt quite guilty as I left.

‘You take care of yourself,
won’t you?’ I said.

On the cycle home I was struck by the irony.
Working for Mrs Luddington and others like her had prepared me well for this new life. A
life of rationing, of stretching and making do and hard, hard work. Oh yes, I knew a
thing or two about that. Watching what you ordered and managing food rations was second
nature to me, as was making my own clothes. Life was tough, but so was I.

And, as the sun set and Hitler’s
bombs began to rain down on our once-peaceful land, I knew this was the end of an
era.

Something told me I was going to be all
right.

Tips from a 1930s Kitchen
…
STEAMED SUET PUDDING

The way to a man’s heart is through pudding! Men cannot get enough of them. No man, from chimney sweep to lord of the manor, can resist. Give ’em something sticky, sweet, oozing with jam, covered in custard and piping hot and they’ll love you forever. My husband’s favourite was steamed suet pudding with apples and cream. You can replace the apples with jam, blackberries, raspberries or whatever you fancy.

8 oz (225 g) self-raising flour

4 oz (110 g) shredded suet (you can buy this in packets)

6 large cooking apples

2 tablespoonfuls sugar

Mix flour and suet with a little water to form a firm dough, roll out thinly on a floured board to under half an inch thick and line a pudding basin with it.

Use the scraps and roll out again to make a lid for the pudding.

Cut the apples very finely and lay inside the bowl. Keep layering the apples until the basin is full. Sprinkle with two tablespoonfuls of sugar. Wet the edges of the pastry round the basin and then stick the lid on and seal over. Trim the edges.

Cover with foil or greaseproof paper secured with string, and cook in a saucepan half-filled with boiling water. Keep it simmering for two hours. Once cooked,
shake the basin and then carefully turn it out on a plate. Serve with warm custard or cream.

HOUSEHOLD TIP

Don’t spend a fortune on products designed to tackle limescale. To remove limescale on the end of taps, put two lemon halves on them overnight. Hey presto, sparkly new taps!

 

Today I am ninety-six years old. I may not
climb trees or shin down the side of Tudor halls any more, but I’ve still got
a fair bit of life in me. I walk my poodle, Rodney, on the beach and compete in a
Scrabble group every Monday. I’m not bad either – I won the Scrabble
tournament in December 2011. Ruth, my daughter, says I exhaust her!

I still cook too and I get enormous pleasure
from it.

Whenever I host the Scrabble club I cook for
thirty people. Some of them worry it’s too much for a ninety-six-year-old
woman but I love it. It’s all in the planning and I make big curries,
shepherd’s pies and apple crumbles. Old habits die hard!

My ‘carrot-top’ red hair
has long since faded to grey, but the dreams and memories of a long and happy life have
yet to fade. I’m very grateful for the adventures I got to experience and the
laughter I shared below stairs. And it’s not over yet! My mind’s
still buzzing with plans and I’m forever plotting new adventures, like my next
get-together with my dear old friend, Flo Wadlow.