Rose: My Life in Service to Lady Astor (17 page)

The announcing of guests was a necessary part of the general production. The engagement of an announcer was another of Mr Lee’s responsibilities. He always tried to use the same man, a Mr Batley, who combined a distinguished figure with a clear and attractive voice. He could make even a plain ‘Mr’ and ‘Mrs’ sound important. Announcing can be quite a strain; nobody likes to hear their name fluffed or mispronounced and it requires a degree of concentration. It’s also hard on the voice if there are large numbers, so Mr Lee would often take a turn after the first three or four hundred guests. He was no mean performer. I think he liked the feeling that there was nothing that he asked people to do that he wasn’t able to do, and do well, himself. During the reception the footmen would be busy serving drinks and food, snacks and petit fours, with occasional warm dishes, so the kitchen was still kept busy. I used to marvel at the appetites of some people who after a large dinner would continue to stuff themselves for the rest of the evening. Bigger eaters people were then than they are today.

Many of the receptions were ‘dry’, that is to say, no alcoholic drinks were served, or expected. Many’s the hip flask though that was surreptitiously produced and by all reports the gentlemen’s cloakroom was used more for the consumption of whisky than it was for its real purpose. Both his lordship and my lady were teetotal. Mr Lee respected this, but also in a way regretted it. He was not able, he thinks, to become a real connoisseur of wine, like many of his colleagues. This may have been to his ultimate advantage because although the others may have been connoisseurs, some later became drunks, and many’s the good butler who has had to be retired as a result. In any case it’s my opinion that Mr Lee is being over-modest. Because of his lack of personal interest Lord Astor left the buying and care of wines completely in his butler’s hands. Hawker’s of Plymouth were our suppliers. Mr Hawker was Chairman of the Conservative Association there, so his lordship didn’t have much option.

As butler at dinner parties Mr Lee was responsible for the preparing and the serving of wine. He always tasted it when each bottle was opened so that he would he ready if there were any complaints. ‘It was a real drop of good,’ he’d say to me afterwards, and since many of our guests were surprised at the choice and quality of the wines it confirmed my view that he knew more than he would admit to. I’ve seen him demonstrating the decanting of port and claret to the footmen; both were put through a muslin. He’d talk about ‘bending’ the bottle of port. He was particular about the right temperature. He’d put the claret on the hotplate at a moderate heat. ‘It needs just a very slight warmth, nothing like as hot as some people seem to think. You’ll get to be able to sense exactly when it’s right.’

Mr Lee was particularly proud of his claret. One day her ladyship decided that it would be a good compromise if she served claret cup at her reception. She summoned Mr Lee and told him. ‘Very well, my lady, I shall have to order some from Hawker’s.’

‘Haven’t we got any in the cellar?’

‘Yes, but we cannot possibly use that, it’s the very best vintage.’

Her ladyship was not impressed. ‘You’ll order no more till that’s used up. I’m sure my guests will appreciate having very best vintage claret cup.’

Mr Lee was shocked and stunned. ‘We eventually used thirty-six dozen bottles. Bloody sacrilege!’ He must have felt it deeply; it was one of the very few occasions he ever swore.

White wine he felt was at its best when it was slightly chilled, though champagne he liked ice-cold. He didn’t believe in fridges for it, he was more accustomed to ice. If we were having a reception where drink was to be served he ordered two hundredweight of ice which was broken up and put into a bath; there was a bathroom on the floor near the drawing-room which could easily hold two hundred bottles; these were replaced regularly during the evening. When there was just a dinner party he’d use a wine tub in the serving room which could hold up to three dozen bottles. He told me he learnt early how to draw the cork from champagne without losing any and without maiming anybody. ‘I gently unscrew the cork, cover it with a napkin and by tilting the bottle to one side I find the cork comes away easily and quietly. There are some idiots who think that you’re supposed to hear the “pop” of the cork. We had such a one at Freddie Wynn’s, Lord Newborough’s place in Mount Street. I was in livery at the time. The butler pointed this bottle at the ceiling. It went off with the deuce of a bang and the cork rebounded on to his lordship’s head.

‘“That sounds like a good bottle my lord,” he said.

‘“Sounds like a good bottle, you fool, it nearly blew my bloody brains out. Good wine don’t sound good, it tastes good.”’

There was another butler he’d heard about who had lost an eye on account of champagne. ‘He couldn’t understand why the cork wouldn’t come out, so he peered down to see. It’s like looking down a gun barrel to find out if it’s loaded, you need only do it once.’

Mr Lee took the port and liqueurs round. The port he only carried once, leaving it at the head of the table to be passed round to the left, when the glasses required replenishing. ‘It’s as well to limit the choice of liqueurs,’ he said, ‘otherwise if you leave it to personal preference, you can be bobbing backwards and forwards all the time. I only served brandy, crème de menthe and kümmel.’

The Astors’ reputation as teetotallers was universally known. Once, in 1923, when King George V and Queen Mary were guests of honour, the King’s equerry took Mr Lee on one side when they arrived at the house and handed him two decanters, one of port and the other of sherry. Apparently the monarch wasn’t prepared to give up his little drop at the whim of his host and hostess.

Mr Lee didn’t say anything at the time, but as the equerry was leaving he handed him back the full decanters, with a ‘Hardly necessary, I think you’ll agree, sir.’ Mr Lee rather enjoyed having royalty to lunch or dinner, not just for reasons of status, but because all guests had to be in the drawing-room a quarter of an hour before their Majesties were due to arrive, otherwise they were turned away. ‘Royalty are the only assurance of punctuality in this house, Miss Harrison,’ he’d say.

A similar thing happened the first time the Prince of Wales came to dinner. By now Mr Lee was very much in command. Major Metcalfe, his Highness’s equerry, rang him: ‘I’m going to send a bottle of brandy round for the Prince, Lee,’ he said. ‘I want you to see it’s available for him at any time.’

‘That would be no compliment to your hosts, sir,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure his Highness will appreciate the brandy we will be serving.’ In fact Major Metcalfe was only obeying instructions, as Mr Lee found out when he went round with liqueurs after the meal. In answer to his inquiry the Prince said, ‘I’ll have a little of your excellent brandy, Lee,’ and he said it with a twinkle.

When the last guests had gone Mr Lee paid all the servants he had hired. He had a £100 float as petty cash, and he accounted for it weekly to the office. He could at any time get up to £50 from them without reference and, like mine, never at any time was his account questioned. The Astors gave and expected perfect trust. Finally he would go to the footmen’s pantry, where they would be giving the silver a preliminary clean. Many evenings he would take a bottle of wine with him. ‘I reckoned they deserved a little something extra for their pains.’ Some people occasionally took a little extra without being asked. One night, as Mr Lee was offering these last drinks around, he noticed that Sailor, the odd man, was missing. He made inquiries. ‘The last time I saw him,’ said the under-butler, ‘was when he was helping me uncork the champagne in the bathroom.’

‘You blithering idiot, I told you never to let Sailor anywhere near the drink. Now we’re in trouble. Find him.’

As it turned out there was no trouble, apart from the Astors being a few bottles of champagne short! Eventually Sailor was discovered in the secretary’s room stretched out on her bed, drunk to the world. He was carried shoulders and feet by two of the men and slung into his own room. ‘All’s well that ends well,’ Arthur Bushell said, when they’d reassembled.

‘It’s all right saying that, but supposing the secretary had been staying overnight?’ answered Mr Lee.

‘That was too much for me, Rose,’ Arthur said. ‘I had to clear out fast, I’ve got a very vivid imagination.’

‘Everyone worked hard on those nights, Miss Harrison,’ Mr Lee said to me recently, ‘but we got a deal of enjoyment out of it. The people I was sorry for were the scullery maids. Poor little devils, washing up and scrubbing away at the dozens of pots, pans, saucepans and plates, up to their arms in suds and grease, their hands red raw with the soda which was the only form of detergent in those days. I’ve seen them crying with exhaustion and pain; the degradation too I shouldn’t wonder. Well, let’s hope they got their reward in heaven.’

There’s one person’s work I haven’t yet mentioned. Like the others it was an all the year-round job, but it was more intensified when there were parties: that is the decorator’s. He it was who, perhaps more than anyone else, set the scene. The decorator was the gardener who was responsible for the flowers inside the houses; when I say flowers this covers everything that grew. Sometimes we had shrubs as large as small trees. The decorator I knew best was Frank Copcutt, who later became head gardener. Frank joined the Asters when he was young, but he was experienced because he’d been in good houses ever since he began as a boy. He came to us from the Rothschilds. At first he thought he was slumming it. He was disappointed with the greenhouses and the shrubs. ‘With the Rothschilds I only had to express a wish for something and it was provided.’ I don’t think it was the fault of the Astors, although her ladyship was always mean over bulbs; it was the devil’s own job to get her to buy any, but when she saw them in other people’s houses she’d cry out for them. He blamed the general shortness on Mr Camm, who was head gardener when he joined. He died in service shortly after Frank arrived and when Mr Glasheen took over he went on a spending spree and things got better.

Frank was very much a greenhouse man and he worked wonders at Cliveden. It wasn’t long before he caught her ladyship’s eye and so was appointed as decorator when the vacancy occurred. ‘While in a way I was flattered at getting the job, frankly, Rose, I was scared stiff. It was something I’d never done before. I knew Lady Astor particularly liked mixed cut flowers. The arranging of these is an art in itself, and of course I knew she could and would be difficult. When I first went to St James’s Square Mr Glasheen came with me to show me the ropes. Eventually Lady Astor got me on my own and said, “Look, George” (I wanted to tell her my name was Frank and that George had been her last decorator, but I couldn’t, so George I remained for well over a year). “Look, George, there’s one thing I want you to understand.” She seemed very stern so I thought, “This is your first dose, my boy,” and trembled inwardly.

‘She went on, “Your predecessor was with me for six years. I expect you to stay much longer than he did.” Well, that didn’t seem too bad a start. Then she said, “Another thing you’ll find, you will arrange the flowers for the tables and elsewhere, and you’ll probably be pleased with what you have done. Then I shall come in and say, ‘I don’t like them, take them all out and start again.’ And you’ll do it without any argument.”

‘Well, that was getting it straight from the horse’s mouth. “Right, my lady,” I thought. “I know where I stand, even though I shall feel a bit uncomfortable in the position.” I told her I didn’t know anything about the arrangement of cut mixed flowers. “You’ll soon learn,” she said, as she walked out of the room. This cut flower business had really got me worried, but you know, Rose, Nature has a way of sorting things out for you. It had for me anyway, for the next Sunday I was walking to Cookham to church and as I went down the hill I looked over to a little footpath at the side and into the meadow which it crossed. There amongst the grass was the most glorious display of wild flowers. On my way back I stopped and studied them. There were some spikes, some medium, some small, and the colours seemed to melt into each other. “That’s it, Frank,” I said to myself. “Keep that picture in your mind and you can’t go wrong. You model on that field.” And I did.

‘When I’d done the bowls the next day her ladyship came in and said, “I thought you told me you’d never arranged mixed flowers before.”

‘“No more I have, my lady.”

‘“George,” she said. “You’re a liar.” That was the compliment I got. It was the only kind she knew how to give, but it was enough, it gave me confidence from then on.’

I asked Frank if he had told her where his inspiration had come from. He hadn’t, which was a pity because I know it was something that would have delighted her. Frank was a great one for putting Nature first. There was another time when Lord Astor wanted to plant azaleas and rhododendrons in a place that looked bare. ‘Come down here in four weeks’ time, my lord, and say the same thing,’ Frank said. His lordship did, and saw the most wonderful carpet of bluebells. ‘Thank you, Frank, it would have been sacrilege to have interfered with that.’

‘You see, Rose, as Shakespeare says in that sonnet about your namesake, “Every fair from fair sometime declines.” So a garden has to be planned, not just for today but for the whole year round.

‘The first thing to be thought about when decorating for a party was the general area: the hall, the staircase and the ballroom. These were large areas and could be set off with shrubs, forsythia, almonds, cherries, laburnum and wistaria, things of that kind. Standard fuchsias and standard geraniums were also useful and colourful. Planted around these would be primroses, polyanthus, forget-me-nots, the smaller border plants. These would all be forced in the greenhouse. If I could get her ladyship marigolds at Christmas-time she was more pleased than if they’d been orchids. Medium-sized flowers we put in “coffins”, containers which are miniatures of the real thing. They were packed in with clay and overlaid with moss, and provided what we called ground cover. Her ladyship was particularly fond of geraniums, she was later President of the Geranium Society; this may have been very nice for her but it wasn’t for me – geraniums are the most difficult things to take from one place to another, their petals fall away at the slightest touch. Many’s the beautiful plant that has left Cliveden only to be brought in, quite bare, at St James’s Square.