Servants’ Hall (8 page)

The new parlourmaid, named Olive, was a young girl of fifteen, though how she could be a fully-fledged parlourmaid at that age I couldn’t see, until I discovered that Lady Gibbons, despairing of getting an experienced parlourmaid, had decided to train a young girl. Olive came from a somewhat remote little village; I expect Lady Gibbons thought a country girl would be more malleable than a girl used to town life. Olive had a very sweet and amiable nature, and she was attractive too. It seemed to be my fate to be friendly with girls so much better-looking than me.

About three weeks after leaving Redlands, Mary sent me a letter she’d had from Rose. The news was that she and Gerald were not yet married – I wondered if they were living in sin – but Gerald had been to Manchester to see Rose’s father. He’d made such a good impression on him that now her father had withdrawn his strong objections to the marriage, and Rose and Gerald would be married in two weeks’ time. They were to have a registry office marriage and Rose was so sorry that she couldn’t invite Mary and Margaret, but Gerald wanted to have a quiet wedding.

I bet he does too, I thought. The last thing he’s likely to want is a reminder of his wife’s origins. I wondered what he’d thought of the ‘two up and downer’ that was Rose’s home. If he drove up in his bright red car, I bet the neighbours had an eyeful. I wouldn’t have minded betting that Rose’s ma had asked the street to make their doorsteps especially white for the occasion. She was the kind of woman who’d have the nerve to ask it.

I told Olive about the good fortune of the under-parlourmaid I knew, and Olive, being a dreamy girl and prone to romantic fancies, immediately began to create an imaginary situation whereby the same thing happened to her – and I will say this: Olive had a much better voice than Rose. But even Olive’s vivid imagination couldn’t romanticise Lady Gibbons’s son. He was sandy-haired with a receding chin, about five foot nothing, and he took about as much notice of servants as he did of a beetle beneath his feet.

Now that we had a parlourmaid we were without a housemaid, Jessica having left two or three weeks after I arrived. I did think of writing to Mary to suggest she come, but then realised that I wouldn’t want to inflict Lady Gibbons on a friend. In any case I’d have been too late as Mary had already agreed to be a single-handed housemaid with a family in Chelsea.

She came to see me on her first free afternoon bringing a female whom she introduced as her cousin, Zena. This cousin was a revelation to Olive and me. Not only was she married, but she was still working. It was almost unheard of for a woman to go out to work when she had a husband, but Zena was smart and sophisticated. Her make-up was perfect inasmuch as one could tell that she had used it, but it made an harmonious whole instead of the clown effect that Mary and I sometimes achieved. I could see that Mary had already gained in looks from her cousin’s ministrations and I naturally resolved to find out how it was done. Zena worked in a fashion house, which I suppose was the reason she was so well-dressed, and she certainly looked far younger than her age of forty-five years. Mary had only just found out that she had this cousin, and it was apparent that she felt a certain pride in having a relation so different from us. Zena’s husband worked for a pharmaceutical firm and travelled a lot so, she told us, she had a free life. What she did with this freedom wasn’t discussed then, except that Zena said she spent a lot of time soaking herself in a highly-scented bath – that was where she got her ideas for designing her clothes – and it passed the time while Brian was away. It seemed a peculiar way of passing the time and, as I said to Olive later on, if Zena was with us in Kensington, she’d get very few ideas sitting in our bath-tub with a handful of soda in the water. Nevertheless, she brought a bit of life into our servants’ hall with her tales about the vagaries of customers who were convinced that they could wear a dress that was obviously two sizes too small.

Mary said she hadn’t been sorry to get away from Redlands. The discord in the family above stairs had repercussions on the servants below; the butler and valet were always bickering and Cook seemed snappish with everybody. Her new place in Chelsea wasn’t bad, though her Madam was nothing like so kind as Mrs Wardham – nor was mine either, not by a long shot. The staff consisted of Mary, a butler and a cook; and an odd-job man, Alf, for cleaning the steps, boots and knives and getting in the coal for the range. Alf, who was about thirty-five and unmarried, did this job every morning in addition to his own work with a firm of window-cleaners; obviously an early case of moonlighting.

I rather envied Mary’s job where there were two men around. It was not that one necessarily wanted to feel romantic about the male servants, but just nice to have some contact with the opposite sex.

Mary had brought a letter with her from Rose inviting us to tea, but not on a Sunday as Gerald refused to have visitors then. He liked Sundays to be kept free so that he and Rose could be alone in their own little house in Hampstead. How very sweet of him, we thought, and wondered how long that would last. Mary and I agreed that in all probability the reason we were invited on a weekday was because Gerald wouldn’t be at home to see us. And so it proved.

*   *   *

When Mary and I saw the size of the ‘little’ house in Hampstead, we both felt that Rose could no longer be one of us. The house was double-fronted, large and solid. It even had a trades-mans entrance, and Mary and I stood on the pavement debating whether we should use it – not seriously of course. We rang the bell and were taken aback when the door was opened by a stern-faced, middle-aged woman wearing a black dress and a frilly white apron. She informed us that Mrs Wardham would be down in a few minutes and showed us into what we supposed was the drawing-room.

When she’d gone, Mary and I looked at each other and, with difficulty, suppressed our laughter. Mary, who was quite a good mimic, said, ‘Sit down, girl. Mrs Wardham will shortly appear to interview you. I hope that your references are excellent as Mrs Wardham couldn’t possibly employ you otherwise. Mrs Wardham’s servants have always come from the best families.’ We then giggled madly but I was nevertheless rather annoyed. Why couldn’t Rose have welcomed us in? She knew what time we were arriving.

When Rose eventually arrived, we saw a transformation from the Rose that we’d known. She was wearing a blue silk dress that was obviously expensive, as were the black patent shoes, pearl necklace and diamond ring, not to mention the elaborately-waved hair. I didn’t know about Mary, but I felt like a poor relation. Fortunately, when she spoke, it was still the same Rose with the same excruciating accent, now overlaid by falsely genteel tones.

‘Lovely to see you again, Mary and Margaret. How nice you both look. Mrs Brookes will be bringing in the tea in a few minutes. She’s my housekeeper, you know. Gerald says that I can’t possibly look after this house on my own.’

What rubbish, ‘housekeeper’! It was just an euphemism for a general servant. How could she possibly be a housekeeper when she was the only maid employed. Mary and I were embarrassed at sitting there doing nothing while Mrs Brookes brought in a heavy tea-tray. Mary, with more curiosity than tact, asked Rose how Gerald could afford all this; the large house, expensively furnished, and the servant. Wasn’t Gerald dependent on his father?

‘Of course he isn’t,’ exclaimed Rose, somewhat indignantly, ‘he has money of his own. Mrs Wardham bought this house for us as a wedding present. Besides, Gerald’s gone into partnership with a man in the City and he’s doing ever so well. His partner’s ever so nice; we went to his house to dinner the other evening, he’s got a lovely place near Ascot and his wife’s ever so nice.’

I inwardly winced at all these ‘ever so nice’s’ and wondered how Gerald managed; he probably tried to keep his wife’s conversation to a minimum.

On the way back, Mary and I agreed that our visit to Rose hadn’t really been a success. Now that she was married to Gerald, she didn’t want to talk about Redlands or the Wardhams. Mary and I had found ourselves with very little to say after we’d finished talking about our new Madams – or My-lady, as it was in my case. For all the fine establishment and servant too, Rose’s life seemed singularly dull. She’d been nowhere and done nothing.

‘I don’t know about you, Margaret,’ said Mary, ‘but I expected something better than that. Two cups of weak tea, such soppy little sandwiches that six of them only made a mouthful, and one slice of cake. All that bus fare to Hampstead for such a stingy tea.’

‘Yes, it wasn’t exactly a gargantuan feast, Mary. And you might as well have saved your breath instead of dropping all those hints about sherry and the boyfriend who brought you two glasses of the stuff in a pub. Not a whiff of the sherry bottle did we get.’

‘Did you notice how Rose kept watching the clock towards the end? I’m sure she was getting in a state in case that precious Gerald came back and we were still there. Wouldn’t that have ruined his day, to find two of his wife’s low-class friends sitting in his drawing-room. And d’you remember, Margaret, him saying there shouldn’t be white servants? And now he employs a housekeeper. What a hypocrite! I don’t envy Rose.’

That was a lie if ever there was one. We both envied Rose and both felt that we’d make a better job of being Gerald’s wife than she would. But having by this time got over our rancour at the lukewarm reception, we went to Lyons Corner House for a good feed and the faint hope of picking-up two young men – or even one between us if two were not available. In the event, the only unattached males were the men in the band. I told Mary not to bother with them. Although it wasn’t the same band as when I was last there with Gladys, a friend of mine, they were probably no better. Gladys and I, by means of passing notes, had managed to make a date with two of the bandsmen; but we’d found that although they were real-looking men in uniform, when they were out of it and wearing flashy pin-striped suits, they were two of the weediest specimens of manhood one could imagine. And for a tenpenny seat in the pictures and a fourpenny ice-cream, the fellow I was with thought he was entitled to the works. Exasperated, I used ‘urgent need’ as my excuse, and I left him waiting for me outside a ladies lavatory and departed by a different door. Comparing our evening, Gladys and I agreed that men were pretty awful, but what could we do? We wanted to get married not just to get out of domestic service, but because to be a spinster was looked upon almost with contempt as indicating a woman who lacked what it takes.

Mary and I arranged to meet on the following Sunday, her next free afternoon and evening. I, as a cook, was free every Sunday after the midday meal. I wondered if I would survive until the next Sunday as on Friday there was to be a dinner party. Only five people had been invited, making eight in all, so it wasn’t to be like the dinner parties at Redlands. But Mrs Buller had had Doris and me to help her, while I was cooking single-handed.

Lady Gibbons had at last managed to get a housemaid, who had been ordered – not asked – to help Olive with the waiting at table. It wasn’t really a housemaid’s job to do this, but in domestic service there was no rigid demarcation line. In any case Amy, the housemaid, was in no position to refuse. At her age it wasn’t so easy to get work, and as she had no relatives it meant getting a furnished room every time she lost a job. Considering it was my first attempt at cooking a dinner for eight people, I reckon I did very well. Fortunately, I knew that I could use the gas stove with impunity; Lady Gibbons would never have had the nerve to call down on such an important occasion. There were four courses: clear soup – a fairly easy but tedious job; fried fillets of sole with tartare sauce; lamb cutlets served on a bed of mashed and creamed potatoes, with stuffed baked tomatoes and creamed spinach. I tried to get away with just chopping the spinach but I could see it didn’t look right so I had to rub the lot through a wire sieve. The last course was a cold lemon soufflé, which I managed to turn out of the mould without breaking the shape. Poor Amy then got flustered and broke the glass dish, but fortunately for me they’d eaten the soufflé by then. Olive was given a 6/- (about 30p now) tip which she generously shared out – it wasn’t to be sneezed at. I bought two pairs of artificial silk stockings with my share. That was all we did get, Lady Gibbons never even said thank you.

When I met Mary on the Sunday, she said that we’d been invited to a party at her Aunt Ellie’s. This was the aunt who’d been a waitress and married a wealthy man – one of her regular customers. Mary and I were quite impressed with her aunt’s new house, though when we were introduced to her husband, we thought he looked considerably older than her aunt had made him out to be. Perhaps travelling abroad with Aunt Ellie had aged him. I was cottoned on to by a young man called Steve, one of the young waiters where Aunt Ellie had worked. When I asked him what he did in his spare time, he said his hobby was playing the ivories. I thought that meant he played the piano, but no; he meant he was a dominoes champion. What a game to be a champion of! I used to play dominoes with my children and wondered why the youngest was always getting the double six, until I discovered that he’d made a faint mark on the back of it. Steve’s dominoes were white with black spots, instead of the more usual black set with white spots. But it never works out to have anything to do with a man who has a hobby. When first he’s enamoured of you,
you
are his hobby; but after a few weeks, when the impact of your charms has faded, he thinks again of his first love – in Steve’s case, dominoes. I went out with him for a few weeks and he took me later on to have tea with his parents. His mother was very friendly – as she’d three other children, perhaps she was keen to get Steve off her hands. His father said, ‘How do’ and not much more; but I didn’t mind that, my father too was a quiet man. Steve’s grandmother lived with them, an ebullient and garrulous old dear, and the tea-time was enlivened by old gran giving a monologue on Bert her long departed husband.

‘I tell you, Maggie’ – ‘I’m called Margaret’, I murmured, but she took no notice – ‘our old panel doctor said he’d never in his life seen a case like my Bert’s. He was just eaten away, eaten away he was, like those ants in the desert ate the man those Arabs buried in the sand in that film we saw last week.’