Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid (27 page)

‘I do know what he’s
like,’ she said. ‘He’s been coming in here in his time
off, you know. I think he’s trying to butter me up so as he can get closer to
me.’

‘Creep,’ I spat.

‘Look, love,’ she said.
‘He’s not worth a breath of your anger. He’s had a hard
life and it’s made him complicated. I feel for him, I honestly do, but I
don’t want him dating my daughter.’ Her face fell. ‘It
would finish your father off if you married him.’

That settled it. I had to end it with my
footman once and for all.

‘I’m scared,
Mum,’ I admitted. For all my bravado and cheek, when it came down to it I was
just a sixteen-year-old girl who needed her mother.

‘Send him over here,’
she sighed. ‘I’ll do it for you.’

Events were racing to a head as, in my
absence, Alan had become locked in a showdown with Mr Orchard over his time off. As soon
as I let myself back into the kitchen, one look at Mrs Jones’s face told me
all was not well. She stood with her back to the range, staring at Mr Orchard and Alan
as they stood face to face, glaring at each other.

‘It’s not
fair,’ said Alan. ‘We should be allowed time off together when we
want.’ He turned to me. ‘Tell them, Mollie,’ he said.
‘Tell them we only want to be together.’

My blood raced. ‘I – I
–’ I stuttered, nervously playing with the hem of my apron. I was paralysed
with terror.

‘It’s all right,
lass,’ said Mrs Jones softly, saving me. ‘I think, Alan, what Mr
Orchard is trying to say is that you need to calm down and think about what’s
best for the household.’

‘What about what’s best
for me and Mollie?’ he said, thumping his fist down on the table.

You could have heard a pin drop as Mr
Orchard’s face hardened.

‘I’ll leave if you
don’t let us have more time together,’ Alan raged. ‘I mean
it, so help me God, I’ll go.’

The silence seemed to stretch on
forever.

‘Then go,’ said Mr
Orchard finally. ‘I’ll write you a reference.’ With that,
he turned on his heel and stalked from the kitchen.

Alan looked from me to Mrs Jones helplessly,
before ripping off his green apron and throwing it on the table.
He
glared at us with such terrifying force, I looked away and stared at the floor. A second
later the back door slammed shut so hard the whole kitchen seemed to rattle.

He was gone.

I sighed heavily and slumped into a chair. I
was surprised to find my hands were actually trembling.

‘Right, show’s
over,’ said Mrs Jones briskly to everyone. ‘Can we restore this
kitchen to the purpose for which it was originally built? Cooking!’

As everyone quickly went about their
business, Mrs Jones came up behind me and, without saying a word, placed her hands on my
shoulder and squeezed gently.

‘Just take a minute,
Mollie,’ she said, when my breathing calmed down.

Alan went from there to my
mother’s and it was then she broke the news to him gently that I
didn’t wish to marry him or, in fact, see him again. Where he went and what
happened to him I don’t know and in many ways I still feel very sorry for him,
despite his jealous rages. Being an orphan had shaped him in ways that had obviously
driven him to the brink of madness. I just hope he found the security and love he so
obviously craved.

The whole sorry episode taught me a lot as
well – firstly, that when it came to men I had a thing or two to learn and, secondly, a
girl really can’t be without her mother!

You might think after all that drama I would
have longed for a quieter life. Well, if you think that, then you obviously
don’t know me very well, dear reader, for what happened next back in London,
well – how does that old saying go? Out of the frying pan and into the fire …

Tips from a 1930s Kitchen
…
TRIFLE

If we were lucky at a dance, we might even get a bit of trifle. I love this recipe and have been using it for years. Or if trifle’s not your thing, try making the brandy snaps, perfect for afternoon tea.

Line a glass dish with sponge cakes and soak with sherry. Add mixed tinned fruit (fruit cocktail is best) and chopped walnuts.

Cover with custard and, when cold, cover with whipped cream. Pipe cream rosettes on top and decorate with fruit and glacé cherries. Keep in fridge till required.

BRANDY SNAPS

2 oz (50 g) sugar

3 oz (75 g) butter

3 oz (75 g) syrup

2 oz (50 g) plain flour

1 teaspoon ground ginger

Large splash of brandy (omit for children’s parties)

For rolling: wooden spoon with a well-greased handle

Melt sugar, butter and syrup, then allow to cool.

Add flour and ginger, mix well. Add brandy. Put small teaspoonfuls on to a greased baking sheet, leaving space for each snap to spread to about 4 inches (10 cm). Bake in a moderate oven until golden brown.

Allow to cool for a moment, lift each one with a palette knife and quickly roll over the spoon handle. Slide off when hardened. To serve, pipe the tubes full of whipped cream and decorate with a glacé cherry. If the biscuits cool too much before they have been rolled into tubes, pop them back into the oven for a moment to soften, then try again.

HOUSEHOLD TIP

To refurbish linoleum, melt some beeswax and mix with a little turpentine. Use like a polish on the linoleum. It comes up like new.

 

The secret of reaping the greatest
fruitfulness

and the greatest enjoyment from life is to
live

dangerously!

Friedrich Nietzsche

The date was April 1934. The location, the
Royal Albert Hall in London. Half a mile from Cadogan Square a speech was about to take
place that would put one of Mr Orchard’s monologues about the gentry into the
shade.

Just before eight p.m. the spotlights
dramatically swung to the main entrance and illuminated a thin man with a well-kept
black moustache and a thick head of black hair. Walking with a pronounced limp, he paced
across the hall, chest out and handsome head flung back. The limp did nothing to slow
his progress and he took his place behind the lectern. In front of the assembled
audience he oozed an aura of power and confidence.

Behind him hung a giant black banner
emblazoned with the silver Italian fasces symbol. Copies of the
Daily Mail
adorned the edges of the balconies. The audience,
mostly dressed in
black shirts, leapt to their feet, anxious to capture every word uttered by their
idol.

Although slight in stature, the speaker drew
himself up, closed his eyes and prepared to talk. You could have heard a pin drop.

‘Hold high the head of
Britain,’ he boomed
.
‘Lift strong the voice of the Empire.
Let us to Europe and the World proclaim that the heart of this great people is undaunted
and invincible.’ His voice grew as his chest swelled. ‘This flag
still challenges the winds of destiny. This flame still burns.’

As his fist slammed down on the lectern the
audience roared their approval. Encouraged by their obvious praise and devotion, and an
unshakable conviction that he was born to rule, he went on. ‘This glory shall
not die. The soul of Empire is alive, and Britain again dares to be
great.’

By the time he had finished, the crowd was
in raptures. ‘Hurrah for the Blackshirts,’ they cried.
‘Hail Mosley!’

He had spoken for an hour and thirty-five
minutes without any notes or hesitations. It was quite a performance.

Today the Albert Hall is the venue for pop
concerts and the Proms. Back in 1934, fascist leaders were packing it to the
rafters.

Such was the fiery force of his oration and
the confidence in his beliefs, fascist MP Oswald Mosley held his supporters in the palm
of his hand. Fresh from his tour of Italy where he’d studied
Mussolini’s new movement, Mosley had returned to London determined to unite
the existing fascist movements.

Just two years previously, in 1932, he had
formed the British Union of Fascists. At their first meeting in London, thirty-two
members put on black shirts and the Blackshirt movement began.

As well as the Albert Hall, he took to
London’s Hyde Park to preach about his new party. His popularity grew. As a
charismatic speaker and able politician, Mosley spoke about ideals such as patriotism,
order and discipline and social justice which many people found appealing. He argued
that Great Britain needed to become a more advanced civilization and proposed that the
Blackshirts would be a new, improved British people capable of achieving this. Many
people were attracted by his speeches and were not aware of the dark side of the fascist
ideology.

I was one of them!

Well, actually, back in them days I
didn’t really give two hoots for the politics, being a flighty
seventeen-year-old and all. I just liked the look of some of the handsome
Blackshirts.

Most people were taken in that spring when
we returned to London for the season. The
Daily Mail
had just published an open
letter of support for them entitled ‘Hurrah for the Blackshirts’ and
now, in 1934, their meetings and rallies were attracting thousands. In just two years
the BUF had swelled in numbers with a membership approaching 40,000. The Blackshirts
came from all walks of life and the membership included both men and women of all ages.
Those most closely linked to Mosley were well-educated, often with a military background
and from well-off and well-connected families. I’ll never
forget the first time I clapped eyes on our Blackshirts, Henry and Percival.

Phyllis and I had our customary two-hour
break after lunch and I was giving her the same tour of London that Flo had shown me.
I’d bounced back after my disastrous encounters with Alan and George and my
confidence was fully restored. I was pleased as punch to be back in London. My ego
hadn’t been too badly bruised and, with all the arrogance of youth, I
couldn’t wait to see what men were out there to have a flirt with.

Now Phyllis was the new girl, all wide-eyed
at the sights and sounds of London.

‘Come on, Phyllis,’
I’d blustered bossily, secretly chuffed that I knew my way round and she
didn’t. ‘We’d best rush. Best tour you’ll get,
this. They’ve opened up a new Woolworths on the King’s Road.
Let’s go and have a look.’

Strutting down the road like I owned it, I
suddenly heard a whistle.

‘I say there, you, the red-headed
girl,’ said a rich and deep sexy voice. ‘Where you off to in such a
hurry?’

Whirling round, I was delighted to find
myself face to face with a tall, handsome man dressed entirely in black. He looked like
the Milk Tray man with muscles.

‘Come back here and have a chat
with us,’ he smiled. ‘The name’s Henry and I simply insist
you don’t pass me by without telling me your name.’

‘Mollie,’ I giggled.
‘Why you all dressed in black then? You’ll bake out
here.’

He thrust a pamphlet at me emblazoned with
the headline
Join the BUF.
But I wasn’t really looking at the
pamphlet. I was too busy checking out what was beneath
the shirt. He
had muscles on his muscles. He was tall, well over six foot, and built like a barn with
a mass of blond hair that he’d slicked back off his face and a strong jawline.
He oozed youth and strength.

‘We’re Blackshirts.
We’re here to protect our leader, Oswald Mosley. This here is our
headquarters, otherwise known as the Black House,’ he went on, gesturing to a
large building next to an army barracks.

‘You must be very strong then if
you’re hired to protect someone,’ I flirted.

He raised his eyebrows and a slow smile
spread over his face. ‘Perhaps you’ll get to find out. What time
does a ravishing girl like you get off work then? I can meet you outside your office if
you like. Bet a girl like you knows the best places to go in London.’