They were a sort of liaison between us and the people upstairs. In lots of ways I think it must have been a problem for them. They were more with the people upstairs; they took the children into the drawing-room in the evening before they went to bed, and they sat in the drawing-room with ‘Them’, and yet of course they weren’t of ‘Them’. And when they came downstairs they weren’t of ‘us’ either, because we always thought that they were on friendly terms with ‘Them’ upstairs and that meant that anything we said about ‘Them’ would be repeated upstairs. Probably it wouldn’t have been but that was what it seemed it might be.
The cook, of course, used always to be furious at the nanny coming into the kitchen. The kitchen was the cook’s domain. Only the mistress of the house was allowed in it and her only once in the morning to give her orders. The nanny coming and asking ‘What is the menu for today, cook?’ or ‘Mrs’ if she was called ‘Mrs’. Well, that infuriated the cook to start with, but if the nanny asked for different food for the children, then the feathers really used to fly.
The cook’s name in Thurloe Place was Mrs Bowchard, and she was an absolute old harridan. The other servants in the house were: the kitchen maid, which was me; instead of having a butler or footman – they weren’t very keen on men servants in the house, except that Mr Cutler had a valet – there was a parlourmaid and an upper-parlourmaid; upperhouse-maid and under-housemaid; the nanny and nursery maid; a chauffeur and a gardener and a gardener’s boy. It wasn’t a large staff for a house that size, but judging by present-day standards, you really did two people’s work, so you can say more or less that there were six people to run the house, because you don’t count the nanny.
The cook was sour. Looking back on it now I would say she was soured by the constant stream of kitchen maids that kept coming and going. They never did stay long. You could generally get a job as a kitchen maid; nowadays, of course, they lay the red carpet down for you, but even then there wasn’t a queue for the job. The trouble with kitchen maids, to anyone who wasn’t a kitchen maid, was that they were always larking about with the tradesmen.
Perhaps it seems as though my life was one long tragedy. It wasn’t. I worked jolly hard and I got miserable often, but no one can be fifteen and sixteen years old and be miserable all the time. Like all the kitchen maids I used to lark around with the tradesmen, especially the errand boys. They were one of the notable sights of London, the way they used to go through the streets with a bicycle laden sky-high, whistling all the latest tunes. And they were cheeky little devils.
And the kitchen maids were cheeky, too, and Mrs Bowchard was soured by the constant procession and the cheekiness and larking around. So she made my working life a misery. She was always carping and always complaining. It wasn’t that I was more inefficient than the previous kitchen maids, it was just that I was young. It was a condition that I can assure you she did her utmost to rectify. After a day with Mrs Bowchard you didn’t feel so very young.
Another thing about Mrs Bowehard was she suffered from a curious complaint which was called ‘melegs’. Doctors wouldn’t know about it, but it was always ‘melegs’. ‘Melegs’ prevented her doing so many things; melegs wouldn’t let her climb all those stairs to the attics where we all slept, so she had to sleep in the basement; melegs wouldn’t let her do anything that anyone else could do for her; melegs wouldn’t let her sit down and tie up her shoes so I always had to do that. There was nothing I hated more than having to stoop down in the morning, put Mrs Bowchard’s shoes on, and tie them up, and stoop down and untie them and take them off at night. I suppose it’s a no more menial task than waiting on all the servants at table, but I felt like one of those little bootblacks out of Dickens. I really did hate having to do that. It wasn’t part of my job, but mind you if you’ve got to work under the cook, you’ve got to do what she says, otherwise your life’s going to be worse than it is.
Mrs Bowchard had a cat. It was an enormous black and white animal, really a handsome cat I suppose you’d call it. She used to call it ‘His Lordship’, what I called it I won’t repeat. I’ve never been a lover of animals but ‘His Lordship’ brought out fierce hatred in me. He was such a supercilious-looking animal. Personally, I think that all cats are supercilious. They gaze at you as though you were less than dust. Mind you, it was a very clever cat, I’ve got to admit that. He used to sleep in the cook’s bedroom. He slept under her bed and a quarter to seven every morning without fail when the alarm went off, that cat used to come out from under the bed, go to the door, put his paw up and rattle the door handle; that was the signal for Mrs Bowchard to get out and open the door and let the cat out. When she did that he used to stroll along the passage, come into the kitchen and stand there and gaze at me. He didn’t move, he just stood there until he got my eye, and that was the signal that I had to take Mrs Bowchard along a jug of hot water and a cup of tea. It infuriated me. I used to say, ‘I wonder the old girl don’t give you a note to put in your mouth and bring along for me. Get out of it.’ But, do you know, he wouldn’t go. If I shooed him to the door he would stand there until he saw me go along with her jug of hot water and cup of tea. It was really clever, even though I didn’t feel like that about it then. Twice a week we used to have a cod’s head delivered for this animal, and I had to cook it for him and remove all the bones. Mrs Bowchard would sit gazing at this cat with the most doting expression. ‘. . . and don’t forget,’ she’d be saying, ‘to take all the bones out, “His Lordship” mustn’t get a bone in his throat, must he?’ I used to get livid. But I would do it and then I’d put some down on the floor for him, and you know that wretched beast would sometimes just sniff at it and walk away with his tail and nose in the air. Of course if he did it when the cook wasn’t there I’d move him even farther away with the toe of my boot. But that animal got so clever that he wouldn’t even look or smell that fish if I was on my own. Oh, he was clever.
Mrs Cutler did a lot of entertaining; two or three times a week there would be a dinner party for at least twelve people, sometimes more, and with all the courses, there was never any time to wash up in between. As soon as one course had gone up you were rushing around getting the plates ready and dishing up the other, so that by the end of the dinner I’d be surrounded by everything under the sun; saucepans and plates and dishes, not the silver because the parlourmaids had to do all the silver and the glasses, but I had everything else to wash up. The things would all be piled up in the sink and on the draining-board, and on the floor in the dark dank old scullery.
The sinks were shallow stone ones, a dark grey in colour, made of cement. They were porous, not glazed china or stainless steel like you get now, and the dirty water sort of saturated into them and they stank to high heaven. That washing-up was what you’d call a chore these days. It was a bore too. After I’d done it, and that took some considerable time, there was still the servants’ meal to get laid up and later washed up.
There were six or seven of us altogether, and the valet.
Mr Cutler I had very little to do with. I only saw him as a sort of shadowy thing going in and out. He never came down into the kitchen; even if he’d thought about it, it would be as much as his life was worth. He was something in the City. I’m not well up on these peculiar sort of jobs that necessitate your going off in the morning about ten o’clock and coming home about four in the afternoon, but he didn’t do anything very strenuous. He used to go off with a rolled-up umbrella. I asked Mrs Bowchard what he did, when she was in a rather more mellow mood than usual. ‘Don’t ask me,’ she said, ‘bugger all.’ Still I think he was something in the City.
As I say he had little to do with us. His valet of course saw a lot of him. Now you would think that a valet would be a sort of kingpin in a household. I don’t know whether it was always the same, but this one seemed so feminine. Whether it’s the nature of their job (although valeting is not really an effeminate job), or whether it’s because they’re in domestic service and they’re living so much with females I don’t know, but we used to look on him as one of us. Still valets wouldn’t have bothered me. I wasn’t going to marry into service. And he seemed inordinately old. I suppose he was about forty-five, but when you’re only sixteen, forty-five seems like your grandfather. I was only interested in anyone who was likely to be a permanency. One’s whole life was devoted to working to that in those days; getting a permanent boyfriend. And anyone in service was out. So I never took a great deal of notice of the valet.
As I say, it was reciprocated. The cook made more fuss of him than anyone else. She quite liked him. But nobody treated him as though he was a man. They all spoke and made jokes with him as if he was a woman. His hands were so soft, and he was so soft spoken, he didn’t seem masculine. More like a jelly somehow, to me. I assume of course he could sire children. I presume he was all there, organically speaking. But you couldn’t imagine him trying. He wasn’t married and he’d got to forty-five. Maybe he never wanted to get married, I don’t know. Looking back, I suppose he was perhaps homosexual, but we certainly never knew of it by that name. One vaguely knew that there were men who ‘went with men’ as the term was phrased in those days, but even so I never knew anything about it, I don’t think anybody else did much. If it went on anywhere in our vicinity it would be very much under cover and nobody talked about such things. If anyone had said the word I wouldn’t have known what they were talking about.
The boot-hole was the domain of the kitchen maid. I spent a lot of time in there, among the knives and boots. Mind you, nobody ever dreamt of ironing laces in that place.
When I spoke to Mrs Bowchard about putting the iron on, ‘Iron the bootlaces,’ she said, ‘what are you talking about?’ I said, ‘Well, in my last job I had to take the bootlaces out and iron them.’ ‘I’ve never heard such rubbish, don’t do it here,’ she said. ‘If they don’t like it you can tell them to get their own bloody bootlaces out and do them.’ She did stick up for me in that way.
Anyway, this boot-hole was really a refuge for me from the demands of that old harridan of a cook. She’d never go into it because it was a very low-pitched place and was festooned with spiders’ webs. I used to knock them down just for the pleasure of going in the next day and seeing them spun again.
I know you’ll laugh at me, but spiders today don’t spin the way they used to. They’d spin their webs from wall to wall in the most intricate designs. If Robert the Bruce had been in there, believe me he’d have had an absolute bun day, he wouldn’t have known which one to watch to get him up to start all over again.
It used to take me an hour every morning to clean all the boots and shoes, and I used to make them shine like a mirror. I’d got really expert at it by then, I was even congratulated at that place on doing them, but I used to feel a bit like Cinderella sitting in that boot-hole in an old sacking apron and thinking of all the things I would like to do: not that I ever expected any Prince Charming to come along with a glass slipper, I can assure you. After all when you wear size eights you don’t expect Prince Charming to come walking round with one that size for you, do you?
16
M
RS
B
OWCHARD
had a sister in London who was also a cook, and this sister had married a butler and they worked together in the same house. I used to think how awful it was, marrying a butler and then working in the same house still carrying on your jobs of cook and butler.
It’s not like being a cook in a house and having your bit of ‘how’s your father’ with the butler. It’s not the same with your husband, is it? Legitimate fun never seems quite the same somehow, does it? It doesn’t to me anyway, maybe I’ve got the wrong idea on it, but I’ve known cooks who’ve had a lot of fun with butlers. I thought, well, fancy marrying one and for the rest of their life being in domestic service together; talk about a pair in harmony.
Mrs Bowchard’s sister and her brother-in-law worked for a Lord something or other, I forget what his name is now, and they used to have their free evening at the same time. Naturally, they had to, otherwise they’d never have any free time together.
On their evening out they used to call round and see Mrs Bowchard. Talk about a busman’s holiday, they must have been steeped in domestic service. They must have had it running in their veins instead of blood. Just imagine one evening out a week, and one Sunday a fortnight, coming round to some other domestic service place and having a meal with your sister who is also a cook. If I couldn’t have thought of anything better to do on my evening out than that, I’d have shot myself.
After Mrs Bowchard had done the dinner, she, the two visitors, and the valet would retire to her room. I had to serve their dinner in there before I served the rest of the servants in the servants’ hall. You can imagine what my life was; the rest of the servants used to moan like mad because their supper was late, but what could I do? In the order of rank the visitors were more important than the parlourmaids and the housemaids.
Mrs Bowchard’s brother-in-law, Mr Moffat, was a very large man with a huge ponderous stomach and a double chin. He used to laugh a lot, usually at his own jokes. His laugh used to start down in the pit of his stomach and his being so fat, it used to ripple up in waves until it reached his double chin and that would flap in sympathy with the rest of him. I was fascinated by it.
He was always talking about his job and how important it was. He would say, ‘I said to his Lordship’, ‘I told his Lordship’, ‘His Lordship consulted me’; honestly, if you listened to Mr Moffat for long you’d think that his Lordship couldn’t do a thing, couldn’t make a decision without Mr Moffat’s advice.
When he was mellowed by the port and cigars – Mr Cutler’s port and cigars – he used to get very arch and sort of frivolous. I thought it was a very incongruous trait in a man of his size, and his age too, and with his so-called dignity. He used to say to Mrs Bowchard when he was in one of these moods and I was waiting on them, ‘How are we shaping?’ (He was referring to me.) ‘Are we learning all we can in the way of cooking? Remember the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’ I used to think to myself, I’d get lost looking for your heart. After he’d said this his whole mound of flesh would shake like a jelly as he had another good old laugh. Mrs Bowchard, whose high colour showed that she’d also consumed an amount of Mr Cutler’s port, would say, ‘Yes, as kitchen maids go, Margaret isn’t too useless.’ If Mr Moffat was more mellow than usual he’d even speak to me direct. That was a great condescension, a butler who worked for a lord, and who was consulted by a lord, speaking to a kitchen maid direct. I used to feel I was expected to curtsey. He’d say to me, ‘Well, my girl, do you like it here?’ What could I say with Mrs Bowchard sitting there? I’d have liked to have said, ‘It’s the lousiest place I’ve ever been in,’ but I didn’t dare.