It was just beginning to get light as I woke up the next morning. For a moment I just lay in bed, basking in satisfaction. I’d got a job, I had a room to myself, and I was in a completely new and different place – what more could anybody ask? Leaping up I pulled the long-sleeved brown holland overall around me and started to unpack.
My clothes were soon either hanging from hooks behind the curtain in one corner or stowed away in the chest of drawers alongside. The only other furniture was a towel rail, a three-legged enamelled iron washstand, holding bowl, slop bucket and water jug, and a bedside cabinet concealing a china chamber pot – which I certainly wasn’t going to use. Polished brown lino covered the floor, with a matting rug next to the bed. I gazed round proudly – all mine. The only flaw was the window, which was high up with a wall outside, and only a narrow strip of sky visible. I flicked the switch by the door up and down; despite being in the depths of the country Wenlock Court boasted electric light – better and better. Sponge in hand I yanked the towel off the rail and set off in search of a bathroom.
I was still enjoying my lukewarm dip when the rising bell whirred. I rushed back, leapt into my underwear, tied the belt of my overall and shot out – almost knocking down a fair-headed girl dressed the same as me. She announced, ‘I’m Gladys, the Third.’
‘Ma name’s Eve – I’m the new Fourth.’
‘This way,’ she set off at a brisk pace, calling over her shoulder, ‘You from Scotland?’
‘Aye, frae near Wick.’ I preened myself on the success of my accent – not that it was anything like the way people spoke in Wick, but Gladys wasn’t as sharp as Horseface on that one.
As we reached the stairs Gladys said, ‘Doris told me to bring you down – we call her H.H., by the way.’
‘For Head Housemaid?’
‘Nah – Her Highness.’ Gladys sniggered. ‘But don’t tell her that.’
After a quick cup of tea and even quicker slice of bread and butter H.H. escorted me back along the corridor to collect the tools of my trade from the housemaids’ pantry, then on through a green baize-backed door. We crossed a great, square hall to the garden entrance – my first job was to scrub the floor of its vestibule and the flight of stairs leading down from there. ‘I’ll be back later, Eve, to see how you’re getting on,’ Doris informed me.
The minute the skirt of her brown overall whisked out of sight I rushed down the stairs under the high stone archway and out into the morning sun. I found myself on a broad paved terrace, bounded by a low wall of ornately carved stone. The ground sloped steeply away from the house, and a fascinating arrangement of flights of shallow stone steps led down to a lower terrace, and then down again to the garden. Leaning over the top wall I spotted a creeper-covered summer house nestling between two of the terrace buttresses, all ready to catch the morning sun. Ahead, green parkland, dotted with handsome trees, sloped gently down into a wooded valley; I caught the glint of water there – a river? A lake? I would go exploring later, and find out.
Turning my back on the view I swung round to inspect the house behind me: it was three storeys high – and the top one was crenellated! Great battlements, with phoney arrow slits almost hid the roof, and below were bay windows, oriel windows, mullioned windows – and every single one decorated with prominent stone carvings. The whole place was a kind of English Maharajah’s palace! I admired the ledges which ran round the house at regular intervals, and those beautiful solidly-attached lead downpipes, set in convenient sized gullies – handholds, footholds – what more could anybody ask for? As I stood there in the sunlight I was overtaken by a great, bubbling upsurge of joy. Life was fun again.
I ran back across the terrace, in under the stone arch, and dropped down on to my kneeler. Brush in hand I began to scrub the bottom step to the tune of, ‘On the day when I was wedded’ (The Gondoliers, Act II – Duchess of Plaza-Toro). It’s just the right rhythm for scrubbing steps. I sang the words, but quietly – according to the McNiven rule. She never tried to stop her trainees singing, only it must be softly, and preferably hymns. But I’d sung enough Gaelic hymns on the herring gutting; today, Gilbert and Sullivan.
‘I was always very wary,
For his fury was estatic –
His refined vocabulary
Most unpleasantly emphatic…’
At the top of the short flight of steps stone gave way to a tiled floor: diamonds of red and white with regular rows of red lozenges, most satisfying to scrub. I breasted the massive mahogany double doors with a final triumphant, ‘I tamed your insignificant progenitor – at last!’ And moved on to, ‘Were I thy bride,’ another good scrubbing song.
Halfway across the floor I swapped to my Scots accent – in case Doris came back too soon – so as I rinsed my cloth for the last time it was a west coast Phoebe who belted out,
‘But then, of course, you see,
I’m not thy bride!’
Rising to my feet I bowed to the invisible audience before stacking kneeler, brush and pails next to the wall in the approved McNiven—Butterfield fashion – they left nothing to chance, those two. Then I stepped out into the great hall.
It was just like a stage set. The furniture was all pushed to one side, under dust sheets. I could see the shape of a grand piano, and two carpets were rolled up beside it, leaving the polished parquet floor bare – perfect for dancing.
I danced a fandango to the centre then stopped to survey my stage.
Very impressive. Round three sides, huge ornately carved wooden pillars held up a gallery, edged by an even more ornately carved parapet. Rising at intervals from this gallery were yet more highly decorated columns. I bolero’d over to inspect the wood of the massive pillars – oak, as I’d thought from the golden glow of it. A quick cachucha took me back to the centre. Facing the great sweep of the staircase I could see on its left the entrance to a corridor, which ran straight ahead. To the right was the door I’d come through, which led to the main entrance, and also to the door of the servant’s wing.
I did a fandango spin and counted six more high doors in the shadows under the gallery, as well as the open archway to the garden entrance door. My eyes then lifted to the gallery itself, the floor of which was a good twenty feet above the hall – and the gallery was pretty lofty, too. It was obviously used as a bedroom corridor, since there were yet more doors at intervals, but where did the light come from? I tipped my head back – a dome! A huge blue glass dome – and scattered over the blue, like stars, were stained glass roundels, every one containing the same heraldic design – presumably the Stokesley family arms. Gosh, it was wonderful – all so unbelievably, outrageously, ridiculous!
Staircase next: I gavotted over to inspect it. The lovely sweep of the banisters was quite spoilt for sliding down by the presence of huge carved eagles at every turn – pity. But I was rather taken by the high stained glass window beyond the stairs. Bright blues, sharp greens, burning reds and silver white made up a tableau of a knight in shining armour in the process of rescuing a simpering maiden from a huge and handsome dragon. The knight looked extremely bad-tempered – personally I’d have chosen the dragon any day.
‘Finished already?’
It was H.H., with a frown on her face. She marched suspiciously off to inspect my work. I waited, confidently, knowing the McNiven-Butterfield system would pass the test. It did. She returned frown-free. I said chattily, ‘Fine lot of oak ye’ve got here. Ma favourite wood, oak – but it’ll no take a shine like mahogany will. Now mahogany, ye can see yer face in that.’
H.H. smiled. ‘What polish did you use on it, at your last place?’
‘Mistress McNiven always reckoned…’
By the time we’d reached the housemaid’s closet I’d been through the Butterfield recipe for furniture cream: 1 oz. white wax; 1 oz. beeswax; 1 oz. Castile soap; pint turps; pint boiling water. H.H. favoured 1 oz. Castile soap herself, but this was not a matter of serious disagreement between us – rather the opportunity for the kind of little debate that true professionals always enjoy. Back in the closet I emptied my pails the Butterfield way, (page 11) – and by then H.H. was practically purring.
It never crossed my mind that what I was doing would be perceived as sycophantic – I still hadn’t much of a clue where other girls were concerned. To me, Butterfield was a game, and I played it whenever I got the chance. As a consequence I became HH’s blue-eyed girl – but as far as my fellow housemaids were concerned…!
But whatever its long-term disadvantages, playing the Butterfield game won me two valuable prizes that morning. The first was a conducted tour of the service wing, which in practice was virtually a square round the kitchen courtyard. We started at the green baize-backed door and went ahead past the backstairs on the left and the serving room on the right – which led directly into the large dining room. H.H. allowed me a peek at the mahogany dining table in there – which was huge – and became even huger when the extra leaves were added. At present these were stored in the high leaf cupboard, which was carefully positioned at the side of the deep window recess, so that at dinner it was hidden by the heavy velvet curtains. ‘But the spare leaves must be kept properly polished – even when they’re not being used.’ H.H. announced briskly. I nodded. (Butterfield, page 52).
We left the serving room and turned sharp left at the butler’s pantry. On our right we passed the servants’ hall (site of midday dinner), and came to the still room – in which two maids worked full-time, producing jam, marmalade, candied fruit, cordials and the daily supplies of fresh bread and scones. The kitchen was next – no entry there, the cook ran her own department; scullery, ditto; larder – just a peep allowed; it was vast and cold and marble-shelved.
Round the corner was the gunroom. This was part of H.H.’s empire – Fifth, Lil, was cleaning it now – so we went in. I stood gazing at the rifles and shotguns, locked in their glass cases, and comforting memories of Apa came flooding back – until H.H.’s pained voice recalled me to the present. She was drawing Lil’s attention to an undusted ledge on the cartridge cupboard. That little matter rectified, we set off again, past the the housemaid’s sitting room (breakfast, tea and supper partaken of here), a pair of maids’ W.C.s, the coal and wood stores, and, keeping cool at the end of the block, a large game larder, soon to be filled with pheasants.
We moved briefly out into the open air, so H.H. could point out the outer service range, which included the laundry, and a new brick building at the end, which was the Powerhouse, and MUST NEVER BE ENTERED BY UNAUTHORISED PERSONS, especially not housemaids. H.H. harboured dire suspicions about the generation of electricity.
Back past two visiting valets’ bedrooms, with a small attic for Billy the hall boy; Sixth was responsible for keeping them clean. In fact I now discovered that Fifth and Sixth did nothing but clean the servants’ quarters, while Billy and the third footman did nothing but wait on the upper servants and the nursery. Curious, I asked H.H., ‘Would there be many in the family, then?’
‘His lordship, and her ladyship – the Earl and Countess of Stokesley, and their son and daughter-in-law, Lord and Lady Lydham, they live at Wenlock Court when they’re in the country, then there’s Master Gerald, Miss Dorothy and Master Baby.’ She rattled them off like a census return; H.H. was only interested in rooms and furniture, not people – you couldn’t dust people. But even at her speed it took from knife and boot room, past two brushing rooms, the housekeeper’s room, and the store before she’d finished answering my next question, ‘What’s the number o’ servants, then?’
The list was one housekeeper, two ladies’ maids, six housemaids, two still room maids, one sewing room maid, one cook, two kitchenmaids, one scullerymaid, four laundry maids, a butler, two valets, three footmen, one oddman, one hallboy – and in the nursery there was one nurse, one nursemaid, and a nurserymaid to wait on them. By now we were passing the butler’s bedroom – except that Mr Taylor, the butler, was married and lived in a cottage in the grounds, so William, the first footman, slept there to guard the strongroom which held the Stokesley silver, and opened out to the butler’s pantry next door – so we’d arrived back where we’d started.
I was still gasping with the enormity of it: thirty-one people to look after four adults, two children and one small baby. (In those days I thought babies didn’t need much looking after!) And that was just indoors; outside a legion of grooms, gardeners and gamekeepers all toiled in the Stokesley service too.
I suppose, having been brought up in India, I shouldn’t have been so surprised, but in India you have to have more servants than you really need because of the caste system – besides, not that many! Jumping Jehosaphat, it really was like a musical play: seven principals and a chorus of thirty-one.
By now H.H. was leading me to my second prize, the responsibility for restoring an old oak map chest, recently brought in to the muniment room, and not yet in a satisfactory H.H. condition: ‘Dirty and greasy,’ she told me. I immediately snapped into Butterfield page 75, and she smiled approvingly – since she’d already set the still room to boiling up some shredded beeswax with beer and brown sugar. To me alone fell the honour of rubbing it in before the final polish.
We walked across the front entrance vestibule and turned sharp right into the service passage, which was hidden under the first flight of the main staircase – whenever possible servants must be neither seen nor heard. We arrived at the corridor I’d noticed earlier; this was to be my special domain each morning between 6.20 and 8.00 a.m. H.H. indicated the door of the muniment room, used for estate business and archives, then she took me on into the billiard room. There was a raised platform at one end, with a piano to one side of it. H.H. saw me looking towards the piano and said, ‘Rehearsals for the concert take place in here. It’s on the afternoon before the servants’ ball, so when Mr Parton comes,’ I broke in excitedly, ‘I ken Mr Parton!’ This time I was the recipient of the pained voice, ‘You can’t “know” Mr Parton – servants don’t “know” guests. Now, he likes to practice in here first thing, so you must make sure you don’t disturb him.’
‘When is it, this concert – and the ball?’
‘Next month – they’re part of the celebrations for Lady Lydham’s wedding anniversary. Now, your next morning task will be…’
The cleaning of a lavatory and two W.C.s next to the side entrance – and there was yet another W.C. on the other side of that entrance, under the stairs which led directly up to the bachelors’ wing. My face fell – only to rise up again when H.H. informed me that the bedrooms in tha bachelors’ wing were my responsibility, too. As I was quite confident that Dr Travers was a bachelor this meant that I’d be cleaning his room – what bliss!
My final morning task was cleaning Lord Lydham’s smoking room. This was furnished with comfortable armchairs, a desk – and on the wall above it a simply enormous picture of a woman stepping down into a large marble bathing pool. She was presumably an ancient Romaness, but you couldn’t really tell as she’d taken all her clothes off and tossed them in a heap behind her – just like I did, when I went swimming. I stepped forward to get a better look, ‘We don’t have anything to do with Pictures,’ H.H.’s voice behind me was very firm. ‘A special gentleman comes down from London each year. Now, the oak chest…’
I won’t bore you with details of the restoration work on that chest – though H.H. certainly bored me, at length. No, the exciting thing about the chest was what hung on the wall above it – just where I could conveniently study it all the time I was applying that most vital ingredient of all polish: elbow grease. (Butterfield, page 1, paragraph 1.)
It was a framed plan of the entire house. Most interesting, especially as H.H. had made it very clear that housemaids must only enter those rooms allotted to them, to perform their allotted tasks, at the allotted time. So when I went exploring, knowledge of this plan would be invaluable. For instance, it confirmed what I’d already suspected, that the maids’ bedrooms were on the top floor, above me now – so I could slip indoors by the side entrance and up to my room by the bachelor wing staircase, if I was careful not to be spotted.
But I was fascinated by the plan in any case. Why was there a large dressing room attached to most of the married couples’ bedrooms – when their rooms were already larger than those allocated to my bachelors and the single ladies? I also tracked down all the W.C.s – perfect places of refuge if one were caught in an unallotted place. Ditto bathrooms – Wenlock Court was amply provided with these, as H.H. had already pointed out, since this made the housemaids’ job so much easier – no carrying can after can of water to bedrooms for hip baths. And there were two housemaids’ closets on the main bedroom floor; mine was between bachelors four and five – though it wasn’t just mine, I shared it with Gladys (commonly known as ‘Glad’, I’d now discovered.) Her empire included the married couples’ rooms on the east side of the house. And we were to make all our beds together because that was much quicker like that. Which it certainly was, since all beds in Wenlock Court, whether for bachelors or couples, were doubles – except for servants’ beds, of course.
I learnt that plan by heart – as I also learnt the long list of rules posted in the maids’ sitting room. It’s always worth learning the rules – that way you know what’s worth doing – they wouldn’t tell you not to if it wasn’t interesting. Not that I was going to break all of them. It’s always best to keep some very ostentatiously, then they don’t suspect you of ignoring the others. So I had learnt something at that rotten boarding school – but not as much as I should have done, as you’ll see.
One rule I decided to keep was about not missing meals. Meals figured largely in the daily routine at Wenlock Court; they were all at different times and different places. The timing of nursery meals didn’t affect me, but that of The Family (the nobs) I really did have to know, because we worked around them. We cleaned our downstairs rooms before they were officially up. Then from 8.00 to 8.30 still, sewing and housemaids ate their breakfast in our sitting room, kitchen staff ate in the kitchen, Mr Taylor and Mrs Salter in the housekeeper’s room, male staff in the servants’ hall.
At 8.30 Second and Third were off delivering tea trays and hot water to those visiting ladies who were unaccompanied by maids. I only had to carry the trays up from the still room and fill the hot water jugs in my closet, because visiting gentlemen without valets were waited on by footmen. At 8.53 we had to rush downstairs – tidy – and assemble in the service corridor ready to process into the main hall for family prayers at five to nine. (More about them later!)
Nine o’clock was Family breakfast, giving us the chance to rush upstairs and service the bedrooms. The china jugs for cold water in each bedroom had to be refilled – I carried the tall, brass can used for that on my head, Indian style – beds had to be aired, and slops emptied. I didn’t put those on my head, since some of the bachelors used the chamber pots in the bedside cabinets, despite there being a W.C. down the corridor. Though I can’t just blame the nobs here, since the footmen were just as bad, so Fifth informed me when I grumbled. And at least each chamber pot I had to empty was adorned with a big gold ‘S’ above the family crest! Everything boasted that crest: crockery, cutlery, sheets, towels, all the innumerable brass buttons on the footmen’s livery – and every book in the library had it stamped in gold on its leather binding.
We continued making beds, sweeping and dusting, and doing our weekly work – special tasks allotted to each day of the week – until 12.30, our dinner time.
All staff (except the nursery and kitchen) partook of this in the servants’ hall, waited on by Billy, who had to gobble his own dinner at top speed. Underservants had to assemble in the corridor outside the hall five minutes early, and remain standing to attention while the upper servants filed past, Mrs Salter and Mr Taylor at their head. Talking was not allowed, so we munched silently through roast meat, or pies, or stew – all served with lots of fresh vegetables, nicely cooked by the second kitchenmaid.
Then puddings – rice, jam rolypoly, spotted dick, fruit tart – were dished out by Mrs Salter. When all the underservants had been served the entire room rose to its collective feet, and stood in silence as housekeeper, butler, ladies’ maids and valets left for the housekeepers’ room, where they consumed their puddings in stately privacy, waited on by Billy. We nine maids then picked up our bowls, and, led by H.H., processed out in order of rank down the corridor, sharp right, along to the sitting room – where we all sat down again, ate our well-cooled puddings and drank tea, freshly brewed by the junior stillroom maid.
The 1.30 bell for Family lunch was the signal for we first four housemaids to leap to our feet, seize our weapons (in my case, dustpan and brush) and process out again in order of rank into the main rooms, where we all turned to our allotted tasks: H.H., magazine tidying; Second, cushion straightening and plumping; Third, dusting; Fourth, (me) grate tidying and hearth sweeping. We had to be finished by 2.30, the end of Family lunch, after which time we were free to mend our stockings, read – and exercise. Lady Stokesley was a great believer in exercise for herself and all her staff. Glad grumbled that if her ladyship did our jobs she wouldn’t be so keen on parading round with her chows, but I couldn’t wait to get out of doors.
Servants weren’t allowed in the gardens, of course, but were free to roam in the parkland and woods, so the opportunities were endless. Billy and I played leapfrog, and any game we could think of involving a bat and ball. I taught him to make and use a boomerang, and he took me ratting at one of the local farms, with a friend of his who owned a very frisky terrier. Billy’s friend spoke with a strong local accent, so I practised that while Billy mimicked my Scots. When Billy had to go back on duty there were still trees to climb – and a nicely secluded lake to swim in.
H.H. had thoughtfully warned me about going near that particular lake, since the gentlemen sometimes swam there, morning or evening, ‘Er – unclothed’. The lake was overhung with trees, and had a high hedge all round. The only way in was by a chained and padlocked gate with a notice on it: ‘MEN ONLY – key available in the butler’s pantry.’ Luckily the gate was an ornamental one, with plenty of hand and footholds. Billy had told me that gardeners only went in to tidy up first thing – and male staff were only allowed to swim when there were no guests staying. So I was able to have my swim in the afternoon. It was all very convenient.
After my swim I’d change my library book. The side window of his lordship’s library looked out on to some extremely gloomy shrubbery and the blank back wall of the stables and hayloft, so I could climb up the ornamental stonework unobserved. Once through into the widow recess I remained unobserved. since every bay window in the house had a double set of curtains, and in the library both sets were kept half drawn to protect the books from sunlight. So even if someone was in there, I could escape again unnoticed, but it was generally empty this late in the afternoon. Her ladyship did provide Religious Tract Society novels for the maids’ sitting room, but I felt these lacked charm. His lordship’s shelf on Polar exploration was much more appealing.
Tea was at 4.30, in our sitting room – but without the presence of H.H., who was honoured by an invitation from Mrs Salter at this meal. So ‘tea’ became a rather informal affair; the others often disappeared for a spot of illicit fraternisation in the servants hall – I just disappeared.
No-one appeared to notice as long as we all reappeared in our evening uniform in time to light fires in the visitors’ bedrooms at 5.00 – except that gentlemen didn’t usually have bedroom fires in the autumn, and didn’t require me laying out their evening clothes as Second and Third had to do for unattended ladies – valets and footmen performed that task, too. So I only really had to reappear at 7.00 and produce jugs of hot water for said valets and footmen. Next, the 7.15 dressing bell sent the nobs up and us down, to tidy our respective domains.
We then retired backstage to await the end of the procession which took them out of the drawing room, across the great hall, and into dinner. As the dining room door closed behind them we processed in our turn out of the wings to take centre stage for a spot of cushion-plumping, duster wielding, etc., before disappearing upstairs to tidy the bedrooms. How those bachelors could make such a mess shaving I couldn’t imagine – then.
By 9.15 we were downstairs in our sitting room again, eating our final meal of the day – a supper of cold meats, salad, bread and butter.
Yes, it was pure luxury after the herring gutting.