Sometime around 1929 a pretty, sixteen-year-old lass arrived in Rickmansworth. She had come down from Newcastle to work as a domestic in one of the grand houses of Hertfordshire. This was a common practice at the time. Many years later I was struck by the thought - who was the main beneficiary in this migration? Was it the southern employers who often exploited these girls, paying very low wages and working them long hours? Or was it the northern girls; girls who saw it as an opportunity to change their lives, to travel and to expand their horizons? It’s not often that life allows both parties to win, as I think it did in this case. The families in our large country houses found Newcastle a fine source of cheap domestic labour. A consequence of this was that Rickmansworth was good naturedly dubbed the ‘Geordie capital of the south’ because large numbers of Ricky men fell for these, mostly attractive, Newcastle girls and often married them. A fact not always approved of by the local females at the time and over the years. However, looking at things fairly and considering all the angles, this situation has worked extremely well for all parties, not least the town of Rickmansworth itself; my mother and father being just one fine example of these unions. Yes, as you probably guessed, that sixteen-year-old girl was my mother.
The contribution made by these Geordie girls to our little town, can scarcely be over stated. One very good example can be seen in the Geordies’ devotion to enhancing and expanding the local gene pool and it must be said that in the twenties and thirties the Ricky gene pool certainly would have needed some help; particularly when you consider that Mill End was dominated by only five or six families and most other families had a marriage, or blood connection to them. I’m not saying that good old Mill End and Ricky was breeding a crowd of look-alike banjo pickers with eyes suspiciously close together in the manner of the movie Deliverance, but we weren’t exactly cosmopolitan. If anyone had enquired what we were doing with our gene pool at the time it would have been fair to say we were only dog paddling in it. Nature in her wisdom, may well have decided to intervene.
Sarah Gilchrist, my mother, had spread her wings at a very early age. I believe it was to escape the extreme poverty of Newcastle at that time and the rather sad environment she was living in. Byker was then a dreadful slum. It was typical of most British inner city suburbs in those days. Some still say bring back the good old days. They obviously didn’t have to live through them. It must have been a huge step for her to take. She arrived here with very little support, maybe a shilling or two in her purse, which she grimly clutched. I often wondered whether she saw the parallels between her questing out so far from home and the journey I would undertake. She often spoke of the unhappy and miserable time she had to endure in her first position in this area. Her problems were compounded, as outside of her employer and his family, who were not particularly kind to their servants, she knew no one. She had an older cousin, Amy, whom she barely knew. All that she really knew about Amy was that she worked locally in a very large house - the old Moor Park Mansion.
The house that my mother had been assigned to was a splendid property called Clutterbucks; the home of a local family of landowners. The property had its own church adjoining it, where the family enjoyed the luxury of its own pews. My mother often told us of the difficulties she encountered there and how sad she was on her own. The house stood in a very rural location; she had little opportunity to get about, or means of transport to enable her to find her cousin Amy, or any of the other girls from the north. She was very lonely and still a child. One day Sarah could bear her isolation no longer. She impetuously set off to Rickmansworth to find Cousin Amy. The grand house she was in service in, stood on the very top of a beautiful valley. That valley divided the village of Sarratt from the main road that ran down to Rickmansworth. She knew that if she could get to Rickmansworth then Moor Park Mansion and her cousin Amy would be close by. The walk from Sarratt to Rickmansworth, even today, is a very testing one. From Sarratt it’s down an extraordinarily steep hill. It’s just a country lane, which in those days was more of a horse and cart track. Upon reaching the bottom she was faced with a climb up a very steep gravely hill on the other side of the valley. These two hills are so steep, that they presented major problems for delivery of goods into Sarratt at that time. A popular local story authenticates this. In Sarratt, there is a public house called the Cock Inn. Its name obviously lent itself to many a joke with the locals; apparently it was a Morecombe and Wise type favourite. This is more so, as the Cock Inn, Sarratt is situated in the county of Hertfordshire, known as “Herts”. The pub was named because in the days of horse-drawn drays there was a special breed of horses used for heavy, hard hauling. These horses were the famous shire horses. The top Shire horse, the strongest one of the pulling team, was always celebrated as the cockhorse. You are probably familiar with the nursery rhyme ‘Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross’. The best cockhorse was needed to deliver the all-important cargo of beer to the pub atop that very steep hill. In appreciation of their efforts it was decided to honour them by renaming the pub the Cock Inn. And so it was a difficult walk that Sarah faced. She often told us she felt it appropriate that she should wear her best boots, not knowing whom she might meet along the way. Those boots were the heeled, lace-up, highly polished, black ones, so popular at the time. Fine looking boots, but certainly not conducive to country walking. We can only imagine the additional difficulties that they must have presented. Apparently they were a prized possession, so she didn’t want to run the risk of losing them by leaving them at Clutterbucks. Sarah eventually reached her first goal, Rickmansworth, after a two-mile walk. Not knowing anybody she could ask for help, she wisely went to the Vicarage in Church Street. There she sought something to drink as it was a warm sunny day and she was by now very thirsty. She also wanted directions to the fabled Mansion. At last she had some good fortune. The kindly Vicar listened to her story with great interest, comforted her and gave her a drink. Realising her difficult situation, he offered to take her on to the Mansion. Another mile and another hill, but this time she rode in comfort in the Vicar’s motorcar. Upon arriving there, having been driven up through the magnificent parkland entrance, Sarah, was absolutely taken by the house and grounds, which had been fashioned into a first class Golf Club and course. The Vicar realising how lost and distressed my mother was still feeling, took it on himself to go and find Amy, leaving Sarah waiting nervously outside. She waited and worried; then to her great relief, out of the beautiful columnated entrance and down the grand steps, strode the Vicar. He returned triumphantly with Cousin Amy and the golf club secretary. Amy cuddled my mother, who, overcome with emotion, was sobbing and blurting out her story. The Vicar took his leave and motored off back to Rickmansworth after assuring Sarah of his continued help and support and telling her his door would always be open. He was a very kind man, who very obviously practised the Christianity he preached. Even to this day when I pass the Vicarage, which is almost daily, my mind is invaded with images of a sad, but determined, sixteen-year-old Sarah, knocking on that vast, solid wooden door with a its huge black iron knocker. I applaud her resourcefulness and when I consider the many difficult situations that I have conjured up for myself I think that thankfully I must have inherited some of Sarah’s survival genes. Those Geordie genes have made me resourceful and kept my eyes the right distance apart.
Amy, whom mum always said was very kind and supportive, was naturally very angry and upset at the treatment and loneliness that my mother had been forced to endure. Now here the story takes a fortunate turn. Cousin Amy held a senior position on the house keeping staff and being something of a beauty, enjoyed a liaison with the previously mentioned Secretary, a man of some importance. The upshot was that my mother was invited to join the live in, housekeeping staff. This was a coveted position at the time and certainly a godsend to Sarah, which she very gratefully accepted. Meanwhile the secretary, ever eager to please Amy, dispatched a member of staff to retrieve Sarah’s meagre belongings. Sarah, now happily installed in the staff quarters, enjoyed a feeling of security that I suspect she had not felt for a long time. Mum always spoke of her times at the Mansion with fondness. In her time there, she cleaned, she polished and she was happy. The fondest and the most lasting of her memories were of waiting on the tables at the many glorious high-class dinners and functions that were so often held there. She told us of the times that she and Amy were allowed to sit on the balcony and watch the lords, ladies and gentry parading in their finest clothes. Sarah remained happily ensconced there for three years. During that time she met my father and she stayed there until her marriage.