When the day came for me to leave Swinton, I had mixed feelings. Happy that I had found a job. Sad that I was to leave so many familiar places and faces - the Birkbys, Lucy Morrell, and my school friends, but most of all my brother Danny, and my kid sister Cissie. I wasn’t too worried about them, they seemed to have settled in well and they had so many friends; no, I was more worried about my job. What sort of place was I going to and could I cope as a junior maid, or tweeny as it was known in the trade?
Mr Birkby assured me that I was lucky to get the job intended for Joan Irving. ‘You’ll be going to a good home,’ he said. It sounded like the kind of thing you’d say to a dog going to new owners. ‘The Lamport-Smythes are a respectable, well-to-do family in Cheshire and you’ll be treated most kindly. Mr Derek Lamport-Smythe, your new master, is well-known on the Manchester Royal Exchange and Mrs Lamport-Smythe is celebrated for her charity work.’
Swinton always gave its leavers a lovely present to start them off in their new life and I was no exception. When it was time for me to set off, I was presented with a beautiful mahogany box containing a complete outfit of clothes. I could hardly believe my eyes when I looked through the things they had given me: two chemises, two pairs of
drawers, two flannel petticoats, one top petticoat, one pair of stays, two nightdresses, two print dresses, four coarse aprons, four white aprons, two pairs of stockings, one pair of boots, one hat, and a pair of slippers. I’d never been so rich in my life and I couldn’t begin to thank them enough. I was also rigged out in a new coat and a new dress so as to be respectfully turned out for my new employers.
As well as these gifts, Mr Birkby arranged for me and my luggage to be taken by dog cart to Salford railway station where I boarded the train to Macclesfield. Two hours later, I arrived at my destination.
I managed to grab a sandwich and a cup of tea at the station bar before beginning the ten-minute walk to my new address at the Beeches, Fence Avenue. It was a tall, imposing house in an elegant Regency style and the sight of it was enough to start me trembling.
I reached the front door but didn’t go up to it. Oh no, I wasn’t that stupid. I’d learned something from my visit to that terrible house in Didsbury. Instead I looked for the tradesman’s entrance and found it down some steps leading to the basement.
There was an old man in a battered hat watering the flower boxes on the ledges.
‘G’mornin’, missie,’ he said, doffing his hat. ‘’Tis a nice mornin’, is it not?’
Unsure of myself, I mumbled agreement with him about the weather.
I rang the bell and it was opened by a big, fat, bald- headed man dressed in a black frock coat, like a funeral director. The usual watch r chain dangled from his fob pocket. I was also struck by his nose which seemed aglow
from some inner source of light.
\
‘Yes?’ he said, looking down his nose at me. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I’m the new maid. I think you may be expecting me.’
‘Ah, yes. The tweeny from Swinton. Come this way. I’ll take you to the servants’ hall.’
He led me along a stone-flagged passage into a large room. It was sparsely furnished with one large table, several hard wooden chairs, one rocker, pin-rails for hats and cloaks, a towel roller, and a few lockers. Some hall, I thought. It was really gloomy down there ’cos the single barred window was below the level of the pavement.
He didn’t deal with me right away because he had some duties to attend to first. He left me standing in the servants’ hall. A middle-aged lady at the large table was shouting orders at a young maid.
‘Come along, Susie, for goodness’ sake. Those sandwiches you’ve cut for Madam’s lunch are much too thick. Cut the cucumber and the bread thinly.’
‘I cut them as thin as I could, Mrs Armstrong,’ the young maid answered.
‘Well, they won’t do. Cut them again and don’t forget to remove the crusts. And peel the potatoes and prepare the vegetables for tonight’s dinner.’
‘Yes, Mrs Armstrong.’
The butler reappeared and took his turn at haranguing the young maid.
‘Haven’t you got the luncheon tray ready yet, Susie? They’ll be back at one o’clock. Get a move on.’
‘I’ve only got one pair of hands.’
I stood there, quietly taking it all in. I looked through the window but the only view I could see was the feet of people passing by above.
Boots - boots - boots - boots - movin ’ up and down again! I sang to myself. Black boots, brown boots, creaky boots, squeaky boots. Why, you could even see the ladies’ ankles
under their crinolines. I’d bet the men weren’t slow noticing that.
The butler turned to me. ‘My name is George Willoughby,’ he said. ‘I’m the house steward, responsible for the smooth running of the house and for staff discipline. Our staff comprises the cook, Mrs Ruth Armstrong, the parlour maid, Miss Victoria Garrett, and our odd-job and handy man, Ned Dooley - we call him Old Ned.’
‘I think I saw Mr Dooley as I came in,’ I said nervously by way of making conversation and to show him that I wasn’t entirely simple-minded and that I had a tongue in my head.
‘Quite,’ he answered. Obviously a man of few words.
I asked him about my luggage which was still at the station and he arranged for Old Ned to collect it in his cart.
He took me into the kitchen and introduced the cook. She was busy dicing carrots but she looked up from her work to give me a cheery smile. Although I’d heard her shouting orders at the maid, I took a liking to her right away for not only did she give me a big smile, she put down her knife to shake my hand.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ she said. ‘You’ll be helping me in the kitchen and lately I’ve been run off my feet. I’m sure Susie, the parlour maid, will be grateful as well.’
I was puzzled. ‘Sorry, Cook,’ I said. ‘I thought the parlour maid was called Victoria.’
‘Please don’t call me Cook,’ she said. ‘You must always call me Mrs Armstrong. As for Victoria, upstairs they thought the name of a queen was too posh for a parlour maid so they renamed her Susie as more in keeping with her position. Same with Mr Willoughby here. George is considered too royal and snooty for a butler and so they rechristened him James, the name given to just about every butler in the land.’
‘But wasn’t James the name of a king as well?’ I said.
‘That was the King of Scotland and so it doesn’t count,’ she replied. ‘I hope you don’t have a posh name, dear.’
‘My full name is Catherine.’
‘Catherine?’ Mrs Armstrong pursed her lips. ‘I’m not sure they’ll wear that upstairs. Better not tell them that. Best to stick to Kate.’
Mr Willoughby - or should I say James - interrupted our little exchange.
‘This morning, the family is out and I’m fairly busy. So I’m going to ask Susie to show you around and give you some idea of your job.’
At that moment, Susie entered the kitchen carrying a pile of plates. James made the introduction. She was a pretty young lady with big brown eyes and dark hair, in her early twenties. She was wearing a silk black dress with a lace-trimmed apron and cap with a long streamer at the back. She had an attractive Geordie accent like one of the girls I knew back at Swinton.
‘We’re pleased to see you here,’ she said, smiling warmly. ‘Since Molly, the last kitchen maid, left, we’ve been carrying a heavy load.’
Susie took me on a conducted tour of the house. We began downstairs and she showed me the scullery which was going to be my main place of work. Then the store rooms, the linen cupboards, and the china closet. We examined the butler’s pantry - which was not a pantry at all since there was no food kept there. I could see nothing but plates and glassware. The cook’s pantry, however, did have food and lots of it - homemade preserves, cakes, biscuits and pickles, plus more china and glass.
Next, we looked at the wine cellar with its stock of port, sherry, Madeira and table wines.
‘This is James’s province,’ she advised. ‘No one, but no one, is allowed to touch any of the bottles in here. Sometimes I think he considers himself the real owner of this booze. He reckons that all wines must be tested and tasted before they’re taken up to the master’s table. In case they’ve gone off, he says. Some story! That perhaps explains his nose,’ she added with a mischievous grin. ‘Downstairs, we reckon he drinks one bottle in every five he takes upstairs. He’s not the only one who likes a drop. Mrs Armstrong is fond of a hooch or two when she’s making sherry trifle or a dish that requires a spot of brandy.’
She showed me the back stairs which led to the top floor where the servants had their quarters.
‘Why do we need back stairs?’ I asked.
‘We use them to hide things our employers don’t want to see. For example, it’s your job to empty the chamber pots in the morning.’ She laughed. ‘We have to cover the pots with a cloth so that the people who filled ’em don’t have to see their produce.’
‘I seem to have spent half my life emptying chamber pots,’ I said, joining in the mirth. ‘Perhaps I should be called the chambermaid. But what else do we use the stairs for?’
Susie chuckled at my joking. I liked her for that ‘You’ll also carry down the hip baths if they’ve been used,’ she answered. ‘They’re a bit heavy and awkward but Old Ned usually helps.’
‘What about James? Doesn’t he help?’
‘Not on your Nellie. The heaviest thing he carries is the master’s Manchester Guardian .’
By this time, we’d reached the top floor and Susie took me to the bedroom that we’d be sharing. It was small with a sloping ceiling and a tiny skylight. Hardly big enough for the double bed, the wardrobe, and the small
dressing table. Still, I didn’t complain. I’d known worse.
We descended by the main staircase and entered a different world. The one inhabited by the Upstairs people. Everywhere I looked, there was opulence, from the thick carpets and the antique furniture to the display of oil paintings on the walls. We entered the master’s study- cum-library with its leatherbound books in shelves right up to the ceiling. On the massive mahogany desk was a strange ‘Sherlock Holmes’ pipe resting on a little metal cradle.
‘I see he likes his tobacco,’ I remarked, pointing to the pipe.
Susie looked puzzled. ‘Oh, that.’ She laughed. ‘That’s not a pipe. It’s a telephone.’
‘I see,’ I replied, embarrassed by my country girl innocence. ‘Isn’t it marvellous what they can do nowadays? I suppose he uses it to give orders to us downstairs.’
She laughed again. ‘No, they have a special speaking tube for that in the dining room. The master uses this one to keep in touch with the outside world, especially his office at the Royal Exchange in Manchester. We have strict orders never to touch it except maybe with a feather duster. And we must never try to use it.’
I looked at the phone more closely and at the metal label on the base which read: ‘Ericsson Skeleton Magneto’.
‘I wouldn’t dream of touching it. I’ll bet you can pick up all kinds of brain diseases with that magnetism going through your head.’
She chuckled. ‘You are out of touch with the wonders of modern science.’
We went into the main hall. And what a hall! It was as big as a whole house and along the wide staircase were wooden panels with heraldic shields. One had the family motto ‘Hope and Pray’, which summed up the way I was
feeling at that moment. The house was a cross between a wine merchant’s warehouse, a museum and an art gallery. Why did one family of two parents and two adult children need so much and so many servants? I thought of my mam living in Aunt Sarah’s parlour back in Ancoats.
The thing uppermost in my mind, though, was how I fitted into all this. I asked Susie what my duties would be.
‘This is a small household, only five servants,’ she said, ‘and so we all have to muck in. The Lamports in the Macclesfield district are mainly silk merchants with pots of money. Our family is comfortable but not so well off as the other branches of the clan. I think that’s why Madam is sometimes bitchy. Thinks she and her husband are looked down on by their hoity-toity relatives because he’s only a stockbroker and not a rich factory owner.’
‘But the family’s called Lamport-Smythe,’ I said. ‘It’s a funny name, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is. But Madam is a Lamport and the master is a Smythe. When they married, she felt that Smythe was a bit of a come-down and so she added her own snooty name to his.’
‘There’s nowt so queer as folk,’ I said.
Susie chuckled at the Lancashire proverb. ‘Anyway, because the family’s not quite in the top drawer, we have to share the jobs between us. I’m supposed to be a parlour maid but I have to do chores that only a kitchen maid would do in a bigger household. You’re the under-parlour maid - which is the maid of all work, the general dogsbody.’
She produced a list from her pocket and handed it to me without saying a word but watched for my reaction with an amused smile.
It was a long list and my heart skipped a couple of beats when I saw it. ‘So that’s the list of duties for the staff,’ I said. ‘Which of these are mine?’
‘All of them,’ she replied, her grin widening. At first I thought she was joking but then I realised that she meant it. No point complaining about it. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said eventually. ‘I felt the same when I first came but you’ll get used to it and you’ll develop a routine which’ll help you cope. At least we don’t have to wash their clothes. They send them out to a laundry. Madam said she couldn’t do with all that steam coming up from the basement. But more important, let me tell you something about the people upstairs.’
I was all ears ’cos I knew that the personalities I was going to work for could make the difference between heaven and hell.
‘First,’ Susie began, ‘there’s the master, Mr Derek Lamport-Smythe. He’s away at work in Manchester most of the time and so you won’t see much of him. He’s a gentle soul, always kind and considerate. Under his wife’s thumb though. If she says, “Today I think we’ll tell the gardener to cut the lawn”, that means “Today, you will instruct the gardener to cut the lawn”. Madam regards it as beneath her to speak directly to such a lowly person as a gardener. The master is all for keeping the peace and simply does as he’s told.’
‘Madam sounds like a proper tartar,’ I said.
‘That’s putting it mildly. At times, she can be a real bitch. Ned and I have nicknamed her ‘Her Majesty’ but James and Mrs Armstrong disapprove of the term strongly. They believe you should have respect for your betters. Anyroad, it’s best to be on your guard when dealing with the Madam. Whatever you do, never answer her back.’
‘If I answer at all,’ I laughed, ‘it’ll be to her front.’
Susie joined in the laughter. ‘As long as you keep your sense of humour, Kate, you’ll do. Her Majesty has
delusions of grandeur and tries to behave like royalty. She dislikes face to face meetings with servants as she regards us as inferior beings, like slaves. If you happen to meet her on the stairs, it’s best to turn away and busy yourself doing something, to avoid eye contact. You’ll see what I mean when you get your first pay. If you do have to speak to her, always curtsy and call her Madam. If she orders you to clean something that you’ve just cleaned, don’t argue, hop to it or she’ll sack you on the spot. That’s what happened to Mollie, your predecessor. Her Majesty has cleanliness on the brain - she runs her hand down the banisters and along the picture rails to test for dust.’
There’s always someone like that in my life, I thought. Why couldn’t the world be peopled by nice folk?
‘What about the other two adults?’ I asked, fearing the worst.
‘Emma’s fine,’ she said. ‘A do-gooder trying to put the world to rights. She’s one of them suffragists fighting for women’s rights. You’ll find she’s on your side in any dispute.’
‘And Harold? What about him?’
‘Now him,’ she exclaimed, ‘you have to watch out for. He’s one for the girls and no mistake. Downstairs, we call him Horny Harold. Mrs Armstrong tells me that when Madam was pregnant with him, she used to read Dickens and Shakespeare aloud to her womb, thinking it would make him clever. I think someone on the quiet must have been reading bits out of the Kama Sutra instead.’
‘WEat’s that? The Kama Sutra ?’ I asked.
‘It’s one of them sex manual books. Harold studies it every morning. He keeps it in a big brown envelope under the bed but I’ve looked at it when he’s out. It’s a real mucky book and by the look of the pictures, you’d have to be made of rubber to do as it said.
‘When you take his morning tea,’ she continued, ‘be on the alert. The sight of a long-legged, good-looking girl like you bending over him in the morning will awaken his early-morning passion and he’ll have you in his bed as soon as look at you. I know. He’s tried it on with me a few times. It’s hard to resist ’cos he’s the boss’s son and he could get you the sack. To him we’re not people; we’re only servants and anyone’s for the taking.’
‘Surely he wouldn’t try it on with me. I’m only fourteen and a half.’
‘Wouldn’t he? Your age won’t bother him, believe me.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Put his tea down on his bedside cabinet and get out of there double quick.’
After this briefing on the personalities of my employers, it was time to return to the servants’ hall.
‘Her Majesty and the master are back from Lyme Park,’ Old Ned declared as he came in from the garden.
There was a flurry of activity at the announcement.
‘Susie, be quick, there’s a good girl,’ Mrs Armstrong ordered. ‘Prepare their tray. You know what she’s like if she doesn’t get her tea straightaway.’
No sooner had she spoken than the drawing-room bell started to ring.
‘I think I’ll die with the sound of them bells in my ears,’ Mrs Armstrong exclaimed.
Susie quickly put the finishing touches to the tray of sandwiches and departed hurriedly from the room. She was soon back and it was time for the servants’ midday meal, after which I was to meet Mrs Lamport-Smythe - an interview I was dreading.
At the table, James presided and the rest of us sat round
the sides in order of rank. As the newcomer, I was the lowest. Mrs Armstrong poured the tea and gave us a large slice of her walnut cake, the first I’d ever tasted - so delicious it melted in the mouth.
‘You’ll like it here,’ Mrs Armstrong said to me, ‘once you’ve got used to our little ways. You’ve got to take the rough with the smooth. Madam’s sometimes a pain but her husband makes up for her nastiness. As for Harry up there, he’s no problem as long as you keep him at arm’s length, if you take my meaning. Miss Emma more than compensates for him.’
Old Ned Dooley thought it was time he put in a word or two at the table.
‘The postman tells me,’ he said, ‘that the horny one has been getting more of that there erratic magazine stuff.’
‘How do you know it’s erotic magazines?’ James asked. ‘The envelopes are sealed.’
‘As God is my witness, I heard it with my own ears from Sidney, the postman. He recognises it ’cos he delivers a lot of that stuff round here, especially to the gentry. The envelope was marked “TEMA Private and Confidential”. TEMA stands for “The Erratic Magazine Association”, or so Sidney said. The magazine is full of filthy dirty pictures. May God strike him blind.’
‘I think Harold must have sex on the brain,’ said Susie. ‘And come to think of it, not only on his brain.’
‘That’s what comes from attending them public schools,’ James said. ‘Once they let them out of school, it’s like a cork out of a bottle.’ ' *
‘And that’s something you should know something about,’ Mrs Armstrong said slyly.
‘And why not?’ James answered her. ‘We all have our perks in this house. I have a little drink or two to test the quality. You get your boodle in the form of discounts from
the tradesmen. That’s not counting the dripping you get from the roast meat.’
‘And the rest of us get the cast-off clothes when our betters decide to change their wardrobes,’ Old Ned added. ‘And don’t forget our four meals a day and the leftovers from the meals upstairs.’
‘Left-over food! Some perk!’ Susie exclaimed. ‘Sometimes I find I’m having custard and jelly plus steak and onions for breakfast.’
The conversation continued along these lines for some time and I only wished it could have gone on longer. Anything to put off the evil moment when I should have to face the Madam.
‘I’ve brought your box from the station,’ Ned Dooley told me. ‘You’ll need to get it up to your room.’
‘We’ll take the box up the back stairs to your room,’ said James, ‘and then it’s time to face the music. I’ll take you in to meet your mistress.’
For a minute, I thought James was going to help me carry it. Some hopes!
I took a firm grip on the handles of my box and struggled up the back stairs behind James who was carrying the Manchester Guardian on a tray for the master.
I deposited my box in my room and James and I descended the main staircase to the drawing room. He knocked gently on the door and entered.
‘Miss Catherine Lally, the new maid. Madam,’ he announced.
‘Yes, thank you, James,’ Mrs Lamport-Smythe replied. ‘You may leave us.’
James withdrew and I was left alone with Madam and the master.
I stood there awkwardly. Madam’s gaze was directed at an ancestral portrait on the wall above the mantelpiece.
The master was sitting by the window reading his paper and he looked up and smiled reassuringly.
She was a tall, thin, bony woman with a scraggy neck. A real sourpuss if ever I saw one. It was a good three minutes before she spoke. She had a high-pitched, squeaky voice - the kind that sounded as if it needed a drop of oil.
‘Your name is Catherine Lally?’ she inquired, addressing the picture.
‘Yes, if you please, Madam,’ I said giving her one of Lucy Morrell’s best curtsies. I hoped I was not laying it on too thick.
‘Catherine isn’t a suitable name for a servant. It’s the name of a former Queen of Russia. In this house you’ll be known as Kate.’
‘Yes, Madam. Thank you, Madam.’The words stuck in my throat.
‘You come with good references from Mr Birkby at Swinton. I shall take you on trial for a month, starting work tomorrow. I hope you can live up to Birkby’s high opinion of you.’
‘I hope so, Madam,’ I answered. Should I curtsy again? Maybe that would be overdoing it.
‘Good. Have you brought your belongings from Swinton?’ she asked wrinkling her nose. She made ‘belongings’ sound like sewage from a privy.
‘Yes, Madam. Ned, the gardener, brought it from the station.’
‘I hope the box was clean and insect-free. God forbid that we introduce bugs into the house. I read recently that these things can multiply at an alarming rate. It said that a pair of bugs can produce twenty-two million in one year.’
‘The box has recently been made in the Swinton carpenter’s shop, Madam, and my clothes are new.’
‘Very well. Now in this initial meeting I want to lay
down the basic ground rules. First, personal hygiene. I trust you keep yourself clean. Mollie, the last girl, did not. She wore the same thick stockings for a week at a time and I think she washed her feet once a month. She was definitely beginning to emit an offensive odour. As long as you are here, you must practise daily ablutions, applied to the feet as well as the armpits. Remember, cleanliness is next to godliness. For this purpose, you will be allocated a bar of soap a month. See that you use it.’
I’d like to see you keep yourself clean on one bar a month, I thought.
‘Next, you will not get familiar with the various trades people who call at the house. You must not entertain friends in the kitchen and I do not want to hear laughing or singing above stairs. There must be no romping or horseplay. No sneaking off for unauthorised breaks. If you want a break, you must ask my permission. Finally, I will not tolerate followers or boyfriends of any kind.’
She needn’t worry on that score, I said to myself. I’ve never had a boyfriend and I can’t see any prospects of one as long as I’m in this job.
‘As to your duties, these will be set by James, the house steward, and you will obey him at all times. You will of course undertake a full share of the monthly spring cleaning of the whole house. When it comes to time off, we are more than generous. You will be allowed one evening per week after dinner, a half-day on Sunday, and one full day every three months. Your pay will be twelve pounds per year, which I believe is more than most maids in your position receive. You will be paid at the end of each month.’
‘Thank you, Madam.’
This would be the first pay I’d ever received and to me it sounded like a fortune. Why, I might be able to send a bit home to Mam and maybe even save a bob or two.
Mr Lamport-Smythe looked up from his paper again and gave me one of his smiles. ‘I hope, Kate, that you’ll be happy here,’ he said.
Madam froze him with a cold stare. ‘Please leave the servants to me, Derek,’ she rasped. ‘Very well,’ she said, turning back to the wall painting, ‘we’ll see how you get on. Meanwhile, I’d like you to study this little tract published by the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge.’
I curtsied and holding the tract as if it was the Magna Carta, I left the room.
In the servants’ hall, they were waiting to hear my report.
‘They’ve opted for Kate,’ I said.
‘Told you so,’ said Mrs Armstrong. ‘Catherine’s much too grand for a tweeny. What else?’
‘I’m to have one evening off per week, a half-day every Sunday and a full day every three months.’
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ Susie said. ‘The evening off is after you’ve helped make the dinner and washed the dishes. You’ll be so jiggered, the only thing you’ll want to do is flop on your bed. As for Sunday afternoon off, that’s after you’ve prepared the vegetables for Mrs Armstrong, washed up after lunch and scrubbed the scullery floor. It’ll be two o’clock before you’re away and you’ll have to be back by half-past six to help with dinner. So much for your afternoon off.’
‘Now don’t discourage the young colleen,’ Old Ned said. ‘What other rules has the ould bitch laid down?’
‘I’m to keep myself clean and have no followers.’
‘They’re always going on about that have-no-followers rule,’ Susie said. ‘They’re afraid the lower classes might start breeding and overpopulate the country. There’s a joke about that follower business. A Madam ran short of change one day and called down the kitchen stairs: Mary,
have you any coppers down there? The reply was: Yes, Madam, but they’re both my cousins.’
The company round the table laughed heartily.
After dinner that night, I retired to the little box room to unpack my things, hoping that I was not importing parasites into the home. First thing I did was place my glass swan and the statue of the Sacred Heart on the mantelpiece. The swan was my last link to the old life and I vowed never to forget my roots or my heartfelt wish to get my family together again some day, though Butler Court and my hopes for the future seemed a long way off.
Later I was joined by Susie after she’d finished her duties for the day. Together, we read the tract from the Christian Knowledge Society.
First, don’t think too much about wages; serving in a safe, happy home is of greater consequence.
Second, don’t deny faults in a saucy, indignant way. If something has been lost, offer to have your own possessions searched.
Third, don’t gossip with trades people or servants.
Fourth, don’t get into a temper if the hall or the steps you have just cleaned are immediately spattered with mud by thoughtless people.
Fifth, don’t read silly sensational stories in poisonous publications which are brought to the back doors of gentlemen’s homes.
Sixth, don’t let candles flare away for hours without being of use.
Last, remember to pray carefully and regularly.
We put our candles out by squeezing the flames with our fingers and laughed ourselves to sleep.