Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid by Mollie Moran Page A
Authors: Mollie Moran
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matches from
trays slung round their necks with string and elderly ladies selling lavender from
wicker baskets sat huddled under umbrellas. Rag-and-bone men clattered up the streets
past our car calling out for ‘any old iron’. Newspaper boys cried
out ‘Post!’ to compete with the noise of car horns and
‘muffin’ menstrode along ringing large bells and
carrying trays of hot buns and butter on their heads. The noise was deafening.
‘I can hardly hear myself think in
London,’ grumbled Mr Thornton.
The Depression may have destroyed large
parts of Britain, but London had largely escaped and, driving through it now, I saw no
sign of it. The new ‘sunrise’ industries, such as producing
electrical equipment and consumer goods, helped to offset unemployment in more
traditional industries. And there were many jobs created in engineering – manufacturing
of clothes and shoes, food and drink production, furniture and printing to name but a
few.
My mouth dropped open at this spectacle of
noise and colour. It was as far removed from Norfolk as it was possible to get. Craning
my neck up, I stared at the highest buildings I’d ever seen in my
life
,
thrilled to be in London again. Norfolk is flat in all directions,
but here in London, round every street corner, amazing red-brick buildings soared into
the skyline. This was pre-Blitz and the streets were a jumble of eighteenth- and
nineteenth-century terraced buildings. And shops, so many, many shops! Girls in uniforms
and whistling errand boys on bikes zipped around like busy little worker ants laden down
with brown paper packages.
Sensing, perhaps, that I was a little
dazzled by my surroundings, Mr Thornton frowned. ‘Now, you are going to behave
yourself, aren’t you?’ he mumbled, staring at me hard in the rear
mirror.
‘Course, Mr Thornton,’ I
grinned as I gazed out of the window and waved at some boys hopping on to a tram.
Gradually the hustle and bustle gave way to
a differentand, even to my untrained eye, more well-to-do
neighbourhood. Crowded cobbled streets turned to wider pavements and smart leafy
squares. This was the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea in the 1930s, and a more
stylish place I’d never before seen. The air seemed cleaner and more refined
somehow. Elegant, stuccoed houses looked out on a slow-moving world. The traffic thinned
out and even the people looked more expensive. Smart gentlemen in wide-legged suits with
large turned-up hems and creases, thin moustaches and oiled-back hair, strolled arm in
arm with the most beautiful ladies imaginable. They all looked groomed, dapper and
suave. From the hems of the smartly tailored wool suits to their shoulder pads and
fox-fur stoles, these women oozed money, class and privilege. Their shiny hair had been
sculpted into perfect finger waves and many wore jaunty little hats at an angle. I
pushed back a lock of my thick red hair and nervously twisted the hemline of my loose
cotton skirt.
These women looked like they’d
been carved from marble. Even the children looked immaculate as they trotted alongside
their nannies in smart sailor suits or pretty smock dresses.
Suddenly I felt exactly what I was – a
knock-kneed fourteen-year-old up from the sticks. ‘Ooh, my stomach’s
like a bag of ferrets,’ I said nervously.
Mr Thornton said nothing. Instead, he pulled
the Daimler to a stop outside the biggest house I’d seen in my life.
I literally gasped.
Number 24 Cadogan Square looked like a giant
iced wedding cake and towered into the blue skies above. It was at least six storeys
high. Every other house in thegenteel square was just as impressive
and the centrepiece was the beautiful leafy green garden in the middle, surrounded by
black railings. Nannies and children sat on the grass playing in the sunshine and
instinct told me that wasn’t a place I’d be spending a lot of time
in
trays slung round their necks with string and elderly ladies selling lavender from
wicker baskets sat huddled under umbrellas. Rag-and-bone men clattered up the streets
past our car calling out for ‘any old iron’. Newspaper boys cried
out ‘Post!’ to compete with the noise of car horns and
‘muffin’ menstrode along ringing large bells and
carrying trays of hot buns and butter on their heads. The noise was deafening.
‘I can hardly hear myself think in
London,’ grumbled Mr Thornton.
The Depression may have destroyed large
parts of Britain, but London had largely escaped and, driving through it now, I saw no
sign of it. The new ‘sunrise’ industries, such as producing
electrical equipment and consumer goods, helped to offset unemployment in more
traditional industries. And there were many jobs created in engineering – manufacturing
of clothes and shoes, food and drink production, furniture and printing to name but a
few.
My mouth dropped open at this spectacle of
noise and colour. It was as far removed from Norfolk as it was possible to get. Craning
my neck up, I stared at the highest buildings I’d ever seen in my
life
,
thrilled to be in London again. Norfolk is flat in all directions,
but here in London, round every street corner, amazing red-brick buildings soared into
the skyline. This was pre-Blitz and the streets were a jumble of eighteenth- and
nineteenth-century terraced buildings. And shops, so many, many shops! Girls in uniforms
and whistling errand boys on bikes zipped around like busy little worker ants laden down
with brown paper packages.
Sensing, perhaps, that I was a little
dazzled by my surroundings, Mr Thornton frowned. ‘Now, you are going to behave
yourself, aren’t you?’ he mumbled, staring at me hard in the rear
mirror.
‘Course, Mr Thornton,’ I
grinned as I gazed out of the window and waved at some boys hopping on to a tram.
Gradually the hustle and bustle gave way to
a differentand, even to my untrained eye, more well-to-do
neighbourhood. Crowded cobbled streets turned to wider pavements and smart leafy
squares. This was the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea in the 1930s, and a more
stylish place I’d never before seen. The air seemed cleaner and more refined
somehow. Elegant, stuccoed houses looked out on a slow-moving world. The traffic thinned
out and even the people looked more expensive. Smart gentlemen in wide-legged suits with
large turned-up hems and creases, thin moustaches and oiled-back hair, strolled arm in
arm with the most beautiful ladies imaginable. They all looked groomed, dapper and
suave. From the hems of the smartly tailored wool suits to their shoulder pads and
fox-fur stoles, these women oozed money, class and privilege. Their shiny hair had been
sculpted into perfect finger waves and many wore jaunty little hats at an angle. I
pushed back a lock of my thick red hair and nervously twisted the hemline of my loose
cotton skirt.
These women looked like they’d
been carved from marble. Even the children looked immaculate as they trotted alongside
their nannies in smart sailor suits or pretty smock dresses.
Suddenly I felt exactly what I was – a
knock-kneed fourteen-year-old up from the sticks. ‘Ooh, my stomach’s
like a bag of ferrets,’ I said nervously.
Mr Thornton said nothing. Instead, he pulled
the Daimler to a stop outside the biggest house I’d seen in my life.
I literally gasped.
Number 24 Cadogan Square looked like a giant
iced wedding cake and towered into the blue skies above. It was at least six storeys
high. Every other house in thegenteel square was just as impressive
and the centrepiece was the beautiful leafy green garden in the middle, surrounded by
black railings. Nannies and children sat on the grass playing in the sunshine and
instinct told me that wasn’t a place I’d be spending a lot of time
in
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