it came to having a clothes-brush flung at him, human nature could stand no more. Rose and I giggled as we visualised the pompous and stately Burrows trying to dodge a clothes-brush. I was just saying goodbye to Rose when, much to my embarrassment, Gerald came in. Although I was no longer a servant in his mother’s house and he had no jurisdiction over me, yet I was still a servant and, as such, felt distinctly inferior. Such was the vast social, educational and financial gap between above and below stairs, it was almost impossible to feel at ease unless the rigid distinctions were maintained. Rose hadn’t yet managed the transposition; she was living in a kind of limbo – though I flattered myself that given her chance, I’d have made a go of it.
I could see that her husband wasn’t pleased to see me as a visitor in his house, and comparing my clothes with the expensive ones Rose was wearing, I suppose I must have looked like a poor relation. Even though I was now earning £45 a year, I couldn’t afford to buy expensive outfits. As I left, Rose whispered to me to come again soon and to bring Mary.
14
By the time I was in my next temporary job, the General Strike had started. One of my history books describes the strike as ‘one of the most controversial and significant events of the inter-war years’, but at the time it made little or no impression or difference to us in domestic service. We had so few free hours outside the basement that our need of transport was minimal and, as for the news, they had a radio above stairs and scraps of information from this were retailed to us. Not that the aged housemaid and parlourmaid would have been at all interested in the strike even if we’d had a radio below stairs. Mrs. Hunter-Jones was one of the worst kind of employers; haughty and overbearing in manner, she provided the absolute minimum for the comfort of the servants. We had no servants’ hall, so in what was very limited leisure time we had to sit in the kitchen. Madam had provided just three chairs; if Mary or Gladys came to see me one of us had to stand up. Perhaps that was Madam’s way of discouraging visitors. She’d also provided us with three books; the Bible, Pilgrim’s Progress and Little Women. This latter, judging by the tattered cover, was the only one that previous servants had opened – though for my part I preferred John Bunyan and read him many times. When I added my own book to this extensive library – I was reading Felix Holt the Radical – the housemaid said Madam wouldn’t like to see that book in the kitchen. Violet, who was sixty-three, had never in her life read such a book, but the word ‘Radical’ was enough to convince her that it wasn’t a suitable book for a servant to read. Most employers provided the Bible for their servants; I suppose they were acting on the assumption that a knowledge of the hardships of life in the Old Testament, coupled with words on a paradisal after-life in the New, compensated us for our somewhat dreary existence below stairs.
We did have two pictures and a text hanging on the wall in our kitchen. One picture showed Elijah rising to heaven, and the other, Commander James Wolfe dying at the battle of Quebec. The text stated: IN ALL LABOUR THERE IS PROFIT, BUT THE TALK OF THE LIPS TENDETH ONLY TO PENURY. If that was true, there was little prospect of penury in our kitchen as Violet and Lily hardly ever spoke either to each other, or to me. Poor Lily and Violet, after twenty-five years in the same place in service, had expected to retire on an annuity; in fact, this had been promised by their employer. But, no will, no annuity. It just shows that you need to see written evidence of an assured future. Now, at sixty-three and sixty-five respectively, they had little choice of jobs; hence Mrs Hunter-Jones. I’d no intention of staying long, the place was too much like Bleak House.
Mary came to see me. She was thinking of leaving her job because the
I could see that her husband wasn’t pleased to see me as a visitor in his house, and comparing my clothes with the expensive ones Rose was wearing, I suppose I must have looked like a poor relation. Even though I was now earning £45 a year, I couldn’t afford to buy expensive outfits. As I left, Rose whispered to me to come again soon and to bring Mary.
14
By the time I was in my next temporary job, the General Strike had started. One of my history books describes the strike as ‘one of the most controversial and significant events of the inter-war years’, but at the time it made little or no impression or difference to us in domestic service. We had so few free hours outside the basement that our need of transport was minimal and, as for the news, they had a radio above stairs and scraps of information from this were retailed to us. Not that the aged housemaid and parlourmaid would have been at all interested in the strike even if we’d had a radio below stairs. Mrs. Hunter-Jones was one of the worst kind of employers; haughty and overbearing in manner, she provided the absolute minimum for the comfort of the servants. We had no servants’ hall, so in what was very limited leisure time we had to sit in the kitchen. Madam had provided just three chairs; if Mary or Gladys came to see me one of us had to stand up. Perhaps that was Madam’s way of discouraging visitors. She’d also provided us with three books; the Bible, Pilgrim’s Progress and Little Women. This latter, judging by the tattered cover, was the only one that previous servants had opened – though for my part I preferred John Bunyan and read him many times. When I added my own book to this extensive library – I was reading Felix Holt the Radical – the housemaid said Madam wouldn’t like to see that book in the kitchen. Violet, who was sixty-three, had never in her life read such a book, but the word ‘Radical’ was enough to convince her that it wasn’t a suitable book for a servant to read. Most employers provided the Bible for their servants; I suppose they were acting on the assumption that a knowledge of the hardships of life in the Old Testament, coupled with words on a paradisal after-life in the New, compensated us for our somewhat dreary existence below stairs.
We did have two pictures and a text hanging on the wall in our kitchen. One picture showed Elijah rising to heaven, and the other, Commander James Wolfe dying at the battle of Quebec. The text stated: IN ALL LABOUR THERE IS PROFIT, BUT THE TALK OF THE LIPS TENDETH ONLY TO PENURY. If that was true, there was little prospect of penury in our kitchen as Violet and Lily hardly ever spoke either to each other, or to me. Poor Lily and Violet, after twenty-five years in the same place in service, had expected to retire on an annuity; in fact, this had been promised by their employer. But, no will, no annuity. It just shows that you need to see written evidence of an assured future. Now, at sixty-three and sixty-five respectively, they had little choice of jobs; hence Mrs Hunter-Jones. I’d no intention of staying long, the place was too much like Bleak House.
Mary came to see me. She was thinking of leaving her job because the
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