Aprons and Silver Spoons: The Heartwarming Memoirs of a 1930s Scullery Maid
Mollie Moran
Language: English
Pages: 208
ISBN: B010DSBJLM
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
When young Mollie became a 'skivvy' in a stately London townhouse aged just 14, she quickly learned that a large amount of elbow grease and a sense of humour would be tantamount to surviving there. Through Mollie's eyes we are offered a fascinating glimpse into London's invisible 'downstairs', a world that has long-since vanished.
fluffy and light as clouds, but with a wonderful chewy skin from being roasted in duck fat. The flavour was out of this world. My father tried his hardest, but the odd dry pigeon and poached pheasant couldn’t compete with this sirloin. It was gone in a heartbeat and I mopped up the last of the unctuous gravy juices with a hunk of bread and sat back happily in my chair. Everyone chattered about their business and ignored me, but I guess as the new scullery maid I was pretty invisible. Next came
couldn’t help but tease me. ‘I reckon that footman has a thing for you, Mollie,’ she said. ‘Behave,’ I said. ‘Besides, I couldn’t court him. Mrs Jones says dating other staff’s not allowed, is it? I couldn’t …’ Could I? My mind drifted back to my carefree childhood. Since when did I give a fig for things like petty rules? I could date a footman if I wanted and it would take more than a cantankerous old cook to stop me. ‘Well, we’re back off to the country soon,’ said Flo. Her voice was rich
sugared doughnuts from the bakery, oozing with raspberry jam and thick with sugar, were my favourite. There were pubs in the village, of course. Three, in fact – the Crown, the George and Dragon, and the Nag’s Head – which mostly served to shelter old boys nursing a pint of Norfolk Ale and hiding out from the missus. ‘She’s always mobbun about suffun,’ they’d grumble. I always used to roam about on my own, right from when I was a tiny nipper. When you’re little you’re invisible to everyone.
nightie, wearing an expression that could curdle milk. ‘In. Now,’ she stormed. ‘You’re late.’ ‘Sorry, Mrs Jones,’ we said meekly as we scurried up the back stairs in the dark. Lying in our beds, Flo gave me the third degree. ‘So, did he try it on?’ she asked. ‘Course,’ I laughed. ‘But I gave him a cut across the hand. What about that lad you were dancing with?’ ‘Just a peck,’ she said. ‘It was nothing to write home about. You going to see yours again?’ ‘Not if I can help it!’ As we
cooking such delicacies as beef Wellington. Mother bought me my own copy of Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management and in time it became so well thumbed it actually fell apart. It was all utterly marvellous. I was my own boss. As long as I got all the meals out ready for the butler to take through, three times a day, then the evenings were my own. I earned a pound a week (a fortune for a twenty-year-old in 1937), ran a kitchen that looked out over glorious parkland and I even had a fridge.