by Laurie Lee
‘Mr Jolly was really educated,’ Mother told us; ‘and the pains he took with poor me.’ She giggled. ‘He used to stop after school to put me through my sums -1 was never any good at figures. I can see him now, parading up and down, pulling at his little white whiskers. “Annie,” he used to say, “you’ve got a lovely fist. You write the best essays in class. But you can’t do sums… .” And I couldn’t, either; they used to tie me in knots inside. But he was patience itself; he made me learn; and he used to lend me all his beautiful books. He wanted me to train to be a teacher, you see. But of course Father wouldn’t hear of it….’
When she was about thirteen years old her mother was taken ill, so the girl had to leave school for good. She had her five young brothers and her father to look after, and there was no one else to help. So she put away her books and her modest ambitions as she was naturally expected to do. The schoolmaster was furious and called her father a scoundrel, but was helpless to interfere. ‘Poor Mr Jolly,’ said Mother, fondly, ‘He never seemed to give up. He used to come round home when I was doing the washing and lecture me on Oliver Cromwell. He used to sit there so sad, saying it was a sinful shame, till Father used to dance and swear…
There was probably no one less capable of bringing up five husky brothers than this scatter-brained, half-grown girl. But she did what she could, at least. Meanwhile, she grew into tumble-haired adolescence, slap-dashing the housework in fits of abstraction and sliding into trances over the vegetables. She lived by longing rather than domestic law: Mr Jolly and his books had ruined her. During her small leisure hours she would put up her hair, squeeze her body into a tight-boned dress, and either sit by the window,or walk in the fields - getting poetry by heart, or sketching the landscape in a delicate snowflake scribble.
To the other village girls Mother was something of a case, yet they were curiously drawn towards her. Her strain of fantasy, her deranged sense of fun, her invention, satire, and elegance of manner, must have intrigued and perplexed them equally. One gathered that there were also quarrels at times, jealousies, name-callings, and tears. But there existed a coterie among the Quedgeley girls of which Mother was the exasperating centre. Books were passed round, excursions arranged, boys confounded by witty tongues. ‘Beatie Thomas, Vi Phillips - the laughs we used to have. The things we did. We were terrible.’
When her brothers were big enough to look after themselves, Mother went into domestic service. Wearing her best straw hat and carrying a rope-tied box, seventeen and shapely, half-wistful, half-excited, she set out alone for that world of great houses which in those days absorbed most of her kind. As scullery-maid, housemaid, nursemaid, parlour-maid, in large manors all over the west, she saw luxuries and refinements she could never forget, and to which in some ways she naturally belonged.
The idea of the Gentry, like love or the theatre, stayed to haunt her for the rest of her life. It haunted us too, through her. ‘ Real Gentry wouldn’t hear of it,’ she used to say; ‘ the Gentry always do it like this.’ Her tone of voice, when referring to their ways, was reverent, genteel, and longing. It proclaimed standards of culture we could never hope to attain and mourned their impossible perfections.
Sometimes, for instance, faced by a scratch meal in the kitchen, Mother would transform it in a trance of memory. A gleam would come to her hazy eyes and a special stance to her body. Lightly she would deploy a few plates on the table and curl her fingers airily. . ..
‘For dining, they’d have every place just so; personalcruets for every guest….’ Grimly we settled to our greens and bacon: there was no way to stop her now. ‘The silver and napery must be arranged in order, a set for each separate dish… .’ Our old bent forks would be whisked into line, helter-skelter along the table. ‘ First of all, the butler would bring in the soup (scoop-scoop) and begin by serving the ladies. There’d be river-trout next, or fresh salmon (flick-flick) lightly sprinkled with herbs and sauces. Then some woodcock perhaps, or a guinea-fowl - oh, yes, and a joint as well. And a cold ham on the sideboard, too, if you wished. For the gentlemen only, of course. The ladies never did more than pick at their food - ’ ‘Why not?’ ‘ - Oh, it wasn’t thought proper. Then Cook would send in some violet cakes, and there’d be walnuts and fruit in brandy. You’d have wine, of course, with every dish, each served in a different glass… .’ Stunned, we would listen, grinding our teeth and swallowing our empty hungers. Meanwhile Mother would have completely forgotten our soup, which then boiled over, and put out the fire.
But there were other stories of Big House life which we found somewhat less affronting. Glimpses of balls and their shimmering company, the chandeliers loaded with light. (‘We cleared a barrel of candle-ends next morning.’) And then Miss Emily’s betrothal. (‘ What a picture she was — we were allowed a peep from the stairs. A man came from Paris just to do her hair. Her dress had a thousand pearls. There were fiddlers in black perched up in the gallery. The gentlemen all wore uniform. Then the dances - the Polka, the Two-Step, the Schottische — oh, dear, I was carried away. We were all of us up on the top landing, listening; I was wicked in those days, I know. I seized hold of the pantry-boy and said, “Come on Tom”, and we danced up and down the passage. Then the Butler found us and boxed our ears. He was a terrible man, Mr Bee….’)
The long hard days the girls had of it then: rising beforedawn, all feathered with sleep, to lay twenty or thirty fires; the sweeping, scrubbing, dusting, and polishing that was done but to be done again; the scouring of pyramids of glass and silver; the scampering up and down stairs; and those irritable little bells that began ringing in tantrums just when you’d managed to put up your feet.
There was a £5-a-year wage, a fourteen-hour day, and a small attic for ravenous sleep: for the rest, the sub-grandees of the servants’ hall with a caste-system more rigid than India’s.
All the same, below-stairs was a lusty life, an underworld of warmth and plenty, huge meals served cosily cheek-by-jowl, with roast joints and porter for all. Ruled by a despotic or gin-mellow Butler and a severe or fun-fattened Cook, the young country girls and the grooms and the footmen stirred a seething broth together. There were pursuits down the passages, starched love in the laundry, smothered kisses behind green-baize doors - such flights and engagements filled the scrambling hours when the rows of brass bells were silent.
How did Mother fit into all this, I wonder? And those neat-fingered parlour-queens, prim over-housemaids, reigning Cooks, raging Nannies, who ordered her labours - what could they have made of her? Mischievous, muddleheaded, full of brilliant fancies, half witless, half touched with wonder; she was something entirely beyond their ken and must often have been their despair. But she was popular in those halls, a kind of mascot or clown; and she was beautiful, most beautiful at that time. She may not have known it, but her pictures reveal it; she herself seemed astonished to be noticed.
Two of her stories which reflect this astonishment I remember very well. Each is no more than an incident, but when she told them to us they took on a poignancy which prevented us from thinking them stale. I must have heardthem many times, right on into her later years, but at each re-telling she flushed and shone, and looked down at her hands in amazement, recalling again those two magic encounters which raised her for a moment from Annie Light the housemaid to a throne of enamelled myrtles.
The first one took place at the end of the century, when Mother was at Gaviston Court. ‘It was an old house, you know; very rambling and dark; a bit primitive too in some ways. But they entertained a lot - not just Gentry, but all sorts, even black men too at times. The Master had travelled all round the world and he was a very distinguished gentleman. You never quite knew what you were going to run into — it bothered us girls at times.
‘Well, one winter’s night they had this big house-party and the place was packed right out. It was much too cold to use the outside privy, but there was one just along the passage. The staff wasn’t supposed to use it, of course; but I thought, oh, I’ll ta
ke a chance. Well, I’d just got me hand on the privy door when suddenly it flew wide open. And there, large as life, stood an Indian prince, with a turban, and jewels in his beard. I felt awful, you know -1 was only a girl -1 wished the ground to swallow me up. I just bobbed him a curtsy and said, “Pardon, your Highness” -1 was paralysed, you see. But he only smiled, and then folded his hands, and bowed low, and said “ Please madame to enter.” So I held up my head, and went in, and sat down, just like that. I felt like a Queen….’
The second encounter Mother always described as though it had never happened - in that special, morning, dream-, telling voice that set it apart from all ordinary life. ‘I was working at the time in a big red house at a place called Farnham Surrey. On my Sundays off I used to go into Aldershot to visit my friend Amy Frost - Amy Hawkins that was, from Churchdown you know, before she got married, that is. Well, this particular Sunday I’d dressed up as usual, and I do think I looked a picture. I’d my smart lace-up boots, striped blouse and choker, a new bonnet, and crochet-work gloves. I got into Aldershot far too early so I just walked about for a bit. We’d had rain in the night and the streets were shining, and I was standing quite alone on the pavement. When suddenly round the corner, without any warning, marched a full-dress regiment of soldiers. I stood transfixed; all those men and just me; I didn’t know where to look. The officer in front - he had beautiful whiskers — raised his sword and cried out “Eyes right!” Then, would you believe, the drums started rolling, and the bagpipes started to play, and all those wonderful lads as they went swinging by snapped to attention and looked straight in my eyes. I stood all alone in my Sunday dress, it quite took my breath away. All those drums and pipes, and that salute just for me -1 just cried, it was so exciting….’
Later, our grandfather retired from his horses and went into the liquor business. He became host at The Plough, a small Sheepscombe inn, and when Grandmother died, a year or two afterwards, Mother left service to help him. Those were days of rough brews, penny ales, tuppenny rums, home-made cider, the staggers, and violence. Mother didn’t altogether approve of the life, but she entered the calling with spirit. ‘ That’s where I learned the frog-march,’ she’d say; ‘ and there were plenty of those who got it! Pug Sollars, for instance; the biggest bully in Sheepscombe - cider used to send him mad. He’d pick up the tables and lay about him like an animal while the chaps hid behind the piano. “Annie!” they’d holler, “ for the Lord’s sake save us! ” I was the only one could handle Pug. Many’s the time I’ve caught him by the collar and run him along the passage. Others, too - if they made me wild, I’d just throw them out in the road. Dadwas too easy, so it was me had to do it… They smirk when they see me now.’
The Plough Inn was built as one of the smaller stages on the old coach road to Birdlip; but by Mother’s time the road had decayed and was no longer the main route to anywhere. One or two carters, impelled by old habits, still used the lane and the inn, and Mother gave them ale and bacon suppers and put them to sleep in the stables. Otherwise, few travellers passed that way, and the lane was mostly silent. So through the long afternoons Mother fell into dreams of idleness, would dress in her best and sit out on the terrace, reading, or copying flowers. She was a lonely young woman, mysteriously detached, graceful in face and figure. Most of the village boys were afraid of her, of her stormy temper, her superior wit, her unpredictable mental exercises.
Mother spent several odd years in that village pub, living her double life, switching from bar-room rages to terrace meditations, and waiting while her twenties passed. Grandfather, on the other hand, spent his time in the cellars playing the fiddle across his boot. He held the landlordship of an inn to be the same as Shaw’s definition of marriage - as something combining the maximum of temptation with the maximum of opportunity. So he seldom appeared except late in the evening, when he’d pop up through a hole in the floor, his clothes undone, his face streaming with tears, singing ‘The Warrior’s Little Boy’.
Mother stuck by him faithfully, handled the drunks, grew older, and awaited deliverance. Then one day she read in a local paper: ‘Widower (4 Children) Seeks Housekeeper.’ She had had enough of Pug Sollars by now, and of fiddle-tunes in the cellar. She changed into her best, went out on to the terrace, sat down, and answered the advertisement. A reply came back, an appointment was made; and that’s how she met my father.
When she moved into his tiny house in Stroud, and took charge of his four small children, Mother was thirty and still quite handsome. She had not, I suppose, met anyone like him before. This rather priggish young man, with his devout gentility, his airs and manners, his music and ambitions, his charm, bright talk, and undeniable good looks, overwhelmed her as soon as she saw him. So she fell in love with him immediately, and remained in love for ever. And herself being comely, sensitive, and adoring, she attracted my father also. And so he married her. And so later he left her - with his children and some more of her own.
When he’d gone, she brought us to the village and waited. She waited for thirty years. I don’t think she ever knew what had made him desert her, though the reasons seemed clear enough. She was too honest, too natural for this frightened man; too remote from his tidy laws. She was, after all, a country girl; disordered, hysterical, loving. She was muddled and mischievous as a chimney-jackdaw, she made her nest of rags and jewels, was happy in the sunlight, squawked loudly at danger, pried and was insatiably curious, forgot when to eat or ate all day, and sang when sunsets were red. She lived by the easy laws of the hedgerow, loved the world, and made no plans, had a quick holy eye for natural wonders and couldn’t have kept a neat house for her life. What my father wished for was something quite different, something she could never give him - the protective order of an unimpeachable suburbia, which was what he got in the end.
The three or four years Mother spent with my father she fed on for the rest of her life. Her happiness at that time was something she guarded as though it must ensure his eventual return. She would talk about it almost in awe, not that it had ceased but that it had happened at all.
‘He was proud of me then. I could make him laugh. “Nance, you’re a killer,” he’d say. He used to sit on the doorstep quite helpless with giggles at the stories and things I told him. He admired me too; he admired my looks; he really loved me, you know. “Come on, Nance,” he’d say.
“Take out your pins. Let your hair down - let’s see it shine!” He loved my hair; it had gold lights in it then and it hung right down my back. So I’d sit in the window and shake it over my shoulders — it was so heavy you wouldn’t believe - and he’d twist and arrange it so that it caught thesun, and then sit and just gaze and gaze….
‘Sometimes, when you children were all in bed, he’d clear all his books away - “Come on, Nance,” he’d say, “I’ve had enough of them. Come and sing us a song!” We’d go to the piano, and I’d sit on his lap, and he’d play with his arms around me. And I’d sing him “ Killarney ” and “ Only a Rose”. They were both his favourites then….’
When she told us these things it was yesterday and she held him again in her enchantment. His later scorns were stripped away and the adored was again adoring. She’d smile and look up the weed-choked path as though she saw him coming back for more.
But it was over all right, he’d gone for good, we were alone and that was that. Mother struggled to keep us clothed and fed, and found it pretty hard going. There was never much money, perhaps just enough, the few pounds that Father sent us; but it was her own muddlehead that Mother was fighting, her panic and innocence, forgetfulness, waste, and the creeping tide of debt. Also her outbursts of wayward extravagance which splendidly ignored our needs. The rent, as I said, was only 3s. 6d. a week, but we were often six months behind. There would be no meat at all from Monday to Saturday, then on Sunday a fabulous goose; no coal or new clothes for the whole of the winter, then she’d take us all to the theatre; Jack, with no boots, would be expensively photographed, a new bedroom suite wou
ld arrive; then we’d all be insured for thousands of pounds and the policies would lapse in a month. Suddenly the iron-frost of destitution would clamp down on the house, to be thawed out by another orgy of borrowing, while harsh things were said byour more sensible neighbours and people ran when they saw us coming.
In spite of all this, Mother believed in good fortune, and especially in newspaper competitions. She was also convinced that if you praised a firm’s goods they would shower you with free samples and money. She was once paid five shillings for such a tribute which she had addressed to a skin-food firm. From then on she bombarded the market with letters, dashing off several each week. Ecstatically phrased and boasting miraculous cures, they elegantly hinted at new dawns opened up because of, or salvations due only to: headache-powders, limejuice-bottlers, corset-makers, beef-extractors, sausage-stuffers, bust-improvers, eyelash-growers, soap-boilers, love-mongerers, statesmen, corn-plasterers, and Kings. She never got another penny from any of these efforts; but such was her style, her passion and conviction, that the letters were often printed. She had bundles of clippings lying all over the house, headed Grateful Sufferer’ or ‘After Years of Torture’ or ‘I Used to Groan Myself to Sleep till I Stumbled on Your Ointment’…. She used to read them aloud with a flush of pride, quite forgetting their original purpose.
Deserted, debt-ridden, flurried, bewildered, doomed by ambitions that never came off, yet our Mother possessed an indestructible gaiety which welled up like a thermal spring. Her laughing, like her weeping, was instantaneous and childlike, and switched without warning - or memory. Her emotions were entirely without reserve; she clouted you one moment and hugged you the next - to the ruin of one’s ragged nerves. If she knocked over a pot, or cut her finger she let out a blood-chilling scream - then forgot about it immediately in a hop and skip or a song. I can still seem to hear her blundering about the kitchen: shrieks and howls of alarm, an occasional oath, a gasp of wonder, a sharp command to things to stay still. A falling coal would set her hair on end, a loud knock make her leap and yell, her world was a maze of small traps and snares acknowledged always by cries of dismay. One couldn’t help jumping in sympathy with her, though one learned to ignore these alarms. They were, after all, no more than formal salutes to the devils that dogged her heels.
