by Anwyn Moyle
Sunday morning I was up early and washed and dressed in my best and Lucy did my make-up and I set off for Belgravia, again in my green hat. I arrived at Chester Square at 10:45 a.m. and the tailcoat opened the door and showed me into the waiting room. I was the only one there and I waited for the others to arrive – but nobody did. At 11:00 a.m. precisely, tailcoat came back and called me from the room. I followed him up the stairs again and along the corridor, but this time he showed me into a smaller room, with a fire burning in the grate and a table set for tea and petits fours. He took my hat and coat and motioned for me to sit at the table, then he left. I waited for about five minutes before the book-reading woman I met at the first interview came into the room and sat opposite me.
‘It’s always best to allow the tea to draw for a few minutes, don’t you think? Shall I be mother?’
Before I could answer, she poured two cups of tea and shoved the plate of little biscuits my way.
‘It’s only Darjeeling, probably not what you’re used to at the Sussex Rose Rooms, but I’m sure it will suffice.’
‘I’m sure it will, Madam.’
We sipped the tea in silence for a while, with her looking at me and me looking away from her, so as not to upset social niceties and catch her eye. Eventually she spoke.
‘Why did you apply for this job, Anwyn Moyle?’
I didn’t answer immediately. It needed a bit of quick thinking.
‘Because I know I can be a good lady’s maid, Madam.’
‘And how do you know that?’
How indeed? My brain was racing round the room, trying to find an answer that wouldn’t sound completely ridiculous. And I got the feeling if I didn’t find a good one, I’d be shown the door again. She was testing me, I knew that – to see what I was made of.
‘Because I can think for myself, Madam.’
She smiled. Not a broad smile – more with her eyes than her mouth. I took a petit four from the plate and nibbled at it delicately.
‘Wait here.’
She rose without saying another word and left the room. I thought I was being clever, but maybe I was being conceited. I should have said, ‘Because I can clean and sew and I know something about fashion and I’m young and can learn and my mind is open.’ But it was too late now; tailcoat would be coming any minute to throw me out.
After about quarter of an hour, Mr Peacock came in and sat at the table opposite me. He had a couple of documents in his hand.
‘I’m pleased to inform you, Miss Moyle, that, should you still be interested in the position of lady’s maid, we are prepared to offer it to you on a month’s trial basis.’
‘I’m still interested.’
I said this too quickly. Too eagerly. His left eye twitched slightly as he looked at me.
‘If Mrs Bouchard is happy with your work after that period of time, the position will be offered on a permanent basis.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
Mrs Bouchard. It was the first time I’d heard her name mentioned – the women I’d be working for. It sounded French, but she didn’t speak with a French accent. Peacock placed the documents on the table in front of me, along with a pen.
‘A contract of employment and a confidentiality agreement.’
I didn’t know what a confidentiality agreement was, but I signed both documents just the same.
‘The wages will be five shillings per week for the trial period, rising to eight shillings if you are deemed suitable and then to ten shillings after a year. Is this acceptable, Miss Moyle?’
‘Eminently.’
He smiled covertly at my sauciness. But he didn’t shake my hand, and it seemed to me he wasn’t completely happy with my appointment.
‘When can you start?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow would be capital, Miss Moyle. Shall we say seven o’clock? In the a.m. of course.’
‘Of course.’
Jacob the beak-nosed butler showed me out again. A timid, early spring sun was shining in Chester Square as I skipped my way down the street. I’d be sad to leave Lucy; she’d been so good to me when I needed a friend. But the tea shop was only five minutes away and I was sure we’d be able to meet up quite often and carry on our friendship into the future. I hurried back to Bermondsey to tell her the news and we all celebrated that night in her family’s humble home and drank dandelion and burdock and ate friendship fruit cake and had a little sing-song till it was time to go to bed. Everyone had to be up very early in the morning.
I couldn’t sleep and I wrote a letter to my mother in Wales, telling her about my good fortune. I was all excited and happy and thinking about what I could do with eight shillings a week. I’d send half home to my mother and I’d be able to go dancing and dining and delighting myself with the rest. Then the doubts crept in and they kept me awake more than the excitement. How would I be able to cope with this job? What would they expect of me? They’d find me out for a fraud after the first day and then I’d be disgraced – have to crawl back to the tea shop with my pretentious tail between my legs. Have to scuttle back to Wales and arrive at the same time as this letter, promising my mother half-a-crown a week for the trial period. I tossed and turned and turned and tossed in the bed beside Lucy. I counted sheep until I could’ve collected ten buckets of droppings and sold them for fire-fuel. The next I knew was Lucy shaking me by the shoulder.
‘Anwyn, get up! It’s half-past-five.’
I jumped out of the bed and took my turn in the shared toilet to have a wash. Then I dressed and had a cup of tea and a bit of leftover bun from the night before. Lucy did my make-up as usual and I lugged my case down to the number thirty-six tram stop at a quarter-past six. I was standing on the step outside 24
Chester Square at ten minutes to seven. Tailcoat took my case and put it somewhere, then he introduced himself as Jacob, the first footman, even though there were no other footmen in the household. He took me through and introduced me to the cook, whose name was Mrs Jackson – she was a jolly sort of woman in her mid-forties and not at all like the Beadle of Hampstead. She had two kitchen maids under her, Esther and Annie, and she said they’d call me Miss Moyle so nobody would be confused. I don’t know if she meant that as a joke and they all knew I was just a jumped-up scullery maid, or if she was being sincere. The scullery maid was Josie and she genuflected when I shook her hand, even though I was only a few years older than her. Tom, the chauffeur, was having his breakfast and he was an ex-army man and asked ‘How are you, young lady?’ I told him I was well and he said he was glad to hear it.
We then went upstairs and Jacob introduced me to the two parlourmaids, Heather and Beatrice, both of whom were about eighteen, the age I was pretending to be. They giggled when I shook their hands, as if they were party to a joke and I wasn’t. There were no children in the house and no nanny and, finally, I was shown into the housekeeper’s drawing room to meet Miss Mason, the head housemaid, who was responsible for catering and linen and the supervision of the other female servants. She was a severe-looking woman of about thirty-five, dressed all in black and buttoned up to the neck in a figure-hugging frock. Her face was pale and thin and her features were sharp and her hair was pulled back in a severe braided bun. She barely touched my hand when I offered it to her, as if she might catch something unpleasant from it. Then she sniffed and waved to Jacob and I was taken away. The footman then took me to my room, saying I’d meet Mr Biggs the butler and Mrs Hathaway the housekeeper later in the day. My case had already been delivered to the room and he left me and closed the door behind him, not mentioning what I was expected to do or what my duties were or what would happen next.
The room was spacious enough, bigger than anything I’d ever been used to, at least. There was a fair-sized sprung bed with a thick mattress and a matching set of walnut bedroom furniture, consisting of a bedside cabinet and a mirrored dressing table and a big wardrobe. The room was carpeted in brown and beige, and matching floor-length curtains covered the window that looked out
over the manicured back of the house. I unpacked my case and put my stuff away in the drawers but, when I opened the wardrobe, I found there was already an assortment of clothes hanging there – dresses and coats and jackets and cardigans and rayon stockings and five or six pairs of shoes on the floor. So I left my own couple of dresses in the case, thinking these clothes belonged to Mrs Staines the previous lady’s maid, and she’d be sure to be coming back for them. There was a crystal jug with water and a set of crystal glasses on a table close to the window, so I poured some and had a drink to quench my thirst and sat on the bed and waited. It was only about half-past eight in the morning.
I didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later I heard a knock on the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Heather, one of the young housemaids.
‘Would you like breakfast in your room, Miss Moyle?’
‘As opposed to . . .?’
She didn’t seem to understand my question for a moment, then she giggled and put her hand up to her mouth.
‘Oh, sorry . . . or with Miss Mason in Mrs Hathaway’s parlour.’
‘I’ll have it here, thanks.’
I couldn’t tell if it was a giggle or a snigger, but she left the room with her hand still up to her mouth and, ten minutes later, came back with a pot of tea and a fried breakfast of bacon, sausage, eggs and toasted bread. My eyes lit up and I started tucking in straight away because I was famished. Heather watched me for a moment, as if I was behaving exactly as she supposed I would.
‘Bon appetit.’
She said it in a fake French accent and I thought it must be some kind of sarcasm that fitted the context of Mrs Bouchard’s name.
I waited again after breakfast, but still nobody came to tell me what my duties would be or when I should start them or what I should be doing now that I was here. At 11:00 a.m., I could stand the prevarication no longer, so I decided to venture out of my room and take a look around, not knowing what parts of the house might be off limits to a lady’s maid in waiting.
My room was on the second floor, as were three other private bedrooms, all much bigger than mine and one with a separate dressing room. There were two bathrooms, one en suite to the master bedroom, which I presumed was Mr and Mrs Bouchard’s, while the other bathroom was smaller and I expected it was for use by the rest of the family. The first floor consisted of a large, opulently furnished drawing room, a music room, which housed the piano, and a tea room, where I’d been the day before. The ground floor housed the large entrance hall, another drawing room, smaller than the one on the first floor, and a library, similar in size to the one at Hampstead, and a room which I could only assume was Mrs Hathaway’s parlour. The basement of the house accommodated the kitchen and scullery, of course, and the male servants’ quarters, while the top, or attic, floor housed the female servants’ rooms. There was also a third floor which seemed to be unused at the moment, but which might be utilised from time to time as guest rooms, when the house hosted parties or soirées.
It was midday by the time I finished my little tour and, while I was mooching about, I saw no one, except for a brief glimpse of Beatrice the housemaid in one of the drawing rooms, and the cook and her kitchen maids in the basement. At one o’clock lunch was served and this time I was summoned to the housekeeper’s parlour. Jacob showed me in and I was confronted by Miss Mason, all buttoned up in her black and still sporting her stern face, and a middle-aged woman with dark eyes and dressed in a tweed two-piece. She was of stout stature with a pleasant face and her greying hair was done up in a loose sock bun on top of her head.
‘I’m Mrs Hathaway, the housekeeper. Please, sit down.’
We sat and the maids served us with a lunch of tomato and cheddar soup, followed by pork cutlets dressed with fennel, dill and cucumber and accompanied with a spoonful or two of diced potatoes, along with yellow watermelon for pudding. Not much was said during lunch and I found I wasn’t all that hungry after the big fried breakfast – I wasn’t used to eating like this and my stomach would take time adjusting to it. But I did my best, as I was always taught to waste not and, consequently, to want not, and I believed that lie. The two other women settled back with cups of tea when the dishes were cleared away.
Mrs Hathaway was just about to say something to me, when the door opened and a tall man came into the parlour. He was about forty-five or fifty, dressed in a tailcoat and striped trousers like Jacob’s. He wore a white shirt and black tie under his waistcoat and his hair was blackish grey and sleeked back by a pomade, which was an emulsion of water and mineral oil and stabilised with beeswax. He looked a bit like Bela Lugosi and Miss Mason almost swooned when he came in. She and Mrs Hathaway rose from their seats to greet him.
‘Mr Biggs . . . we weren’t expecting you till later. We’ve already had lunch.’
‘Not to worry, Mrs Hathaway, I’ve already dined.’
He looked down at me with an ominous glare. I thought I’d better stand too, so I did.
‘This is Miss Moyle, the new lady’s maid.’
He looked me up and down for a moment, as if he was judging a heifer at a cattle fair.
‘How old are you, my dear.’
‘I’m eighteen.’
‘Rather young . . .’
He mumbled this last remark to himself and shot a raised-eyebrow glance at the other women. Mr Biggs then poured himself a cup of tea and we all sat down again.
The other three spoke amongst themselves about household matters and largely ignored me for a while, until I eventually interrupted them.
‘Excuse me . . .’
They all stopped talking and turned to look at me.
‘What am I supposed to be doing?’
Mrs Hathaway spoke first, in an offhand, sarcastic way.
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Not really . . . I mean, I know what my duties will be, but I expected some sort of agenda . . .’
Mr Biggs swallowed the last of his tea and stood up.
‘Mrs Bouchard is away today, so you should take the opportunity to settle in. I’m sure she will instruct you tomorrow.’
The others stood too and it looked like lunchtime was over. I returned to my room and read for the rest of the day, interrupted only by Heather bringing me a supper of mackerel fillets with lemon and coriander, a mixture of mashed carrot and potato and some roast figs with honey – along with another pot of tea. I left most of it and fell into a fretful sleep later in the evening, when it was dark and forsaken outside in the groomed garden below my window.
Chapter Eight
I was already up and dressed when Heather brought my breakfast at 8:00 a.m. next morning. She was more subdued today, and there was no sniggering behind her hand. At about 8:30 a.m., Jacob came and knocked on the door.
‘Madam Bouchard will see you in half an hour.’
He was about to leave, but I jumped up and grabbed his arm. He looked startled, like he’d just been bitten by an uncivilised dog and he pulled himself away from me.
‘Jacob, please . . . wait.’
‘What is it?’
‘I want to know about Mrs Bouchard.’
‘Then you should ask her.’
‘I’m asking you. Please, Jacob . . .’
My big eyes and girlish guile must have softened his heart. He came back into the room and closed the door.
‘You mustn’t say I said anything.’
‘Upon my apostate soul.’
His voice was a low whisper, as if someone might be listening, and he told me what he knew about Madam Bouchard, as he called her. Her maiden name was Brandon and she held the title of ‘Lady’. Her family went all the way back to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who married Mary Tudor, one of the daughters of Henry VII. They had several children, one of whom, called Frances, married Henry Grey, who was also Duke of Suffolk, and their daughter was Jane Grey, who was queen of England for nine days, before being executed by Bloody Mary when she was sixteen. But Madam Bouchard’s ancestor
s were from the more obscure branch of the family tree of one of Charles Brandon’s illegitimate children and couldn’t claim any entitlement to the throne. The Madam herself had a younger brother who would inherit her father’s title and also the country estate in Warwickshire. He had a separate house in London and he rarely visited Chester Square.
Jacob didn’t want to go on, but I knew there was more to it and I stood inside the door and wouldn’t move out of his way until he told me. More recently, Mr Brandon senior was involved in military intelligence during the Great War. He was attached to MI3d, which apparently handled Scandinavia. Mr Brandon junior was too young to be involved in the war, and he didn’t really do anything these days, but follow his adventurer father round the world on his trips to out of the way places. The Brandons kept their cards close to their chests and that’s all Jacob knew about them. Madam Brandon, as he called her, was the black sheep of the family. She’d married an Algerian called Emile Bouchard against her family’s wishes and they disowned her for that and she went to live in the city of Oran with her husband.
Bouchard was of French ancestry, even though he was born in North Africa. He was killed in a bar-brawl with some Algerian nationals two years earlier. Madam Bouchard’s family relented after this and allowed the prodigal daughter to return home and bought her the house in Chester Square and gave her access to society again. She had no children and was the only one living here, apart from the servants and occasional guests.
‘That’s all I can tell you, Miss Moyle. Now can you please get out of my way.’
‘Of course. Thank you, Jacob.’
He hurried out the door and, half an hour later, came back again and escorted me along the corridor to the master bedroom. He knocked on the door.
‘Come in.’
Jacob indicated for me to enter the room, which I did. Mrs Bouchard was sitting up in bed, eating breakfast from a tray that was set on a little trestle across her lap. Jacob didn’t come into the room, but closed the door behind me. Mrs Bouchard pointed to a chair beside the bed, but didn’t speak until she’d swallowed what was in her mouth.
