Table Of Content“If you love Downton, this is right up your street!”
The charming true story of an English girl’s —Closer magazine
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adventures while in domestic service for the upper class MINDING
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“A lovely story.” —Daily Mail R
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“This evocative memoir . . . provides a fascinating insight into a N THE MANOR
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world that has long since disappeared.” —The Sun
“I was completely absorbed reading Mollie’s fascinating life story.” —Bookbag
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“A vivid, entertaining, and human glimpse into life in service during
the 1930s, complete with recipes, tips, and photos.” —My Weekly I
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“Lively, evocative, and wonderfully perceptive and intelligent memoir. . . . ‚ ‚
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Her amazing and inspirational story is one that should not be missed.”
—P N, Blackpool Gazette
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B
B N
orn in 1916 in Norfolk, England, Mollie Moran is one of the few
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people still alive today who can recall working “downstairs” in
the early 1930s before the outbreak of World War II. She provides
a rare and fascinating insight into a world that has long since vanished. Mollie T The M emoir of a
left school at age fourteen and became a scullery maid for a wealthy gentleman
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1930s English Kitchen M aid
with a mansion house in London’s Knightsbridge and a Tudor manor in Norfolk.
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Even though Mollie’s days were long and grueling and included such endless
tasks as polishing doorknobs, scrubbing steps, and helping with all of the food
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prep in the kitchen, she enjoyed her freedom and had a rich life. Like any bright-
eyed teenager, Mollie also spent her days daydreaming about boys, dresses, and
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dances. She cherished her friendship with Flo the kitchen maid, dated a sweet
farmhand, and became secretly involved with a brooding and temperamental N
footman. Molly eventually rose to kitchen maid and then became cook for the
Earl of Leicester’s niece at the magnifi cent Wallington Hall. O
M M lives by the seafront in Bournemouth, England. She regularly R
hosts Scrabble parties and cooks for up to twenty-fi ve people.
Cover design by Diana Nuhn
Cover photograph © Andrew Luddington
Lyons Press is an imprint of
Globe Pequot Press
Guilford, Connecticut LYONS
MOLLIE MORAN
LyonsPress.com PRESS
Minding the Manor
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Minding the Manor
The Memoir of a 1930s English
Kitchen Maid
Mollie Moran
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I dedicate this book to my late mother, Mabel,
and all my family.
Copyright © 2014 by Mollie Moran
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing from
the publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed to Globe Pequot Press, Attn: Rights
and Permissions Department, PO Box 480, Guilford, CT 06437.
First published in the UK in 2013 as Aprons and Silver Spoons by Penguin Books.
First published in the USA in 2014 by Lyons Press, an imprint of Globe Pequot Press.
Project editor: Lauren Brancato
Layout artist: Melissa Evarts
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN 978-0-7627-9683-0
Printed in the United States of America
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Contents
Chapter 1: An Idyllic Childhood 1
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen—Mollie’s Famous Sausage Rolls
Chapter 2: London Calling 24
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen—Bread and Butter Pudding
Chapter 3: Tears in the Scullery 43
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen—The Perfect Roast Beef
Chapter 4: Soulmates 73
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen—Soup to Scrub Floors On
Chapter 5: To the Country 107
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen—Old-fashioned Irish Stew
Chapter 6: Mop Caps and Mischief 147
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen—Christmas Pudding
Chapter 7: Passion with the Footman 183
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen—Trifle and Brandy Snaps
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Contents
Chapter 8: Scandal Below Stairs 224
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen—Proper Fish and Chips
Chapter 9: Castles in Spain 255
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen—Lemonade
Chapter 10: A Cook at Last 282
Tips from a 1930s Kitchen—Steamed Suet Pudding
Afterword 339
Photographs 349
Acknowledgments 353
About the Author 354
vi
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1
An Idyllic Childhood
Sweet was the walk along the narrow lane
At noon, the bank and hedge-rows all the way
Shagged with wild pale green tufts of fragrant hay,
Caught by the hawthorns from the loaded wain,
Which Age with many a slow stoop strove to gain;
And childhood, seeming still most busy, took
His little rake; with cunning side-long look,
Sauntering to pluck the strawberries wild, unseen.
—William Wordsworth
Inching higher and higher, I used every fibre of my being
to pull my body further up the tree trunk. Just one more
foot and I’d be there. The prize was in sight and it was
worth its weight in gold.
Come on, Mollie Browne, you can do it.
With a superhuman show of strength and a grunt I swung
my leg over the branch and sat gasping for breath.
I’d climbed to the very top of the tallest oak tree in the
village.
It started as a tingle in my chest and soon spread to the
tips of my fingers. Joy flooded my body. I’d done it. I’d only
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Minding the Manor
gone and done it. No one had climbed this tree, not even
the bravest lads in our village.
“Sissies,” I chuckled to myself. I may only have been a
ten-year-old girl, but I was more of a man than any of them.
My mother Mabel’s warning, issued just before I left the
house that morning, rang in my ears: “Come straight home
from school and don’t be scuffing your shoes or ripping
your dress climbing trees on the way. And don’t you be
nicking all them eggs out the nests again. I mean it, Mollie
Browne, any more trouble and I’ll swing for you, I will.”
I looked down at my ripped cotton dress. Oops, too late.
And by the way the sun was dipping down below the spire
of the church I could tell dusk was gathering.
I hesitated. What were rules for if they weren’t to be
broken?
The thought of the telling-off I was going to get melted
away when I realized I could see for miles around the
tranquil landscape. What a thrill. It was like discovering a
secret magic world; just me and the birds in the twilight.
Fields dotted with ancient flint churches stretched out as far
as the eye could see. In the distance I could make out the
town of Downham Market and just beyond that the sun
glittered off the River Great Ouse.
The year was 1926. Coal miners were striking, John Logie
Baird had just given the first public demonstration of the
television, and Gertrude Ederle had become the first woman
to swim the Channel. These were exciting times. London
was in the grip of the “Roaring Twenties.” Bright young
socialites wore their hair in bobs, their skirts short, and
were dancing up a storm in jazz clubs. Their louche and
provocative behaviour was blazing a trail across the front
pages.
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An Idyllic Childhood
Here in gentle Norfolk it was a different story.
A tractor rumbled in the middle distance, ploughing
straight lines through the soil. Fields of wheat and barley
rustled gently in the breeze. All was still, quiet, and
timeless.
This was my world. Mollie Browne’s world. One giant
playground full of adventures just waiting to be had. But
even as I surveyed the peaceful landscape I felt the strang est
sensation grip my heart. My destiny didn’t lie here in the
sleepy villages, forced into a dull apprenticeship before being
married off to the local farmhand. No, thank you. There had
to be more to life. I wasn’t sure what yet but—sure as eggs
is eggs—I would find a way to make it happen.
At the thought of eggs, I suddenly remembered the
reason why I was up this big old tree in the first place.
Wiping the sweat off my brow, I forced myself not to look
down and edged along the gnarled branch to claim my
prize. Two perfect brown speckled eggs were sitting in the
nest within touching distance, still warm from when the
crow had hatched them.
I wasn’t daft. I’d never pocket a wren’s or robin’s egg.
Everyone knew bad luck would come your way if you
nicked those and your hands would fall off. Happen there
be no harm in a crow’s egg, though.
Just then a sharp whistle sounded from below.
My partners in crime!
I could just make out the faces of Jack and Bernard.
“It’s the bobby,” Jack hissed. “Get down afore he sees ya.”
Oh heck. There was no time to pocket either of the shiny
brown eggs. Instead I shimmied down that tree faster than
a rat down a drainpipe. With a loud thud I landed slap bang
in front of the black laced-up leather boots of one P. C.
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