Free Servants’ Hall by Margaret Powell Page B

revelation to Olive and me. Not only was she married, but she was still working. It was almost unheard of for a woman to go out to work when she had a husband, but Zena was smart and sophisticated. Her make-up was perfect inasmuch as one could tell that she had used it, but it made an harmonious whole instead of the clown effect that Mary and I sometimes achieved. I could see that Mary had already gained in looks from her cousin’s ministrations and I naturally resolved to find out how it was done. Zena worked in a fashion house, which I suppose was the reason she was so well-dressed, and she certainly looked far younger than her age of forty-five years. Mary had only just found out that she had this cousin, and it was apparent that she felt a certain pride in having a relation so different from us. Zena’s husband worked for a pharmaceutical firm and travelled a lot so, she told us, she had a free life. What she did with this freedom wasn’t discussed then, except that Zena said she spent a lot of time soaking herself in a highly-scented bath – that was where she got her ideas for designing her clothes – and it passed the time while Brian was away. It seemed a peculiar way of passing the time and, as I said to Olive later on, if Zena was with us in Kensington, she’d get very few ideas sitting in our bath-tub with a handful of soda in the water. Nevertheless, she brought a bit of life into our servants’ hall with her tales about the vagaries of customers who were convinced that they could wear a dress that was obviously two sizes too small.
    Mary said she hadn’t been sorry to get away from Redlands. The discord in the family above stairs had repercussions on the servants below; the butler and valet were always bickering and Cook seemed snappish with everybody. Her new place in Chelsea wasn’t bad, though her Madam was nothing like so kind as Mrs Wardham – nor was mine either, not by a long shot. The staff consisted of Mary, a butler and a cook; and an odd-job man, Alf, for cleaning the steps, boots and knives and getting in the coal for the range. Alf, who was about thirty-five and unmarried, did this job every morning in addition to his own work with a firm of window-cleaners; obviously an early case of moonlighting.
    I rather envied Mary’s job where there were two men around. It was not that one necessarily wanted to feel romantic about the male servants, but just nice to have some contact with the opposite sex.
    Mary had brought a letter with her from Rose inviting us to tea, but not on a Sunday as Gerald refused to have visitors then. He liked Sundays to be kept free so that he and Rose could be alone in their own little house in Hampstead. How very sweet of him, we thought, and wondered how long that would last. Mary and I agreed that in all probability the reason we were invited on a weekday was because Gerald wouldn’t be at home to see us. And so it proved.
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    When Mary and I saw the size of the ‘little’ house in Hampstead, we both felt that Rose could no longer be one of us. The house was double-fronted, large and solid. It even had a trades-mans entrance, and Mary and I stood on the pavement debating whether we should use it – not seriously of course. We rang the bell and were taken aback when the door was opened by a stern-faced, middle-aged woman wearing a black dress and a frilly white apron. She informed us that Mrs Wardham would be down in a few minutes and showed us into what we supposed was the drawing-room.
    When she’d gone, Mary and I looked at each other and, with difficulty, suppressed our laughter. Mary, who was quite a good mimic, said, ‘Sit down, girl. Mrs Wardham will shortly appear to interview you. I hope that your references are excellent as Mrs Wardham couldn’t possibly employ you otherwise. Mrs Wardham’s servants have always come from the best families.’ We then giggled madly but I was nevertheless rather annoyed. Why couldn’t Rose have welcomed