I remember several of our
maids very well, but one in particular (Gladys Medbury, later to become Gladys
Brunton) who helped care for us when
was small and remained for some years a very important person in my
life. I can never remember my mother putting me to bed, although I am sure she
must have done sometimes, but as a young child it was always Gladys. She was a
warm, humorous person, never lost her temper, and very inventive regarding
games. She was expert ironer and I loved to watch her go about it – the shirts
folded just so, the frills around the table-centres goffered neatly, as was her
little afternoon cap. Her young man, Fred, was out of work for a long time but
one day appeared in army uniform, which upset Gladys very much but I thought it
was very exciting. She disappeared one day unexpectedly, but came back again
and stayed for some time after that. Years afterwards I discovered she had
expected Fred’s baby, but had a miscarriage and had to go into hospital for a
while, but it was all hushed up – in the 1920s such events were kept hidden. I
believe my mother looked after her well at this time and certainly she remained
at our home thereafter for some time, before marrying and moving away.
I remember a maid called Mary
Quilter, who also cared for us well, as well as doing the work. She went off to
Australia to join a brother who had already emigrated. There was another Mary
who was far more interested in flirting with the boys than in anything else and
I am sure my mother never knew that when Mary took us walking over Wanstead
Flats we were left to our own devices while she gadded around with the fellows.
There was a Doris, who I remember as a good-looking, fair-haired girl, much
given to singing all the up-to-date ditties of the time, and the young man
lodger next door at 32 Sebert Road would join in, hanging out of his back
upstairs window that looked into our garden. Two songs I remember particularly
– “What’ll I do when you are far away, What’ll I do with just a photograph to
tell my troubles to? When I’m alone with only dreams of you, That won’t come
true, what’ll I do?”
Sweetheart, if you should
stray
A million miles away
I’ll always be in love with
you.
And though you find more
bliss
In someone else’s kiss
I’ll always be in love with
you.
The heartaches, the sadness
‘Cause I know tomorrow again
we shall meet
I wish you happiness
But for me, sweetheart, I
guess
I’ll always be in love with
you.
When we moved to Claremont
Road, we had a young girl named Dorothy Flux, who came from Wivenhoe and who
was quite a country girl. She was mad on stage stars, particularly music hall
artistes, and started me on my craze for autograph collecting. I acquired a
pretty good collection, not exclusively stage personalities, but during my
later teens lost interest in the hobby and like a fool, gave the book away to a young friend working with me on the
office staff at Lacrinoid Products. I had collected all Jack Hilton’s
orchestra, Jack Payne, Louis Armstrong, Max Miller, the Houston Sisters, Leslie
Hutchinson (“Hutch”) one of the boxing champions Jack “Kid” Berg and many, many
more.
One childhood escapade lived
with me for years but luckily no adult ever knew of it. I returned home from
school one day to find nobody at home – very unusual, but it seems Mary had a
rendezvous somewhere! I forced open the downstairs window to get in, but
couldn’t push it up high enough to make an entry. Soon afterwards, Mary came
back and seeing the open window, assumed someone had tried to get in. I kept
quiet, knowing I should not have opened the window. Mary was scared and made me
go in first, even upstairs to make sure nobody was around, until in the end I was
even scared myself! My mother then came home and insisted on calling the police
to make sure all was well. By this time there was of course no question of me
telling the truth about the matter, and ever afterwards I had to listen to my
mother relating the story of the attempted burglary and how they must have been
interrupted while attempting it.
