Aprons and Silver Spoons: The heartwarming memoirs of a 1930s scullery maid Read Online Free Page B

on a hot-cross bun during the hot-cross bun races at school
     sports day hadn’t curbed my ferociously competitive edge.
    ‘It’s pootrud, yer
     knows,’ he added, wrinkling his nose. ‘There’s cowshit and
     everything in that bit, so there is.’
    What did I care? The dare had been issued. I
     could no more back out now than I could walk to the moon. ‘So what?’
     I said, boldly ripping off my dress and stripping down to my knickers and vest.
    Here goes nothing
. Taking a deep
     breath, I launchedmyself into the unknown.
     ‘Woohooo!’ I hollered. A rush of sheer adrenalin filled my body. I
     was flying! I was actually flying!
    You could have heard the smacking noise of
     my belly hitting the water five villages along.
    Struggling to breathe, I floundered about
     until I managed to grab on to a soggy clod of mud by the bank. Cow poo and mud was
     plastered over my knickers and face as I hauled myself, sopping wet and gasping for air,
     on to the bank. Shaking myself like a wet dog, I scrabbled back up the slippery bank. At
     the top I paused to wipe my snotty nose on my dripping vest.
    ‘Now your tur …’ I said,
     my voice trailing off to nothing.
    For who should be ready to greet me? Not the
     impressed audience I was hoping for, but PC Risebrough!
    His beefy hand reached down to grab my
     sopping wet vest.
    Uh-oh.
    ‘Mollie Browne!’ he
     yelled, his face growing as red as a tomato as I legged it to my bike and frantically
     started to peddle. ‘You want your arse leathering.’
    By the time I reached home I’d
     decided not to say a word to Mother.
    ‘Mollie,’ she gasped.
     ‘You’re soaked through.’
    ‘I fell off my bike,’ I
     lied. ‘Right into a ditch.’
    ‘Best sit by the fire and warm
     up,’ she said, pressing a mug of steaming hot tea into my hand.
    Sniffing the air, I realized it was Friday,
     the best day of the week, for it was Mother’s baking day. The kitchen was
     filled with the smell of warm, rich baking. On the side lay rack upon rack of jam tarts,
     flaky sausage rolls, cottagepies, bread and butter puddings, boiled
     suet pudding with apples or jam, all piled up and cooling on the countertop.
    ‘I might feel better if I have
     something to eat,’ I said, shivering for dramatic effect.
    ‘Get away with you,’ she
     chuckled. ‘Put this in your trap.’ With that, she slipped me a
     baking-hot sausage roll.
    ‘Fanks,’ I mumbled
     through mouthfuls of buttery, light pastry. I closed my eyes and munched. Pure heaven.
     Food never tastes as good to anyone as to a hungry child.
     

     
    That’s me on the far
     right, aged ten, being awarded first prize at school sports day in 1926. I was the
     fastest runner and the highest jumper in the whole area – I always thought I was better
     than anyone else back then!
    I sniggered to myself as I pictured
     PC Risebrough’s flaming red face as he’d puffed after me. Daresay
     he’d love one of Mum’s home-cooked sausage rolls after his energetic
     morning.
    Once I’d dried off we headed into
     Downham, for Friday afternoons were market day, another highlight of the week.
    Men would stand around chatting outside pubs
     while women shopped, haggled and nattered with neighbours and friends. It was the social
     highlight of the week and gave women a break from the endless drudgery of keeping house.
     Gossip was a currency to be exchanged just as much as shillings and pence. Not that it
     mattered, mind, as everyone pretty much knew everyone else’s business. It was
     a close-knit community and a stranger’s face always stuck out.
    I used to love trawling the market with
     Mother. Everywhere you looked there were stallholders shouting their wares.
    ‘Thirteen herrings for a
     shilling,’ drawled the coster to a crowd of housewives. ‘Pound a
     prawns, fished straight out the sea this morning while you were still abed. Nice and
     fresh and lovely.’
    Before the war this had been the site of a
     famous horse market where