Service of one kind or another loomed large in my family history. The public face was the service to one’s country; the private, those who served our every need. Most generations on the maternal side boasted a military major or a general in its ranks. There was even a family regiment that fought with Napoleon and was involved in such minor altercations as the American civil war. In more recent times a great uncle fell near Ypres and most of the next generation served in, and somehow survived, WW ll. The paternal side took quite the opposite tack. A theatrical family, they were registered conchies but also served by entertaining the troops with ENSA for the duration.
family archives
It was on the domestic front that common service ground was found. Both my parents grew up with servants. My mother’s family had, at various times, a nanny, a maid, and a cook. In the winter months, a man came to stoke the furnace twice a day. Groceries were ordered by phone and delivered to the door. A gardener kept the grounds of the Toronto Victorian house in immaculate condition, while Granny did ladylike things with pruners and floral arrangements. Doubtless, there were others who took on the rest of the onerous household tasks but my mother never spoke of them.
My father’s family had a maid and a cook. His mother was a canny Yorkshire woman whose parents had also been in service. An imperious woman, she ruled her household with an iron hand; shopping for her groceries every day by heading off to the market in the early hours, where she doubtless put the fear of God into the vendors.
All this changed when my parents got married. It was wartime in Ireland, and there was no spare cash for servants. Great was the consternation when it was discovered that my mother, who had taken Home Economics at school, had no survival skills beyond creating the fanciest confections out of impossible to find ingredients, or laying formal place settings for forty guests. Many a pot was either burnt or hurled across the kitchen in frustration, a situation that continued through much of my childhood. My father was no help. While he was quite talented and very particular over the preparation of tea and coffee, he had no idea at all how to cook. Even a boiling an egg remained a mystery until middle age.
Domestic wifely goddess, much touted in the fifties and sixties, was one part that my mother, a ‘resting’ actress, had no interest in playing. Housekeeping was haphazard at best and we lived in constant, barely contained chaos.
Indian Link
Various moves ensued as my parents crossed the Irish Sea and then the Atlantic in search of careers and a standard of living that might include a “woman who does”. It was not to be. Settled back in Toronto, my mother would occasionally borrow one from a better-heeled aunt, to help tame the mountainous mess created by my brother and me. In time these hapless souls would take exception to being loaned out and my mother headed, in desperation, to domestic agencies. None of these women appeared twice: I suspect our house was on some kind of domestic blacklist.
It wasn’t until we moved back to Ireland again that a regular cleaning woman appeared on the scene. My father’s career as a documentary film director was taking off and my mother felt it was important to his social standing, not to mention her sanity, for the household to run smoothly and spotlessly. This plan was further complicated by the fact that domestic chaos still reigned supreme and was exacerbated by the fact that our six-story Edwardian home was also the HQ of their embryonic film company. While the house was Grand Central station for my brother’s and my friends, it was also frequently cluttered with film crews and untidy heaps of camera equipment, either coming off or going on location. A “woman who does” became an absolute necessity.
The first of these paragons was Mrs. Doyle, a formidable woman with a football helmet perm and a mouth that was held in a tight, supercilious grimace whenever she darkened our doors. One of her tasks was to cook us an evening meal and we always looked forward to Mrs. Doyle nights. Supper would consist of a main course AND a dessert, none of which would be burnt and all of which would be tasty. What she thought of us, I dread to think but she disappeared from our horizon after a couple of years when some of my mother’s jewelry was found to be missing. There was no talk of the police being involved, and Mrs. Doyle loudly protested her innocence as she left on that final day. My mother, who was a terrible snob, muttered darkly that it was all you could expect of someone from the wrong side of town, and went back to burning the pots.
In time Mrs. Doyle was replaced by Nellie, who was poached from a neighbour, and who lived only a few blocks away. Nellie was a sweet, cheerful soul who not only cooked but baked. Wonder of wonders the most amazing soda breads and tea bracks would fill the house with a tantalizing aroma and Thursday became the day to rush home from school. No loitering in the park trying to catch a glimpse of Too-Friendly-Alf the local flasher, or lurking in back lanes smoking. Thursday meant serious food. Nellie served us well until she retired a couple of years later and in desperation, I taught myself to cook and run the household. From then on there were no more women-who-did. There was no need. I had joined the ranks of those who served.
TeePublic
Clo Carey Feb/20
Blog challenge 2020 one word prompt: service
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#write28days Feb22
Teetering on the Edge 