Because there were too many people on too little land, a lack of housing in London had always been a problem, even for the wealthy. One solution was terrace houses, and this was the style of housing in Holland Park. The Alcotts lived in a five-story, cream-colored stucco townhouse with bay windows and an elevated ground floor with the servants’ entrances under the stairs. Even though the townhouses were similar, I found the whole area to be warm and welcoming.
The interior of the house was always as neat as a pin, which was due to the efforts of three women, all from Gibraltar, who descended on the house every Wednesday, and who went through it like whirling dervishes. When I asked Patricia why they were all from Gibraltar, she said, “That’s a very interesting story,” and she told me a little bit about Holland Park and Kensington during the war.
“In the autumn of 1938, it looked as if Britain would go to war over Hitler’s designs on Czechoslovakia, and in anticipation of air raids, Beth, my girls, and I helped dig trenches and fill sand bags in Hyde Park. But because of the Munich Pact with Germany, war was avoided, and everyone broke out the champagne. But ‘peace in our time’ lasted only one year. In September 1939, we were once again at war with Germany because of its invasion of Poland, and we all went back to digging trenches. We also worked a garden allotment in Holland Park because two dozen War Office workers boarded in this house, sleeping in shifts, and they ate lots of potatoes and vegetables. With most of the servants in uniform or working in war industries, the house was run by Mrs. Redgrave, the housekeeper, Mrs. Bradshaw, and Andrews.”
It was hard to picture Lady Patricia Alcott filling sandbags. She was an elegant lady with strawberry-blonde hair, blue eyes, fair complexion, and a lovely figure, who cared a lot about how she looked and the clothes she wore. But according to Beth, her cousin had “steel in her spine” and needed it when Rand had been so badly wounded in the First War. She stuck with him through endless visits to plastic surgeons where his cheek and eye socket were reconstructed. He had been fitted for a glass eye, but the fragile prosthetic broke easily and needed frequent replacements. Eventually, Rand decided to leave the socket empty and to wear a patch.
“I will tell you one story that may give you an idea of the determination of the British to ‘carry on.’ After war was declared, the government started a metal collection drive. I think you had it in the States where everyone brought in their old pots, pans, and washtubs.”
I smiled, thinking about my mother’s eagerness to contribute to the war effort. Over the years, an unsightly pile of junk had accumulated in the backyard because my grandfather didn’t throw anything away. Mom gladly waved down the truck collecting the scrap metal, and with a clear conscience, rid herself of everything that would stick to a magnet.
“The government decided the wrought iron fences around the parks and some of the most expensive homes in town also needed to come down. This caused a lot of unhappiness because some of the railings were hundreds of years old. The Duke of Bedford flatly refused to allow his to be removed, and a statue of his ancestor in Bedford Square was defaced as a result. But for the most part, down they came, including the iron railings around Kensington Gardens. However, the beautiful gates were saved, and every evening, a park official closed the gates and made his rounds calling, ‘All Out.’ ” Laughing, Patricia said, “Now, keep in mind, the railings are gone. Anyone could walk into the park whenever they wanted to, but it was important to keep up standards and to hold true to tradition.
“As for the ladies from Gibraltar, because of its strategic importance as the gateway to the Mediterranean, the Army decided that the 12,000 civilians living on the peninsula had to be evacuated to England. Although Gibraltans are British subjects, most of them are of Maltese descent and look Italian. When Mussolini brought Italy into the war as an ally of Germany, the Italians had a rough time of it here. That passed, but it was not our finest hour.
“Someone in Whitehall made the decision to place many of these evacuees in two blocks of flats in Kensington near Lancaster Gate, and a few residents complained, saying the Gibraltans were physically, emotionally, and financially ill-suited to be living in Kensington. However, that was a minority view, and the local scout troops integrated hundreds of boys into their ranks. Most evacuees returned to Gibraltar when the war ended, but some stayed on, including the amazing three ladies who clean our house.
“By the way, you may happen upon our former footman, Jim Budd. He does odd jobs around the house. He was captured on Crete and spent nearly four years in a German POW camp. He may seem a bit odd, but he’s a good man.”
I did happen upon Jim Budd in the pantry where he was stuffing his coat pockets with tins of Spam I had brought from AAFES. His hoarding was a result of his years in the POW camp where he was chronically undernourished, and it was no secret because, on one occasion, Mrs. Gooding asked that I get a tin of sardines out of Jim’s bottom drawer. In addition to acting as the on-site repairman, Jim’s job included collecting the ration coupons from everyone in the house and waiting in line to buy rationed items. Even on the coldest days, I never heard him complain about the long waits.
Mrs. Gooding was starting to warm up to me, but Andrews was another story. He seemed to bristle whenever I went downstairs, and I didn’t know what I had done to offend him. I finally asked Mrs. Gooding. With a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, she said, “It’s got nothing to do with you, dear.
“You see, during the war, the male servants went into the military, and because of mandatory national service, the girls were hired on at the factories, making bombs or building airplanes and the like. Even though unemployment is very high right now, most of them don’t want to come back into service. It’s a dead-end job, you see, so most of the work is hired out.” The ash on Mrs. Gooding’s cigarette was now an inch long. It was only when tiny flakes started to fall onto her sweater that she finally flicked off the ash. “It’s been hard on Mr. Andrews because, before the war, the Alcotts always had guests, and some very important people they were. Lady Patricia says that when they start entertaining again, she’s going to hire a caterer.” Stabbing the air with her cigarette, Mrs. Gooding said, “Where does that leave me, I ask you? Planning the menus and telling the caterers where everything is, that’s where. But I’ve got nowhere to go. So I’m staying right where I am until they carry me out feet first.”