A Butler

In my Autobiography in Words and Pictures I have written fairly extensively about my early life at our house in Silchester. And I may have noted that we were rather poor at that time, especially during the Great Depression when my father’s chicken farm was ruined by fowl pest and the importation of cheap eggs from Poland. 

Although we were poor, no-one minded as we had several Knights in the family. My grandfather was one, my uncle also an MP another, a cousin yet one more and a Great Uncle Dean of Salisbury. So we were accepted as gentry, which meant giving dances on our sprung floor, tennis parties on our immaculate grass court and many bridge parties where I was dragged around and given marrons glacé to keep me quiet. 

Should my parents loose at bridge, one of the table would volunteer to cover their losses. It was just considered unfortunate that we did not have a lot of money. We had a maid, but certainly not a butler.

Because of our position in society we children were given the run of many a grand house and invited to lots of balls and parties - ones where the contents of crackers might be mechanical wind-up toys, for instance. 

It was, however, our dealings with butlers that I recall as being of interest.

For some reason or other we were staying with the Firths at their previous house to the one near us. 

They were great family friends and, because of Harry Firth’s family being part of Firth Stainless Steel, very wealthy.

The Firths were keen on playing bridge. Harry shot rooks for some reason, certainly not to eat, though game pies at that time did contain quite a mix of animals.

I was a friend of their hair-lipped gardener, and visited the servant’s side of the house to have our wet batteries for the wireless changed with their battery of batteries that lit their house from a huge and lovely, single cylinder generating machine.

One day the Firth’s cook ordered from us two chickens to roast for a dinner party. My sister June was given the task of delivering these two fine oven-ready birds to the house and, naturally, took them to the front door where Sherrard, the butler, told her to take them around to the servant’s entrance. This upset June so much that she never forgot it.

I suppose it was Sherrard who was their butler when we stayed with them at Calcot. This was a grand house which, small as I was, remember it having separate lavatories for men and women (with stalls like public ones for men).

When we left for home I knew that one should tip the butler. I gave him sixpence. It was a cause for family hilarity but may have been much of my pocket money. 

The other butler story I have certainly told elsewhere that also involved the Firth’s and their butler Sherrard.

Harry Firth seldom visited his well-stocked wine cellar, but one day did so. There he found Sherrard drinking his favourite port from a teacup. Harry could, perhaps, have forgiven Sherrard had he been drinking the port from a proper glass. But from a teacup was just too much to bear for Harry, who sacked the long-standing Sherrard on the spot. 

Sherrard, I believe, emigrated to Australia.