Manservants

[ Part I here  ]

I’m Mr James’ chauffeur.

It didn’t start like that of course. Just about a year ago the Labour Exchange sent me here as a handy-man and to be honest I wasn’t even qualified for that. I wouldn’t have come but if I hadn’t they’d have stopped my assistance, so no choice really. To begin with it was two days a week helping My Robinson, Mr James’ butler, with the heavier jobs about the house. Moving the furniture so the floors could be polished, that sort of thing. Then polishing those floors.  I wasn’t keen on it, but then it was cash and not hard work so I went back every week for a couple of months.

Then one day just as Mr Robinson was making a sandwich for our us in the scullery the bell rang and he left, bread still unbuttered, to answer it. He was back in less than a minute and said ”God knows why but Mr James wants to see you. Come along!”

So I followed him upstairs and into the dining room where Mr James was still sitting at the table even though lunch had been cleared some time before.

”Robinson tells me that you’re a good boy.”

I was somewhat taken aback by the ”boy”, but replied ”I hope so.”

Robinson murmured in my ear ”Address Mr James as ‘sir’ Bobby.”

”And he says that you can drive?”

”Yes sir.”

”I’m  dining out this evening, the other side of town.  Would you be willing to drive me there, wait and then bring me home again? There’d be ten shillings in it for you.”

”Yes sir. I’d be please to.”

”Very good.” Turning to Robinson he added ”See that the boy gets some tea before I go.” and waved us out of the room.

The driving was easy. Mr James gave directions and when we reached his destination told me to put the car in the news lane and wait until sent for. About 11 o'clock a footman tapped on the window and told me to take the car around to the front door and as I drew up to the kerb Mr James came down the steps from the front door and got in saying ”Home boy.”

He didn’t speak another word until we reached his house when he got out at the front door. ”Very good, boy.  Put the car in the garage then go home.  Robinson will pay you tomorrow.  Oh,” he added ”For next time you should wear a tie.”

True to his word Robinson handed me two half-crowns when I arrived the following morning. I had a tie in my pocket but it wasn’t called for that day or the next week.  When it was it was much like the first occasion except that this time Mr James’ parting comment was ”You really should be in a white shirt boy.”

There were a couple more evenings like that then one day Mr James interrupted us as we were moving the hall table saying ”Get the car out boy, front door. Chop chop!”

When he got in he said ”Harrods.  And I thought I told you to wear a white shirt boy?”

”I’m sorry sir. I’m afraid that I don’t have one.”

”Hm.”

I drove to Harrods and waited an hour or so before he came back. When he got in he said ”Marble Arch. Park the car somewhere near the bottom of Baker Street.” which I did but this time he told me to get out, lock the car and follow him. I did so and he lead me into Marks and Spencer, up to the first floor and the Men’s Wear department.

”What’s your collar size boy?”

”Fifteen sir.”

”Go fetch one of those basket things.”

I went and picked up a basket. When I found Mr James again he was standing by the shelves of shirts.  He picked out half a dozen bright white nylon shirts, tossing them one at a time into the basket I was holding.  He walked across to a display of ties, picked out two black ones and beckoning me closer, added them on top of the shirts.

In silence he strode off to the cash desk with me training him.  There he instructed that they be added to his account, signed the chitty and gesturing for me to pick up the packed bag, walked out onto the street and back to the car.

”There,” he said as he settled into the back seat, ”Those will make you a little more presentable when driving me.”

I was flabbergasted.  Six shirts at 35/- each and the ties had been 11/6.  I couldn’t possibly have afforded that but Mr James didn’t say any more so I drove him home praying that he’d not ask me to pay for them.

When we reached My James’ house he told me to garage the car and go in the back and take the bag to Robinson.

Mr Robinson emptied the bag onto the kitchen table and told me to unwrap the shirts.  As I did he explained.

”Mr James wants you here from Monday to Saturday from now on. You’ll get twelve pounds and ten shillings a week and meals.”

It struck me that he wasn’t asking if I’d like to, just telling me.  More than that ”12 10/- would be less a day than I was already getting.  But six days rather than two or three would be more money, so I shrugged and said ”Yes Mr Robinson.”

”Here Bobby, bring those things.”  He took me into the boot room beyond the scullery and told me to put the shirts and ties in a cupboard. ”From now on when you arrive you’ll come in here and change.  Clean shirt every day. Be ready in the kitchen by 8am. Understood?”

”Yes Mr Robinson.”

End of the day is 6pm when you’ll get your tea unless Mr James wants you to drive him in the evening. Dirty shirts in that box” he said pointing, ”Mary does staff laundry on Tuesdays and Fridays so there’s no excuse for being grubby.  Wash in the sink if need be.”

I wasn’t too impressed by that, the boot room sink, a giant thing set low, only had a cold tap but I said ”Yes Mr Robinson” as was clearly expected.

So it went the next few weeks.  If anything being there every day meant the work was actually less tiring and I’d spend time helping the gardener when there was nothing else to do.  Mr James had me drive him three or four times a week, but no bonuses now I was waged staff even when it kept me out well into the small hours.  Then one morning he had me drive him to Little Marlborough Street and park behind Liberty’s but instead of going in as he had on previous occasions he told me to accompany him and walked around the corner into Carnaby Street.

We stopped at an unsigned open door and went in, immediately down stairs into a basement tailor’s shop.

There was the tailor, tape measure around his neck, chalks peeping out of his waistcoat pocket and clearly he knew Mr James.

”Good morning sir.  How may we be of assistance this morning?

”Morning Mr Burran.  This young man,” he said pointing at me, ”Needs a uniform.  Would you measure him up?”

”Of course Sir.  What,” he asked as he started applying the tape measure to me ”Do you require?”

”Driver.” Mr James replied shortly. ”Full tunic.  Front bib.  High collar.  Breeches.”

”Very good Sir.” Mr Burran said, ”May Paul show you some fabric choices?”

As the measuring went on with Mr Burran seemingly using his tape on every probably and improbable part of me, pausing to make notes in a little pocket book and muttering to himself.  By the time he’d finished Mr James was waiting by the door.  

”It’ll be ready when?”

”By four this afternoon Sir, if you wish.”

”Good enough.  I’ll send the boy.”

Indeed a about half past three Mr Robinson told me to get off to the the tailor’s.  Walking I arrived just after 4 o'clock and Mr Burren shooed me into the back where his assistant was ready with the uniform.  I’d not had the chance to see the fabric that Mr James had chosen that morning so it was a surprise.  A fairly coarse weave in a lustrous blue-black, it was shiny under the fluorescent tubes of the work-room with matte black buttons.  Paul, the assistant, handed me the trousers which were strange: very high waisted, flaring out at the thighs, narrow tubes below the knee.

I hesitated looking for a changing room so Paul said ”You don’t get to use the cubicles in the shop, you’ll have to put them on here.” So I did, embarrassed because he was standing there making no pretence that he wasn’t looking.  I put my shoes back on and the trouser bottom didn’t quite meet, showing too much sock and making me regret I’d put electric blue ones on that morning.

Paul opened the tunic and handed it to me. ”You’ll have to put it on yourself so you might as well start now.” It was fairly tight and the material thinner than I’d expected with neither lining or interlining.  Paul showed me how to hook the collar so the shirt collar and tie just showed above it and the middle just to keep it together then gave me the bib, instructing how it should be buttoned up each side covering the front of the tunic.  The whole thing was exceedingly snug and definitely form fitting except for a little flare below the waist where it covered the breeches.

”It’s tight.” I complained. ”Is it supposed to be like that?”

”Yes.”  He laughed a little.  ”It’ll make you sit to attention behind the wheel and stand to attention when holding a door.  That’s the point.”

I’d not yet held open a car door, presumably this would be something I’d have to do from now on.

Paul tugged everything apparently not satisfied that the uniform has been put on quite correctly. Eventually he stood back and said ”It’ll do.  Bugger off then.”

It seemed that I wasn’t expected to change back so I picked up my trousers, folded them over my arm and left to walk back to Mr James’ house.

Mr Robinson explained that the tunic jacket was just for outside when with Mr James. Other than that I’d continue to work in shirt-sleeves as before.  I didn’t drive Mr James that evening and the following morning he wasn’t in evidence.  Instead Mr Robinson took me on a bus to Kilbun to a cobbler where I got a pair of tall black boots to go with the breeches.

A few days later Mr James called for the car and having brought it to the front I got out and stood ready to open the car door for him as he came out of the house.

When he was settled in the back I closed the door and returned to the driver’s seat.

”Good boy.  You’re learning and I’m pleased.”

The 'boy’ still rankled a little but in all the weeks since I’d arrived that house these were the first complimentary words Mr James had ever spoken to me. I felt ridiculously happy and grinning only just managed a quiet ”Thank you sir.”

It was a week later when Mr James had me drive him to his barbers on Chester Row.  As was often the case I waited in the car but Mr James did not appear. Instead one of the barber’s boys came out and told me I was wanted inside.

There was Mr James sitting in an armchair and the barber waiting with a cape over his arm.

”Take your jacket off boy and into the chair with you.”

I was a bit surprised but did as I was told.  The barber’s assistant took my jacket while the barber swung his chair around to face me and indicated that I should sit which I did.

”Sit back” he said and then pulled the nylon cape around my neck securing it tightly and smoothing it down over me.

Mr James rose from his seat and approached.

”Now, I want something very smart and short.” He said.

”Er…” I started.

”Be quiet boy, you’ve nothing to say here.”

So I kept silent while Mr James and the barber discussed options.

”It’ll have to be washed.” Said the barber with a distinct sneer as he fingered the top of my head.

”Yes, yes.  Now I want it short, traditional but very short you know?”

The conversation went on quite some time with all sorts of options considered while the barber increasing moved my head around seemingly demonstrating things although held not yet picked up any scissors.

I’d stopped paying attention and was day-dreaming a bit thus it came as a surprise as the barber adjusted the angle of the chair then without warning released some catch so I was tipped back over the sink and he began to wash my hair.

This was a new experience for me and despite the barber being a bit rough and the water just a bit too hot I was enjoying it when he wrapped a towel around my head and levered the chair-back into an upright position again.

A brief but vigorous rub with the rough towel, which was discarded for the assistant to pick up, the barber reached into the top pocket of his nylon jacket for comb and scissors.  He started right in without turning the chair so I couldn’t see a mirror, just the rear wall of the shop and out of the corner of my eye Mr James in the armchair watching what was happening.

After a first trim the barber reached for the clippers and pushing my head forward began clipping the hair of the back of my neck and head.  Then, holding the top of my head firmly he twisted me to one side to continue. First one side then the other, getting higher and higher until I was seriously worried I’d be shaved bald.

I wasn’t of course.  The barber set the clippers down and positioning me to his satisfaction again took up the scissors, combing, pulling my hair tight and cutting, cutting, cutting.

Eventually he stopped and there was a pause.  I didn’t see what he did next so was a bit surprised when he pushed my head forward again and started scraping my neck with a strait-bladed razor.  He went all the way round with the blade and although I still couldn’t see what was going on I could feel the cold air on bare scalp well up the back of my head an above my ears in a way that was quite alarming.  Lastly he combed and parted my hair and used the razor again on the parting line.

Eventually he finished with the razor and his lad brought him a small hot towel with which he wiped me down, more like wiping down a kitchen counter than a customer.  But then I suppose that I wasn’t really the customer, Mr James was.

He reached for something on the shelf behind and I saw it was a bottle.  He poured lavender brilliantine not into his palm but directly onto my head and then worked the oil in thoroughly.  Taking the comb he again combed my hair into place and, wiping his hands on a towel, turned to Mr James.

”Will that do sir?”

”Yes, excellent, thank you.” Turning to me, ”Well get up boy! Get your jacket on.”

I did as I was told as Mr James looked on and for the first time got to look at myself in a mirror.

I was quite shocked for a second.  I had the shortest short back and sides that I’d ever seen.  The hair didn’t start until well above the top of my ears leaving them sticking out all too obviously.  But the top wasn’t short; quite the opposite. My black hair was parted with a stark white line and the brilliantine oil made it shine as much as my uniform!

”What do you say boy?”

”Er, I don’t know Sir.” I murmured trying to suggest some doubt about the style.

”What you say is 'Thank you Mr Evis, sir’ and that’s what you’ll say every fortnight from here on. Got it?”

”Yes sir, sorry sir.  Thank you Mr Evis sir.” I said to the barber and then at Mr James’ gesture hurried out of the shop to unlock the car and hold the door for him.

Back at the house Mr Robinson looked approvingly at me and said ”That’s better. Now your room.”

”My room Mr Robinson?”  

”Yes Bobby, your room. Didn’t Mr James tell you?  He wants you living in from now on.”

”No Mr Robinson, he didn’t mention this.”

”Well you will be.  Your wages go down of course, it’ll be three pounds five shillings a week from now on, but all found.”

”What does that mean Mr Robinson and why so little? I’m not sure I can work for that.”

”All found means you get a roof over your head, all your meals and your clothes bought for you so you see you’ll have no expenses.  Chances are that it’ll leave you more money in your pocket than before, only it won’t be in your pocket.”

”What do you mean Mr Robinson?”

”Do you have a bank account Bobby?”

”No Mr Robinson.”

”I’m not surprised.  A bank account will be opened in your name and your wages paid into it.  I’m instructed to keep the bank book and let you have a reasonable amount if you need it.  Of course only if I think Mr James will approve whatever you intend to do with it.”

”Oh.” I said, more than a little bewildered as Mr Robinson lead me downstairs to the cellar, past the store rooms to a door at the end which he opened onto a room with a small window at the top of the wall, a single bed, a chest of draws, a small wardrobe and a sink on the wall.

”Right Bobby, you can bring your clean shirts down from the boot room then tomorrow morning after breakfast you may take the bus to your lodgings and collect anything you need. Not much I hope, you don’t need much and I don’t want you cluttering up the place.  Mr James will supply what is necessary.  You understand?”

”Yes Mr Robinson.”

”Good Bobby, now off you go and fetch down your shirts and then you wait in the servants room until you’re called. Get on with you.”

So I went.

I’m not joking.

There was a short-lived UK show on in the early 00s called Masters and Servants. It would take two families, most of them not very well off, and play a game. One family would be the ‘servants’ to the ‘Masters’ one week, and then they would swap places. A disaster of a show. They tried to capture what made Wife Swap or those types of reality shows work, and it just didn’t. No one would play ball in the second week. Most Masters-turned-servants gave up and refused to carry on with the game. And the servants-turned-Masters were too interested in getting revenge.

I remember the young men would be dressed like this. Red bowtie, red waistcoat, white shirt, black trousers, shiny black shoes.

I’ll never forgot watching it as a teen, and seeing one episode. This 19-year-old guy normally used to trackies and sweats was forced to dress up to the nines to serve an older son of a different family. This one guy, a tall blond guy, behind that masculine bravado was a little meek. A bit nervous, even.

Putting that bowtie around his neck changed him. You could just tell. He got into it. He liked it. He wondered what it would be like to shine a Master’s shoes and dress a Master each day. Serving him lunch. Waiting on a Master. Begging to please him on his knees.

Each time the camera caught him, I saw someone getting off on the idea of submission. His dirty post-pubescent brain was probably going wild.

But unlike my own enraptured horny self, his transformation was all caught on camera. There was one scene where he pleaded with his sister to keep calm and carry on doing her chores. And then when she didn’t do them, he did them and his own himself. I wondered how far and how fast he fell into the idea of being owned.

https://vimeo.com/channels/mattreidshowreel/26609848