A day in the life of a modern-day butler

An age-old profession is getting a new lease of life as the super-rich demand their very own Jeeves.

Shakespeare’s The Tempest features the alcoholic Stephano, Agatha Christie epitomised the butler with cold murder and then there is the very sombre Alfred; Batman’s own batman. We, the butlers, the manservants, the major domos were a dying breed until now. A fresh influx of money into the hands of the discerning has placed butlers back in the pantry crafting butterballs and hanging shot pheasants to toughen in the larder.  

I was having a quarter-life crisis and had turned down an offer from a law-firm for a training contract when I chanced upon a job advert looking for butler. It was either that or an ill-advised trip to Papua New Guinea.

I turned up in a suit, an old-school tie and brown brogues. I hummed and hawed and managed to get the job on the sheer admiration I professed for Jeeves. Training started the very next day at the deep end - mimicking the move of the portly and balding head-butler. The second day of work, I spilled three glasses of Prosecco down the ivory back of an MP’s wife. 

Shifty suspects and secret drunks aside, the art of the modern butler is altruism at its best. Butlers live a life of anticipation. Whether the silver-haired administrator butler at a large estate or a housekeeper butler at a dual-income middle-class home, he or she is marked by a remarkable devotion to service. Ever nimble-toed, the efficient manservant can scurry like a dormouse through a lounge full of broken crockery, scooping, clearing and dusting even as the guest rests undisturbed, couched in a chesterfield with the latest edition of the Esquire at his elbow and a tawny port by his side. 

The Howard, the 18-room Georgian townhouse in Edinburgh where I worked alongside half a dozen other butlers, dedication goes a step further. Each butler is assigned a guest and expected to be assiduous in their service. Perhaps unsurprisingly we had our own take on our place in the modern egalitarian world - we see ourselves as working for the common good. I was once called to the door with a tray of the finest Assamese tea and coconut scones at ten in the evening. I was met with a rather under-dressed portly gentleman who ushered me to his dressing table. Sporting a marvellous Dali-esque moustache, a combover and ten fingers draped in rings, the patrician wanted a tin of styling wax. I rushed downstairs, desperately disconcerted, to be met with a colleague who, after supplying me with a fortifying cup of Rooibos, calmly proceeded to the guest’s suite with his tin of wax. 

Hospitality is a much maligned field. It is seen with a jaundiced eye and is subject to much derision. Robert Watson of the Guild of Butlers puts it down to the profession being seen as a stop-gap employment before moving on to "sensible" jobs. The butlers that I work with are seasoned to the point of perfection. I had much to live up to. Freddy, the elder, was the oldest of the serving butlers at the townhouse and knew the nooks and crannies of not only the townhouse but also of the guest’s needs even before they themselves knew what they wanted. In service of the establishment for nearly fifteen years now, he has seen and met dignitaries, superstars and divas. He knows far more about them and what makes their day than their own spouses do. Stuart, the grave bespectacled butler, holds me in thrall with the ease at which he "troubleshoots". Andrew, the miracle-worker, has never known a difficult guest and Barry, the quickfire, can prepare the world’s best martini in under forty seconds. Shaken, not stirred. 

All establishments that sport butlers and valets have a common, regimented structure. The hotel or townhouse is neat in its divisions of upstairs and downstairs. The feudal trappings of the Victorians might have faded but the gist remains. It is important for everyone in such an establishment to know their stated place.The heart of the establishment is the butler’s pantry in the sub-basement. It is a warm, tropical place, the steam condensing on the ceiling, and forever warbling with the sounds of cutlery being polished, the kettle singing, the coffee brewing, or the milk frothing. It is a place we butlers like to call our very own. The pantry is where the day begins and ends. No two days in the pantry are the same and every moment is laden with the prospect of something new and bizarre.

The day starts early with the amassed butlers breakfasting in staggered shifts, each savouring the same fare that is meant for the guests above. There is much talk of the guests, and their individual needs are discussed. Shoes are scuffed, teapots are warmed and collars are starched. I have a good look in the mirror and dart upstairs to check-in a guest into their suite. It is a well-orchestrated move; a tray of teas followed by a quick installation luggage in the rooms, unpacking the bags and laying out the rose petals on the four poster. On this day I have been summoned to picnic duties in St Andrews. I am to caddy out transatlantic guests at the Old Course and then to lay out the most sumptuous picnic under a blue Fife sky. There are tea cakes and scones, brownies and sandwiches, fruit and venison and much champagne to be had. A violinist has been borrowed from the students’ union and does a good job of playing Vivaldi’s La primavera

I was very fortunate to have made the acquaintance of Rick Fink, perhaps the most well-known and respected butler in the world. The septuagenarian has a wealth of experience, having started at the age of eighteen, and has worked for bosses ranging from country lairds to the Royal Family. Rick, once faced with an implausibly early breakfast demanded by his master, rushed to the barn to scour for eggs at three in the morning. As he relates, he was overjoyed to find four pristine eggs tucked away in a corner. Putting aside the concerns of the cackling hens and the scratches suffered, he brought the eggs home and laid them on the rack in the pantry. Satisfied that the needs of his employer would be taken care of in the morning, Rick went back to bed only to find himself awoken by chirruping from the kitchen. The eggs had hatched! 

Polishing shoes or tracing a crease on a moleskin trouser leg are works of devotion and not of haste. The journey towards a well-pressed shirt transcends the pressed shirt itself. To this end, Rick and I both share something in common - we were both in the navy for some time. While he was a Royal Navy Steward, I was a Royal Marines recruit. Rick and I both learnt our first valuable lessons in the military.

I asked James, an erstwhile manservant with a prominent earl from the south-west about his views on the newfangled ascendancy of the profession. He was sitting on his cottage porch on the gorse moors of Perthshire, languid and recumbent. Red socks, a paisley patterned cravat andlanguid air filled with the smoke from an oaky cigar dominated the view. James was critical of the modern butlers employed by the foreigners in London. “It's all a gimmick,” he added dismissively.

Even though the number of butlers is growing, discretion remains paramount. Many that I spoke to were loath to be named or share a story or two and with good reason. One replied with the sheer incredulity of a surgeon being asked to part with his own medical records.

I write this remembering the days when I would await further instructions from my guests with their luncheon on the meadows. A rather sunny day, we spot a peacock much to the glee of a young lady aged three. I reach the edge of the picnic cloth to serve the scones and tea when I hear the most satisfying words a butler can ever hope to hear:

“We don’t know what we would do without you”.

A butler brings his mistress breakfast in bed, in 1930. Photograph: Getty Images

Ritwik Deo is currently working on his first novel, about an Indian butler in Britain.

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism