Indoors, Rose, a protégée of Mrs Greene’s and daughter of the local butcher, proved her weight in gold in getting the house in order. Rose was a bright and chatty girl, not yet twenty. She was dimpled and delicious, with a cascade of dark, curly hair which no amount of pins could keep in check. She addressed me as ‘ma’am’ until I told her to call me Mrs Johns, a convenient fiction which worked for us both. She lived at home with her parents and a much younger brother, Bobby, a chubby toddler who she occasionally brought to work with her when her mother was indisposed. The physical resemblance between the two was impossible to misinterpret, not to mention the bond, which was more affectionate than you would expect for a young woman and a sibling. As proof positive this was in fact her own child, as he began to speak words which were comprehensible, he called her ‘Mammy-rose’. Who was I to criticise? I told her she could bring him whenever she liked. He was no trouble, playing happily while we worked, and, indeed, it was a joy to see him running stoutly across the lawns or petting the new-hatched chicks in the poultry house. Whether it was because we were both women with ‘a history’ or simply because we were both young, we established an immediate accord.
I hired skilled carpenters to restore the beautiful Jacobean panelling in the hall and landings to its former glory. They replaced warped floorboards and rehung doors so that they stopped sticking and made windows and shutters operate without effort. An army of needlewomen mended rips in curtains and replaced faded soft furnishings. What a joy it was to see the house emerge from its doldrums and what a new lease of life I too experienced, overseeing and participating in its revival!
Then, when the workmen had departed, Rose and I opened the shutters of the rooms and pulled the coverings from the furniture with an almost ceremonial formality. With a team of women from the village, we set about the gargantuan task of cleaning and polishing. We hauled rugs outdoors for beating, shaking out years’ worth of dust and debris, polished glassware and washed the delicate crystal droplets of the chandeliers until they glinted like diamonds.
Colin had instructed me to hire a number of below-stairs staff ‘for the interim of our visit’ so I employed a cook, Mrs Bittern, who came highly recommended by Mrs Greene from an establishment in York, a kitchen maid, two parlour maids (one of which was Rose), two gardeners and Kenneth as a general outside man. As for the above-stairs men - footmen, valets and a Butler - I did nothing. Colin had informed me these would be supplied from amongst his own, existing staff, people upon whose discretion and loyalty he could depend.
Mrs Bittern arrived and I immediately knew she would be trouble - a shrewish woman well past forty with a mean eye and a tone of voice which grated on the ear. She took one look round the kitchen before insisting that unless I provided a refrigerator, she would leave. To prove her point she sat down on one of the chairs without removing coat or hat, and folded her arms. I ordered a refrigerator, using the new telephone line Colin had dictated should be installed. The cook, the kitchen maid and one parlour maid took up residence in the old nursery apartments, the former servants’ quarters in the attics being beyond the scope of Colin’s improvements and utterly uninhabitable. I’d have thought these were rather more comfortable than anything they might have been used to, but it seemed not; I had strings of complaints: the windows rattled, the chimney smoked, the mattresses were lumpy.
I offered Kenneth the old agent’s rooms above the estate office but he shook his head and muttered ‘Stay at home, if it’s all the same.’
Rose also preferred to remain at her parents’. ‘Kenneth will see me home, won’t you?’ she said, brightly, ‘and carry little Bobby?’
Kenneth blushed so furiously his freckles all-but disappeared.
‘I think you had better not bring Bobby when the gentlemen are here,’ I cautioned.
The two gardeners moved in above the estate office. I retained Mrs Flowers’ rooms and maintained the fiction that I was a house-keeper. I did this for two reasons; I wished the servants to view me as experienced and competent so they would respect my authority, something they would not have done at all if they had known I was simply a daughter of the house making things up as I went along. Also, when Colin and his guests came, there would be no question of me playing hostess or participating in the entertainments. I dreaded a repeat of my experiences at George and Rita’s house parties and shrank from any exposure which might embarrass Colin or put in jeopardy my tenure at Tall Chimneys. I explained as much to Colin in one of the frequent letters which now crossed between us, as I consulted him on various matters and kept him abreast of improvements. ‘I have lived in seclusion for the past six or seven years,’ I told him, ‘perfectly content with my lot but out of step with modern thinking and behaviours, certainly with modern fashions. I am only as informed about politics and current affairs as diligent perusal of the newspapers and listening to the wireless can make me. In the august company you intend to bring to the house I would fear to transgress in opinion or ignorance. The last thing I would wish would be to embarrass you. Therefore I beg you will allow me to run things from a place of obscurity. I am sure your wife - if you have one - or another lady will be happy to act as hostess.’ Colin’s reply was reassuring. He had no wife, he informed me, the gathering would include only one principal lady who would bring her own entourage and need no entertainment. His guests would require no sport; their time would be occupied in political discussion and strategy. I was to ensure good food, adequate supplies of whisky and brandy, plentiful cigars and utmost discretion. It sounded dull indeed, and I was reassured.
Colin’s letters were always matter-of-fact, typed - I suspected perhaps even composed - by a spinsterish secretary; they were without personality or style of any kind. A week or so before the visit was due to commence, I received a delivery which turned out to be clothing; two drear, mid-calf length skirts in quasi-military fabric and some dark blouses, rather mannish; they were very conservative, without trimming or frippery. It was out of the question that John had sent them to me - he was in Paris at the time, negotiating with an agent - their style didn’t at all reflect his penchant for colour or flamboyance. I hadn’t ordered anything from a catalogue. A short typewritten note arriving the following day identified Colin’s secretary as the donor. ‘Dear Miss Talbot,’ the note ran, ‘I hope the clothing is a suitable size; it will abet your desire to remain unnoticed. Do let me know if an alternative size is required. Yours truly, Giles Percy, Private Secretary to Mr Colin Talbot.’ I smiled at the idea of Mr Percy (in my mind’s eye, a replica of one of Jane Austen’s curates, sexless and mealy) shopping for women’s clothes; his choice was certainly extra-ordinary, suitable for the dour Matron of an institution. When I put them on the person who stood in the mirror looked like a stranger, very serious and severe, and old before my twenty five years. If my image of him had been vivid, so, too, I realised, was his idea of me; he must have formed it from my letter. The clothes made me look like a uniformed functionary by no means to be confused with a member of the family or a person of rank; I had been taken at my word.
I would have been depressed and disillusioned indeed if I had not received, by the same post, a letter from John. John was an excellent correspondent, writing colourful and entertaining letters which I read and re-read many times in my solitude. This one described a possible exhibition in Berlin with another, like-minded artist - a sculptor - he had met in a café. To this end, he told me, he intended extending his trip and had in fact travelled in company with his new associate to Germany. ‘Everyone in France is very exercised about Mr Hitler,’ he told me, ‘either enthralled by the success and charisma of the man, or fearful of the mindless adoration and servitude he seems to kindle. There is no denying,’ he went on, ‘that the German economy is currently out-stripping every other European country. Their factories are all working round the clock, men are employed planting forests and building new roads. Wages are high; many families here have their own motor car. But it isn’t all work. The Government here
has set up an organisation called KdF[6] in pursuance of Mr Sleary’s recommendation that ‘the people must be amused’ (you’ll remember, from Hard Times, I am sure!). It makes sure there is plenty to occupy the workers’ leisure time, with theatrical performances, concerts and sporting activities. My friend and I hope to cash in on a KdF sponsored art exhibition here next month. It’s a promising prospect. They expect wealthy collectors and influential critics from east and west to converge here. We’ve taken lodgings on the top floor of a building on the Strasse Bendler. The light is pretty good and I’ve been working on a new set of canvasses. Jean is doing something very messy with papier mâché and plaster. In the evenings we eat pickled cabbage and snitzel and drink sickly Rhenish wine, and watch the world go by from a restaurant we’ve found close by. My darling, you can hardly imagine, from where you are in your sequestered hollow, what life out here in the modern world is like. One day I shall bring you, and you will be amazed.’
His words made him feel very far away from me, both geographically and emotionally. What would there be, I asked myself, after all his cosmopolitan adventuring, for him to come home to? Only me, old-fashioned and un-travelled and this remote, antiquated old house, the two of us marooned in a forgotten time and place as surely as if we were caught between the covers of a dusty old book.
The main group of guests was due to descend on Easter Saturday. On Holy Tuesday the advance party arrived; several male servants - footmen and a Butler - and two male secretaries including Mr Percy. He was nothing like the man I had imagined. In his mid-twenties, he was of medium height and well-made, with a shock of blond hair and a pleasant smile. He addressed me as Mrs Johns, at my suggestion - pandering to my desire to dissever the family association. He remained formal but beneath his stiffness I was sure I discerned a genial under-layer. He paid me the deference due to any ancient family factotum, visiting my little office often as a matter of politeness to discuss issues arising, but to all intents and purposes taking control of arrangements in the house. All Colin’s men wore semi-military clothing akin to the garments I had been provided with, and I saw at once Mr Percy’s plan to enable me to meld into the background; we were like a battalion of troops in which one is indistinguishable from another. Certainly they commenced operations with military discipline, doing a recce of the house and grounds, and then beginning a programme of unceremonious shifting and lifting, moving furniture from room to room, reordering the sleeping arrangements and bringing suites of rooms into play I had decided should be closed off. The secretaries commandeered the morning room in the east wing. The library was to become a meeting room, the sofas pushed back and two large desks dragged into the centre. A large folio of European maps appeared. The drawing room was declared too small and another room - a music room, much grander but never used in my lifetime - brought into use for relaxation and refreshment. The village women I had hired as maids and I scurried round for two days, making up fresh beds, fetching supernumerary chairs and bureaux from distant rooms, trying to add to the scanty comforts of some rooms with vases of flowers and draperies.
The secretaries took their meals above stairs, in a small sitting room. The Butler and the footmen joined the rest of the servants below, but were surly and uncommunicative, and scathing of our rustic amenities. Mrs Bittern, with more mouths to feed than she had calculated for at this stage, had a fit of apoplexy and threatened to leave. It took all my powers of persuasion to change her mind.
Easter was late that year. Already the early spring bulbs had faded and the perennials were pushing through the soil. The air was soft and mild during the day but given to dampness in the evenings. The gardeners I had hired had been doing wonders with the neglected beds; the parterre was free of weeds for the first time in years, the old fountain un-choked and coaxed back into life. With their help the kitchen gardens looked like they would be the most productive ever; I had gradually reduced my field of operations down to three or four raised beds and a section in the glasshouse. Now everywhere had been weeded, compost and manure dug in, trees and bushes pruned, seeds sown. It felt like Tall Chimneys was experiencing a rebirth and the promised influx of company, although I had refused any social inclusion, regenerated my own spirits. I missed John, of course, and envied him his freedom to travel and experience life abroad which probably - despite his promises - I would never see as his accepted companion. The very public liaison between King Edward VIII and Mrs Simpson seemed to suggest that, very soon, such discretion might not be needed but for the time being ordinary men and women like John and I would not have dreamed of walking in their footsteps. In the meantime, however, the activity in the house, the easy rapport I had established with Mr Percy, even the anticipation of seeing Colin again all seemed to compensate. Tall Chimneys was my universe and I threw myself into it with enthusiasm, and tried not to think about the world outside at all.
On the evening of Maundy Thursday Mr Percy joined me as I perambulated on the lawn. He had finished dinner, and stepping through some French doors onto the terrace to smoke a cigar, spied me on my regular evening walk.
‘May I join you?’ he asked, falling into step beside me.
‘Of course,’ I answered. ‘Is all in readiness?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Your brother and a couple of others will arrive tomorrow. The rest of the party on Saturday except for two, who will join us on Sunday for one night only.’
I said nothing. It was as I had been informed. The arrivals on Sunday were to have the two premier suites of rooms, adjoining each other off the east landing, the rooms I believed my parents had once occupied. They would bring their own servants who were to be accommodated close by. Their identities were shrouded in much mystery.
‘You are not curious as to who will be visiting your home?’ Mr Percy gave me a narrow look, although his words were casual, unweighted.
I wondered if it was a test. ‘Of course,’ I threw off. ‘But the necessity for discretion has been emphasised so rigorously that I am determined not to wonder.’
He laughed. ‘Very wise. And afterwards, not to talk.’
‘I know my brother is a close confidant of Mr Chamberlain,’ I offered. ‘It is very gratifying, of course, and I am proud of his advancement and influence. But really, here,’ I indicated the wall of trees around us, the high, pale sky, the ancient house, ‘such things seem very remote, hardly part of the same world at all.’
‘Indeed,’ he agreed, ‘your situation is very particular. Tall Chimneys is a throw-back, in many ways, frozen in a time which has long passed, and locked into a landscape which is almost other-worldly. You never go to London?’
I shook my head. ‘Not for many years. My..’ I checked myself, I had been on the cusp of saying ‘my husband’ … ‘my friends do, from time to time. They report it is a very busy place, now, full of hustle and bustle, motorcars, electric light.’
‘And so it is. Also very cosmopolitan, full of immigrants, itinerants, the dispossessed. Order is breaking down. I think you had much better stay here, Mrs Johns.’
‘I think I shall,’ I agreed, ‘although we have our share of the dispossessed here too. There is no work.’
‘The state should never have allowed industry to get into private hands,’ he commented. ‘I hope that, soon, things will be rebalanced.’
We had arrived back at the terrace. It would have been natural for him to end his walk and go inside. He hesitated, however. He fiddled with the stub of his cigar and seemed to be struggling for an opening. It was the first time I had seen him at any kind of loss. ‘I hope,’ he said at last, ‘that you will not be inconvenienced in any way by our party.’
‘I don’t suppose I shall be,’ I assured him. ‘It seems to me my work is done, now. Your people have everything in hand. The cook, perhaps, might need some…’
But he interrupted me. ‘If you do find yourself… incommoded. You must come and let me know,’ he said.
The next day my brother came. And with him, Sylvester Ratton.
&nb
sp; Colin was as skinny and unprepossessing as he had been as a boy. A sharp nose and small, watery eyes at which he constantly dabbed with a monogrammed handkerchief, were his most arresting features. His hair was pale, and thin, scraped across the bony dome of his skull. He was smaller in stature than I had imagined; perhaps, in my memory, his cruel nature had given him more height than he had ever actually had. Like the others, he wore a military-style of dress, drab khaki with a wide belt. The belt was ridiculous, much too big for his skinny waist, the buckle kept creeping round to his side and he was forever yanking it back into place. All his clothes, in fact, though neat, looked as though they had been made for someone larger. The effect was of a little boy dressed in his father’s apparel. I wanted to laugh, in spite of my nerves. He skipped nimbly up the steps of the main entrance to where I was waiting for him alongside the others of his staff. He shook hands with everyone genially, including me. No glimmer suggested he knew me as anything other than a housekeeper.
Mr Percy showed Colin into the rooms which had been prepared, murmuring already about matters of business, a sheaf of documents in his hands. The Butler and footmen dissolved and disappeared to their various duties, leaving me alone in the hall. Colin’s party seemed to have arrived in a motorcade; several vehicles manoeuvred out on the gravel. The activity outside drew my attention. I stepped out under the portico. In addition to two motorcars there was a large van. It was reversing up to the doors. And there was Mr Ratton, exactly has he had been six years before except even more rotund, directing operations as he would have done then. He, too, wore the strange uniform; it made him look self-important and ridiculous but then, I remembered, I was wearing it, or a facsimile of it, myself. He caught sight of me and flashed what would have been a malevolent smile if his face, more doughy than formerly, as fat and bland as a half-baked bun, had had any flexibility of expression. I caught my breath, reliving, in that instant, all he had put me through before. It was as though a plug had been removed from my body and all my confidence allowed to pour through the hole.
Tall Chimneys: A British Family Saga Spanning 100 Years Page 7