by Vicky Adin
By evening, she had travelled as far as Bath where she would stay for a couple of days. The city was more famous for its Roman and Georgian history, which lovers of Jane Austen knew about, but it was still fashionable during the late-Victorian era and into the Edwardian. Megan found a guesthouse in an elegant Victorian villa and with a visitor guide in hand dutifully toured the historic sites in the town, concentrating on those listed in Isabel’s journal.
Within a short time, she realised how lucky she’d been that Great Aunt Constance had kept it protected for so many decades. For such an old diary, it was in great condition with only a few stains here and there, and the paper had deepened in colour to a rich buff, but otherwise it was relatively undamaged.
At the end of her second day in Bath, she rang Sarah.
“Hello?” Sarah’s voice at the end of the line sounded hurried.
“Hello, sweetheart.” Megan belatedly checked her watch, realising it would be the morning rush hour over there. “Have I caught you at a bad time?”
“No. No. It’s fine. Just hang on a sec.”
Precious seconds ticked by, as Megan hung on the end of the phone not sure what the noises meant.
“Hello, Mum. Sorry about that. That was another mother from day care calling to pick up Bella. You talk and I’ll listen, but bear with me while I make some coffee. Where are you?”
“That’s fine, honey. I’m in Bath. Just thought I’d like to talk to someone for a change. Emails and texts are great, but ...” Megan trailed off.
“Keep talking, Mum. I’ve put you on speakerphone.”
“I suppose I’m feeling a bit lonely. Apart from the brief discussions with people to get food and accommodation, I haven’t talked with anyone in days. It’s nice to hear your voice.”
“So, tell me what you’ve been doing.”
Megan launched into her discoveries at the London Public Record Office, trying to simplify it as best she could. “It seems definite. I am a descendant of that family and my great-grandmother Isabel was the author of the journal. Reading it through again as I get to each place is helping me know a lot more about her and understand why she did what she did. The things I found out about Grandma Julia still really upset me though. I can’t get them out of my head. The things she had to cope with! Losing all her children like that. Makes me look weak. And we have no idea what happened to her mother.”
“Don’t fret, Mum. And don’t think you’re weak. It sounds to me like you come from a long line of strong women. What have you been doing in Bath?”
“I’ve been on a history trail. I followed the list in Isabel’s journal and visited the Assembly Rooms, the cathedral and Pulteney Bridge. I had the most delicious afternoon tea in traditional Georgian style at the Pump Room. It’s a real pleasure being here.”
“Sounds lovely, Mum.”
“It’s the history of the place that gets me. It’s hard to believe I am literally walking on the same stones in the same places Isabel walked.”
Sarah and Megan laughed over other pieces of trivia about life at home and her plans for the next few days before saying goodbye. Megan felt better for having talked with Sarah.
Maybe she could keep the loneliness at bay after all.
Isabel’s Journal
2 November 1910 – Bath
The Royal Crescent here in Bath is very elegant and obviously for the wealthy. The area is open and airy with a park across the road. I love the way the sun, when it shines, glints off the light coloured stones, although even this early in November it’s colder here than at home. Mrs Baragwanath certainly knows a lot of people, and the Georgian manor we are staying in is the epitome of style. I’ve never seen such fine furniture. I thought Father and Mother had good taste but I can see their belongings are very rustic in comparison to this household.
Today we explored some of the town. It has some very old buildings and the architecture is quite grand, but the shopping here is delightful. They cater for a much more discerning set than at home. The quality of the cloth is exquisite. I bought a new pair of gloves and a fan, both of which are very fine.
We visit the Assembly Rooms every day, just to see who else is there. It seems the tradition has been handed down for generations, and the elite are not prepared to give up a tradition. I’m not sure I understand the need to wander around just nodding at people or have a gentleman tip his hat at us. Why can’t we just talk to one another? Just when I think Mrs B is modern and prepared to bend convention, she slips back into olden days!
We also visit the Roman Bath House to take the waters, much as they have done for many years. It tastes awful, but one is not allowed to show distaste – that, in itself, is distasteful.
I found Pulteney Bridge quite interesting, lined as it is with quaint shops. I enjoyed shopping for knick–knacks and some surprisingly fine fabric. Mrs B says I will see a similar bridge, although much older but also lined with shops, in Florence when we get there.
We walked past the abbey where we will go on Sunday for church.
Mother will be pleased Mrs Baragwanath is seeing to my spiritual education as well as my social. Personally, I prefer socialising more.
Chapter 8
The next morning dawned grey and overcast, the threatening rain not far away. After her decision not to rush, Megan enjoyed the feeling of freedom as she travelled south-west through Somerset. With time on her hands, she found reasons to stop along the way, aware she was deliberately living in the detail and avoiding the larger picture. As if afraid of what would she find once she reached her destination.
She drove into Midsomer Norton, Wells and Glastonbury, visited the cathedral, the ruins of the ancient abbey and climbed the Tor for the best view she could get. The rain had held off, but the biting wind made sure Megan didn’t linger long. She went in search of somewhere warm.
Back in the town centre she was grateful to find a small tearoom that smelt of delicious food and good coffee. Since it was the off-season for tourists and there were only a few locals in, the woman behind the counter was soon happy to chat to a newcomer. Megan let her rattle on about the history of the town, its myths and legends, and gossip about the townsfolk. Eventually, during a break in the conversation, Megan grasped the opportunity she had been looking for.
“I’m on my way to Redruth,” she began. “Looking at the map, I seem to have two choices: the main route south through Bodmin or the more westerly route through Barnstaple. Which way would you recommend? How long would it take me?”
“Luvvy, it be neither here nor there time-wise. Only take you a couple o’ hour or so, no more’n three on the worst day down them motorways like, to go through Taunton, but ’ee don’t want to go that way. Not unless ’ee be in a hurry, like. Are ’ee?”
Megan shook her head.
“Well then, avoid Bodmin and the moors, they be real grey at this time of the year. It be fifty mile at most to Barnstaple. Lovely place, Barnstaple. Lots to do and see, ev’n at this time of the year. Then it’s maybe seventy or eighty more to where ’ee going. It’s not as quick maybe but better, I reckon. Yeah, better by far. Go through the national park. It’s really pretty and a good road an’ all.”
Megan thanked the lady for the advice, paid for her meal and collected her coat. As she was leaving, the woman called out, “If’n ’ee not in a hurry, and you ain’t been there afore then Clovelly is a fine place to stay. Can’t miss it.”
Since neither road Megan was considering went near the route Isabel’s train took, it mattered little which way she drove. She unfolded the map to check the road number and direction and set off towards Minehead and through the northern section of the Exmoor National Park.
It wasn’t long before Megan knew she had made the right decision. Once she’d got past Bridgwater and onto a lesser main road the countryside was indeed as pretty as the woman had said, even more so during the odd break in the cloud cover. She caught glimpses of wild ponies and a lone mountain goat and loved to see the sheep wandering whe
rever they chose through the villages.
A few miles further, the grey skies darkened and Megan began to feel anxious. The smell of misty ocean spray drifted up from cliffs that plunged to villages at their base, where the waves crashed onto the shore, but she could see nothing. On a clear day, she imagined, they would have been spectacular, but now it felt eerie and lonely driving through the deepening mist.
She didn’t want to drive at night and decided to stop in Barnstaple after all. It was coming up to four o’clock when she pulled into the town and found the information office.
“Excuse me,” she said to the man taking in the sign. “Can you help me please? I was thinking of driving further, but the weather seems to be closing in so I thought to stay somewhere nearby.”
“Wise choice. Yes, very wise indeed. Weather round ’ere has the ’abit of closing in quick, like. Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. Now what did ’ee have in mind? I were about to shut up shop, but I can spare a few minutes.”
“How far is it to Clovelly? Someone recommended it as a good place to stay.”
“Well, if’n you likes that sort of thing. ’Tis a bit commercial for my tastes.”
Megan wondered why his taste should come into the discussion, but he hadn’t finished.
“They charge ’ee to enter these days, ’ee know. It’s all private land. Been owned by the same family for centuries, but now they charge. Not right, to my mind. Not right at all. So, what’en? You want to go there?”
“Well, yes. I think so. Can you make a room booking for me please?”
“’Ee sure you don’t want to stay around these parts, ’en?” the man countered.
“No. Thanks.” Megan decided she needed to be firm if she was going to get anywhere. “Clovelly. Please.”
“Righto, then. How long? Dinner? B&B? In the village or outside? Price range?” He fired questions and she made her choices, eventually settling on The Red Lion Hotel on the quay. At length, ignoring the man’s continued negative discourse on the area, she came away with a handful of pamphlets, the booking vouchers and some maps, and left the man to close up. In the end, he’d been helpful, giving her directions and making some suggestions, even as she had shaken her head in bewilderment at his manner.
.
As the woman in the tearooms back in Glastonbury had said, it wasn’t far between Barnstaple and Clovelly, but before long she had to turn the car lights on. She was more than relieved to get there and wanted to get settled quickly. Tiredness washed over her like the misty fog rolling in from the sea. She would have to wait until tomorrow to see the village.
Parking at the top, she was grateful the man in Barnstaple had arranged for the Land Rover service to take her and her luggage down to the quay. Her room at the front of the hotel had a balcony and views of both the harbour and the sea, they assured her, but this evening there was nothing visible but shadowy shapes under dark grey clouds meeting a darker grey sea.
“Welcome.” Her hostess greeted Megan as she entered the dining room. “Come in to the warmth, dear. Come on in. There’s a right ol’ storm brewing, I can tell ye.”
Taking her seat, Megan asked, “What would you recommend?”
“The house specialty is my famous fish pie,” answered the woman proudly. “Made the traditional way with whiting, smoked haddock and salmon, and topped with mashed potato.”
“Sounds delicious.”
When she’d finished, Megan moved to the guest lounge where the waiter brought her some of the equally famous Exmoor Blue cheese, which she washed down with a glass of scrumpy, the local cider. She relaxed for the first time in hours. As the tension drained away, and thinking her day could not have ended better, she randomly opened Isabel’s diary.
Isabel’s Journal
15 November 1910 – London
I find Mrs Baragwanath an amusing travelling companion. She knows so many people where we are invited to stay. She must be ancient though with all her baggy chins and heavy wrinkles, but she wears the most beautiful jewellery. Her demands on me are light. She has a maid to help with her hair and dressing and all those personal needs. I, on the other hand, get to read to her, take a walk, when she feels inclined, for some fresh air, which is not often, and play the odd hand of whist in the afternoon.
We are currently reading E. M. Forster’s book, Howards End. She says the author has captured the classes capably. Mrs B prefers poetry before retiring, especially the poetry of Elizabeth Barratt Browning, mostly, she says, because EBB defied her father, rather than the fact she married for love. She has an ear for Kipling and an appreciation of Wordsworth, whom she says is a ‘good sort’ since he cares for his sister. Her latest interest is a new poet, the New Englander, Amy Lowell. I struggle sometimes to grasp the full meaning behind some of their words, but Mrs B assures me I will learn to appreciate it more when I grow up. I do wish she wouldn’t treat me quite like an uneducated child sometimes.
We attend many house parties and soirées, which I am thoroughly enjoying, with hardly an evening to ourselves. I take great pleasure in dressing up and seeing some of the most modern fashions imaginable, especially during our lengthy stay in London. I can’t wait until we get to Paris. A whole month in Paris!
Mother would be horrified if she could hear some of Mrs B’s opinions, especially when speaking of the fight for women’s rights, suffragettes she calls them. Mrs Baragwanath appears to be all smiles and good manners but has a cutting wit she uses against those who pretend to be other than what they are or are too overly ingratiating.
Young men who try to flatter her are the main targets. She says they know she has money and they think they can win her favour by their adulation. She enjoys leading them on and then cutting them down. Silly them, I say. If only they could hear what she says about them behind their backs. She doesn’t have much time for silly girls who blush and giggle either. Women, she says, have to be in control of their lives and lead them to the best of their ability. That is what is best for their family and their country.
I am learning a lot from her. She is so refreshingly different to Mother and her circle. It is pleasing to know my own primitive thoughts are not so avant-garde after all.
* * * * *
The storm broke during the night. Megan woke from her restless dreams to torrential rain beating against her window. The wind howled and whistled between the double window frames, and the relentless pounding of the waves sent shivers through her. Although she’d read the sea wall had been there since the thirteenth century and had withstood many storms, she got out of bed and went to the window to see for herself.
It was pitch black, except for the white tips of the waves as they surged up the granite wall to crash over the top. From where Megan stood, they appeared to be dancing, reaching and stretching. A graceful spray arched over the wall to fall away before extending its arms again in an elaborate ballet. She stood mesmerised watching their play, no longer alarmed and surprisingly comforted, as though the storm had cleansed something deep within her.
Instinctively, Megan knew this place was special. It would give her a chance to think and come to terms with what she had been avoiding. She decided to stay an extra day. The lawyer in Truro could wait. She sat at the table by the window and began to write in her diary.
The day dawned calm but still grey after the onslaught of the overnight storm. Megan stepped outside to the tang of seaweed and salt-laden air. Fishermen were out looking for any damage to their boats or gear, heartened the lifeboat had not been needed. Women busily swept the paths clearing away any detritus that had landed where it shouldn’t, but no one appeared unduly alarmed. Positioned in a sheltered bay and protected from the westerlies by the seawall, the harbour had long since been a safe haven.
The village was, basically, one very steep cobblestone lane running straight up the hill. Megan smiled when she learnt those at its base called the lane ‘Up-a-long’ and the ones at the top called it ‘Down-a-long’. The logic of it all amused her, but the vil
lage donkeys charmed her most. They once carried everything that went up and down that lane, either in panniers on their backs or dragging sleds – people, luggage, food, fuel, but especially the famous herring catch. After taxing herself with the climb to the top and back and delighting in the ancient buildings, the quaint shops and unique character of the place, she wandered along the beach, attracted by the sound of a waterfall.
Stories of smuggling, shipwrecks and piracy abounded in these ancient fishing villages scattered along the coast of Devon and Cornwall. Local legend held that Merlin the Magician was born in the cave hidden by the waterfall for those still gullible enough to believe in fairy tales. She turned and headed back along the beach to visit Crazy Kate’s Cottage, the oldest in the village dating from the fifteenth century. Its story was far more credible and very sad.
Kate had been watching a storm – just like Megan had done last night – waiting for her husband’s fishing boat to return from its regular trip. She stayed at the window throughout the night, watching as the boat foundered and her husband drowned in front of her eyes. The villagers said she went crazy that night and a few days later put on her wedding dress and walked out into the sea to join him in eternity. Megan felt a kinship with this Kate, perfectly understanding the woman’s pain.
In the late afternoon, she walked along the lower part of the sea wall. The clouds were still leaden, but a lightening sky to the west with a touch of blue promised a better day tomorrow. She climbed the steps to stand at the furthest point of the wall. Exposed to the elements, she was glad of her winter coat. She pulled the woollen scarf closer and thrust her cold hands into her coat pockets. Many metres below, the waves lapped gently at its base, calmer now after the storm, like her. For several moments she stood, head bent forward looking down beyond her feet to another time and place. Looking up again, she stared at the expanse of sea feeling more alone than ever, but no longer could she hide. Move on she must.