Past Caring

by Robert Goddard

  In a dark lobby behind the hall I found another family portrait: an alert, dignified figure in military uniform – Colonel George Strafford, M.C. (1819–1904), who “extended the estate and refurbished the house on the death of his father. Colonel Strafford was a Victorian country gentleman, a local alderman and charitable benefactor, but no businessman. The family’s brewing interests were sold off during his time.”

  Into the dining room: a long rectangular table laid for dinner, a canopied fireplace, a smaller breakfast table in a bay window looking out into the garden. Another portrait, this time of Robert Strafford, tweed-suited in waders and casting a fly in the tumbling waters of the Teign. “Mr Robert Strafford (1870–1911) took especial pleasure in country pursuits – hunting, fishing (his efforts greatly enhanced the reputation of the Teign in angling circles) and cattle-breeding (a Royal Agricultural Society gold medallist, 1906–1907–1909), his prize-winning breeds are still to be seen in the park.”

  Then into the library, lined with shelves full of leatherbound Victorian books, a globe, chairs and one long table in the centre: more of a working library than most such places. Yet I was disappointed: what I’d looked for, some sign of my Strafford, had eluded me. I could imagine him being there, but why no formal portrait? Why no “Mr Edwin’s study”?

  On his own in the library the guide was looking bored and listless in his chair in the window, so I decided to tap his local knowledge. He was an amiable looking old fellow in blazer and regimental tie, with a clipped moustache and a knowing eye.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Can I help, sir?”

  “I hope so. I’ve enjoyed the tour of the house but it’s left me wondering about the family.”

  “Oh yes, sir?”

  “Yes. I’m an amateur historian and I remember there was a politician named Strafford at the turn of the century. Any connexions?”

  “My word, yes. A younger son of the Colonel, if my memory serves. But something of a black sheep, if you know what I mean.” He winked. “Some sort of scandal. He had to go abroad. Left his mother in the lurch, his brother having died by then.”

  “I don’t recall any scandal.”

  “No sir, well, that sort of thing was kept quiet then, wasn’t it?” I decided not to correct him. “Anyway, that was the beginning of the end for the family. By the time Mr. Ambrose – young Mr Strafford – came of age, the estate was in bad shape. After the war, he passed it over to the Trust.”

  “And what became of young Mr Strafford?”

  “Oh, he still lives here. Well, not in the house, but on the estate. Not so young anymore, of course. We see him about quite a lot. Lodge Cottage is just down the drive.”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “No sir, you wouldn’t. The road up only follows the old drive halfway. Lodge Cottage is on the private half.”

  “Would there be any objections to my calling on Mr Strafford?”

  “Shouldn’t think so, sir. But you’ll not find him in at this time of the day.”

  “No?”

  “Not as a rule. The Greengage in Dewford is your best bet. And that’s where he’s most … sociable, if you know what I mean.”

  “I see. Thanks. I may look in there.”

  Out in the garden again I had no difficulty in finding the turn in the drive where the gate marked PRIVATE led up to Lodge Cottage, but decided not to venture further. The guide knew what he was talking about and I needed a drink. So I headed back to the bridge over the Teign, up to the main road, then took the lane into Dewford: a scattered village strung across the valley side – all ups and downs, narrow bends and muddy gateways. Dewford had none of Miston’s olde worlde charm. It was a working Devon village almost visibly in hock to the tourist trap across the valley. As for The Greengage, it was no place for expense account lunches: a low dark bar full of farm workers eating pasties and drinking lager. Just to be different, I ordered traditional local cider and shouted to the landlord above the clatter of a fruit machine about whether Ambrose Strafford was in. But no. “He allus’ goes into Newton Tuesdays. You’d best try this evenin’.” I swallowed my cider and left.

  It was a nuisance, but it gave me time to explore Dewford. Further up the hillside was the church, its stone tower looming over yew trees. I entered the little graveyard through a dark lych gate and didn’t take long to find what I was looking for: the Strafford family plot. Three generations were there, from Thomas Strafford’s plain if oversized tomb to the weeping angels that flanked “Robert Strafford of Barrowteign in this parish, also Florence Strafford, his dear wife, formerly Florence Hardistry of Dartmouth, taken together by tragic accident, 5th January 1911; united in death as in life.” Dwarfed beside this magniloquent memorial, one small stone bore the briefest of inscriptions: “E.G.S. 1876–1951; R.I.P.” That was it. Nothing more. But there were fresh daffodils in the vase formed by the stone. And it was a green, peaceful spot, quite a sun trap in the afternoon in fact, not such a bad place. Suddenly, I wished I’d brought flowers. My only tribute was the Memoir in the napsack over my shoulder and what I proposed to do with it.

  I spent a quiet hour wandering round the church, then walked back to Barrowteign to have a leisurely tea in the refreshment room housed in the old servants’ wing. When the house closed at six o’clock, I made my way out down the old drive from its higher end, also marked PRIVATE, and soon came to Lodge Cottage in its grove of lime trees by the disused railway line. The cottage was a modest, whitewashed little property fenced in with its own well-kept garden. The railway was just an uneven grass track with nothing left of the crossing except a cream-painted, five-bar gate now part of the boundary of the cottage garden. An old lineside shack a little distance up the track looked to have been converted into a garage. There was still a cattle grid on my side of the crossing, but the gate had been replaced by a fence. There was no sign of life in the cottage, but I went in through the low wicket gate and tried the knocker: wrought iron in the likeness of an owl. There was no answer.

  Back to The Greengage. It was quiet now, and emptier, in early evening. The fruit machine was silent, blinking mournfully in a corner. Two men played darts with hardly a word. A wisp of smoke curled from a small log in the grate. A grey-muzzled sheepdog lay on the hearth, cocking an ear and opening one eye as I came in. The landlord stood polishing glasses with practised deliberation. Seeing me enter, he leant across the bar and whispered something to his only other customer, a grey-haired old man in a voluminous sheepskin coat, who nodded and sent up a plume of smoke from his pipe.

  I ordered a pint of beer and savoured the first gulp. My companion at the bar, perched on a stool with his back against a pillar, sent up more smoke and turned to look at me. His grey hair extended in white mutton-chop whiskers to meet his moustache, yellowed by pipe-smoking. He had the red nose and cheeks of a drinking man, but the rheumy eyes and laugh lines of a man happy in his drink, not inflamed by it. A pewter tankard stood on the bar in front of him. My eye shot to the device inscribed on the side of it – the Strafford owl. I no longer had any doubt who my companion was.

  “Good evening,” I said hopefully.

  “Evening,” he replied, then puffed out some smoke. I had to restrain a cough. “Ted here tells me that some anxious young bugger’s been looking for me today. Would that be you?”

  “I was certainly hoping to speak to Mr Ambrose Strafford.”

  “That’s me.”

  “I thought it might be. My name’s Martin Radford. Pleased to meet you.” I put out my hand. He looked at it quizzically, then smiled and shook it. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  He drained the tankard. “Wouldn’t say no.” The landlord refilled it from a cask of cider that stood on the bar.

  “I went round Barrowteign this morning. It was a fascinating tour.”

  “Glad you liked it.” He didn’t look it.

  “It made me curious about the history of the family.”

  “It’s all in the guidebook.”

&
nbsp; “There wasn’t much about Edwin Strafford.”

  “Why should there be?” His eyes narrowed.

  “They oughter’ve printed your story ’bout your uncle, Ambrose‚” the landlord put in. “That’d sell a few copies.”

  “Looks like Ted here’s aching to tell you all about it,” snapped Ambrose.

  “No, no,” Ted grinned. “You tell it better, Ambrose.”

  “What is the story?” I asked.

  “Go on,” Ted said to Ambrose. “Why not tell him? I’ve heard it ’nough times – bain’t no secret what you think.”

  Ambrose ground his pipe stem between his teeth and looked stubborn. The door clinked open behind me and two men came in. Ambrose winked at me with the eye Ted couldn’t see from his side of the bar. “Don’t let us keep you from your customers,” he said. Ted huffed off towards them. “Ted’s a bloody windbag,” Ambrose resumed. “He’d probably say the same of me. I don’t mind people knowing what I think – when I know what they think.”

  A show of frankness was called for. “I’m a student of history, Mr Strafford. Your uncle was a famous politician in his day. I thought there’d be more about him at his family home. It struck me as odd there wasn’t. In the churchyard his gravestone merely states that he died in 1951.”

  “What more do you want?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you might tell me.”

  “All right, Mr Radford. You want the gospel according to Ambrose Strafford? Then come sit at the prophet’s feet. It’s warmer by the fire.” He picked up his tankard and moved over to where the sheepdog lay asleep on the hearth. The one log on the fire was burning low. Ambrose bent gingerly, took another from the fender and propped it against the flame. The bark began to burn with a slight sizzle. He eased one foot against the dog’s rump. “Move yourself, Jess,” he said. The dog did so without complaint. Ambrose lowered himself into a rocking chair while I sat on a hard chair opposite him. “Ted’ll complain about wasting fuel, but these spring evenings still have a nip in ’em. Smell that wood?” – the new log was giving off a sweet scent – “Apple: a lovely burner. We used to have lots of apple to burn at Barrowteign.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “Oh, they still give me some for my little cottage. But it makes me feel like a bloody servant.” He gazed into the back of the fire, then smiled. “I can’t complain. They’ve been generous in their way. When I came home after the war, Barrowteign was in a bloody awful state: they’d billeted some Yanks there and buggered some of the best pasture with tank practice. The Trust rescued me from queer street.”

  “Was your uncle no help?” I was still playing the innocent.

  “He was abroad – in the diplomatic service. Didn’t know much about it. Besides, he wasn’t rolling in money himself.”

  “A former Cabinet minister?” I tried to sound incredulous.

  “You didn’t make a fortune in politics in those days, Mr Radford – any rate, not if you had my uncle’s scruples. Besides, it was a hell of a time ago. I can’t remember him as an M.P.”

  “Why did he leave Parliament?”

  “Don’t the historians know?” He grinned gently.

  “They know he resigned from the Cabinet and later gave up his seat – but not why.”

  “All he ever told me was that his fiancée broke off their engagement and he was so knocked up by it that he couldn’t carry on his duties.”

  “Wasn’t that rather drastic?”

  “It might seem so to you, but my uncle was a man of feeling and integrity – not like these bloody carpetbaggers we elect nowadays. And there was more to it. I know that he tried to withdraw his resignation, but they wouldn’t let him. Don’t ask me why. I don’t think he knew himself. It was as if somebody had it in for him – somebody powerful, somebody nameless.”

  I didn’t take him up on this but suggested another drink and waited at the bar while Ted poured them. I looked back at Ambrose, wreathed in pipesmoke in his rocking chair, an old, eccentric figure in tweed and sheepskin. I knew from the Memoir that he was seventy and the cider alone made him look it, but his eyes were like beacons in a sometimes foggy head and he had the storyteller’s art of conviction combined with entrancement. He was, and looked, a ragbag of many things – gentleman drunk, crude countryman, aging redneck. I couldn’t trust him but I couldn’t resist him either. I knew he was drawing me on to some favoured, festering revelation and I half-knew what it must be. But I wanted to hear him say it. Maybe I already knew I would trade for that his dead uncle’s words that he’d never heard before.

  “There’s a disused railway line across the Barrowteign estate,” he began again, after a quaff of cider.

  “I know,” I said. “I saw the track bed where it crosses the drive.”

  “You’ve sharper eyes than I thought then.” He looked impressed. “It’s been blotted out quite a lot of the way. Never made any money, you see. It was opened in 1903, not long before I was born, and closed in 1958 – just 55 years’ existence: hell of a waste of all those bricks and tons of earth the navvies sweated blood to shift. The Great Western had their reasons though. They needed a fall-back for when the coastal route was flooded. In those days they didn’t just cancel trains because of high seas, like these bloody jokers British Rail. They gouged a line through whatever was in their way as an alternative. I expect you think I’m rambling: bloody old fool, you’re saying to yourself.”

  “Nothing of the kind.” Which was true, because I knew the point he was leading up to.

  “Well, in those 55 wasteful years, that pipsqueak of a railway line – that over-engineered wet weather alternative – claimed three members of my family. They called ’em accidents. Death pacts, I’d say – and worse. However much the GWR paid my grandfather to cross his land, it wasn’t enough. Barrowteign’s the only flat land in this part of the valley, so they had to go through it. You put a crack express on the route in an emergency and it’s the only bit of it where he can work up any speed. And that’s how the Teign Valley railway line claimed my parents.”

  His eyes widened and his thin voice strained oratorically: he was enjoying himself. Of course, I’d heard it all before – and read about it in the Memoir – but Ambrose made it sound different. That diverted express on the evening of 5 January 1911 bearing down on Robert’s car ceased to be a ghastly accident and became an avenging fury scenting as victim the Strafford blood line. It left Ambrose orphaned and the family maimed. Edwin became a crippled regent, the Straffords’ Fisher King, unable to lift the curse that laid them waste. “By 1951 the National Trust had taken over Barrowteign and settled me – of all the bloody ironies – in the crossingkeeper’s cottage on the railway line where my parents had been killed.

  “My uncle arrived one wet evening in the middle of May – without warning. I’d thought he was in Madeira. Then, out of the blue, there he was on the bloody doorstep, just as I was lighting a pipe and thinking of stepping down here for a jar. Old Jess – this one’s mother – didn’t bark, which was unusual, so I might’ve guessed it was him – hair more white than grey, stooped but still square-shouldered. He was in his greatcoat, carrying a battered old leather suitcase. I’d not seen him for six years but somehow didn’t feel surprised that he was there. He wouldn’t say what he’d been up to, only that he’d been in London and would I mind putting him up for a while? ’Course, I didn’t mind. But he wasn’t the uncle I remembered from my visits to Madeira. All he wanted was pen, paper and silence. He had a whacking great book in his case and spent hours at a time scribbling in it. God knows what it was about. When I asked, he turned … well, furtive: that’s the only bloody word for it. And that was something he’d never been before. It rattled me, I can tell you.”

  My ears had pricked up. Strafford, writing in his great book. What could that be? His Memoir had finished the year before. What, then, was this?

  “He hardly went out during the day. The odd stroll after dark. One trip into Exeter. He wouldn’t come into the villa
ge with me. I couldn’t work it out. It just wasn’t like him. But in another way it was. The sad reflection there’d always been in his eyes was in his mind and voice too. That was the only difference. It was as if he was hiding from something, but didn’t much mind if it found him anyway. ’Course I badgered him, but he wouldn’t tell me a bloody thing. ‘It’s just a flying visit,’ he said. ‘Treat it as an old man’s farewell.’ What the hell did that mean?”

  “Quite a lot, judging by what happened.”

  “Too bloody true. About a week after he arrived, he had a visitor. I came back from here one afternoon and they were in my little bit of garden. My uncle and this other chap. About the same age – but frailer, well-dressed in a cashmere overcoat, for all that it was bloody May. They were arguing. No, that’s the wrong word. There was just this cold fury between them which made me think of winter. Old men don’t argue – ’cept when they’re drunk, like I do. They haven’t the energy for it – take my word on that. But these two were at odds: no question. The stranger was bald and red in the face. I remember he looked strung between pleading and bluster. As for my uncle, he was calm and grave – like a carved image.

  “Soon as I showed up, the stranger left. He shot me a glare and made off to his car – a bloody great Bentley with a chauffeur in it – tucked away up the drive. He didn’t speak – I remember that. But it was like he was biting back some oath. As for my uncle, he wouldn’t discuss it. ‘Just a passer-by seeking directions,’ he said. Beyond that, he clammed up.

  “That night though, we talked about the family and Barrowteign, about my parents – ’cos he remembered ’em and I hardly did. He told me how he’d often thought it should’ve been him killed on the level crossing, not my father, him, with nothing to live for, not my father with a wife, a young son and a future. What little he had, he said, he’d leave me to remember him by. That amounted to a house in Madeira – I sold it. But it didn’t seem like the remembrance he had in mind that night.