Like so many of the village households this was one into which I would love to have been invited. In the early stages of my posting to Aidensfield there hadn’t been any reason to visit the family or their house, but in due course, I learned that the owner-occupier was called Trevor Groves. He was a tall, lithe but rather quiet man approaching forty with thinning light-brown hair, heavy-rimmed spectacles and a somewhat pale complexion. The house had been built by Trevor’s great-grandfather and inherited by the eldest son ever since — the family had been wealthy furniture store owners until the effects of the Depression, then World War II, had resulted in closure of his business.
In spite of his troubles Trevor’s father had clung on to the house in the face of tremendous odds and with very little money; upon his death he’d left it to Trevor, albeit with no cash to maintain it. For some reason, in spite of inheriting such a fine property, Trevor seldom looked happy or fulfilled; he looked as if he bore the worries of the world upon his slender shoulders. I wondered if he was suffering at work or facing some financial or personal crisis. Certainly, the air of neglect which surrounded the house did seem to have affected Trevor.
By contrast, his wife, Alison, was chubby and cheerful with a ponytail of light-brown hair which complemented a round and happy face. Shorter and a couple of years younger than her husband, she had never worked since producing her family. In spite of Trevor’s perpetual gloom she managed to look cheerful most of the time, but I think her husband’s general demeanour was starting to affect her. There were times she looked jaded and weary, as if a good holiday or even an evening out might revive her spirits. They had three children: two boys called James and John who were fourteen and twelve respectively, and a ten-year-old girl called Judith, all of whom regularly attended Aidensfield’s Catholic Church of St Aidan. That’s how, over the months, I gradually became better acquainted with the family.
Trevor’s permanent solemnity did not appear to affect the children; they were a very happy trio of youngsters who enjoyed living in the ample space of their rambling home. I don’t think they worried that the family car was a battered twelve-year-old Ford or that Mum and Dad seemed to be existing on a pittance.
When Trevor went off to work in the car Alison and the children used bicycles to travel the countryside and the cheerful cycling Groves were a familiar sight in the lanes and byways of the district. Trevor joined their cycling activities at weekends, when the family would ride out to the moors for a picnic or merely tour the villages and market towns as a form of exercise or recreation. That seemed to cheer him up, but they never took long holidays; if Trevor did take an extended period off work, it resulted in more cycle trips and he took the children to see places of historic interest such as Rievaulx Abbey, Byland Abbey, Castle Howard, the Cawthorne Camps and Pickering Castle.
On some occasions Trevor would use his car for trips deep into the moors and dales so that he could transport an easel, paint and brushes from which he produced well-executed watercolours of the better-known places around the North York Moors. I believe he sold his work to people who appreciated it and, hearing him talk among friends, I wondered whether he yearned for the life of a freelance artist. As I came to know more about him, Trevor reminded me of a former colleague called Alan Knight. Alan, a policeman for twelve years, was never happy in his work, detesting the shift system and the ponderous management style of mid-ranking supervisory police officers. Like Trevor, Alan was a very talented artist who was capable of producing desirable seascapes and highly attractive scenes of ships in full sail. Much to everyone’s surprise — and admiration — PC Knight threw up his secure job, complete with a free police house, to pursue his ambition to become a full-time artist. And so he did achieve considerable success through much hard work.
Some time ago, Alan and I had met in a pub and he’d told me how he’d done it . . . so, I asked myself, if Alan could take that kind of giant step, why could not Trevor? After all, Trevor had a house of his own. Surely that was a bonus? Trevor did not have the burden of a free police house which would have to be vacated upon departure from the service and neither was he paying rent.
With my limited knowledge of art, but knowing what the public would buy, I thought Trevor had the necessary talent, but earning a living from art, especially with the responsibility of a growing family, is fraught with danger no matter how talented the individual. In spite of Alan Knight’s success I felt that living the precarious life of a full-time artist would make retention of the big old house even more difficult. It wasn’t impossible, though.
For all their very evident financial hardship the Groves were a likeable, respected, well-rounded, polite and very knowledgeable family. On balance, I think they were very content in spite of financial hardship and certainly, Trevor enjoyed his leisure time on the moors with his family.
As time went by Mary became more friendly with Alison, Trevor’s wife, and consequently I saw more of him, coming to know him a little better with each passing month. During that time, I gained the impression that his painting was becoming more important than his job. Certainly, it was more rewarding from the point of view of personal satisfaction. He worked hard in the little spare time he had and from time to time I did see his work on sale in the locality, sometimes in small galleries and on occasions in shops and even restaurants.
He even painted a very atmospheric picture of the Virgin Mary at the feet of Jesus during the crucifixion and gave this to the village’s Catholic Church to mark the hundredth anniversary of its construction. His landscapes were now selling very quickly, and the extra income helped the Groves to pay some important bills whose totals increased in direct proportion to the growth of their children. Clearly, though, Trevor’s time spent painting was extremely limited, due partially to his work and partially to his never-ending domestic commitments. As I observed his behaviour over the months I began to wonder whether he might throw up his job for the uncertain life of a professional artist.
Trevor worked at a small engineering factory on the outskirts of York. Each day he drove the twenty-two miles or so to work, leaving Aidensfield around seven in the morning and returning shortly after six each evening. The factory specialized in making components for motor vehicles and seemed to produce everything from wheel discs to windscreen wipers by way of petrol filler caps and metal door fittings. Trevor’s responsibility involved quality control; I was never quite sure what that involved, except that it was not a very senior post and he was not one of the bosses, even though he could boast some managerial skills. I do know that he worked for a rather modest salary and that, on occasions, he seemed rather frustrated with his professional duties. On one occasion he told me that he’d rather be out on the moors painting his watercolours than coping with the vagaries of bosses and workers alike as they churned out a never-ending supply of metal bits and pieces for motor cars.
As my knowledge of him increased I realized he was unhappy working with other people and it was increasingly evident that he was growing very dissatisfied with his rather dull and routine job. What had been a secure means of supporting his family now lacked that vital spark of interest; the older he got the more he wanted to do something more meaningful with his life. I realized — and I think he did too — that he’d rather be working alone, as his own master, so that he might develop his personal skills and his undoubted artistic ability. Those who knew Trevor felt the same as I — that he was a proverbial square peg in a round hole, working at a job he did not relish, one which did not seem to fulfil him and one which he did not enjoy. Again I was reminded of Alan Knight and this connection was reinforced whenever I talked to Trevor. Usually that was after Mass when some of us popped into the local pub for a pint before lunch.
Most of us advised Trevor that he should be doing something more creative, something to exercise his talents, even if it meant less money and no security. It would be better than suffering a boring, routine job even if that job did carry a regular wage which serviced the household bil
ls. I did wonder, though, whether the fact that Trevor lived in such a large house was the root cause of his dissatisfaction. Even without a mortgage maintaining such a mansion must stretch his limited finances and that must create stress within himself, and ultimately his family. Merely heating the place in winter must have cost a fortune and there was always the price of petrol and never-ending car maintenance to be funded in order to get to work. A daily forty-five-mile round trip would not come cheap.
I felt that Trevor was paddling like fury merely to stand still. Unremitting financial demands were bound to cause anguish while putting him constantly under pressure, and instead of progressing along some kind of career ladder, he would be doing all in his power merely to maintain the famous status quo. Unpopular though the decision was I do know he and Alison had discussed selling the house to move into something smaller; he had mentioned this several times during one of our chats in the pub over a pint, but I knew his heart was not in that solution. He did not really want to leave Kirkside or Aidensfield. However, it was nothing to do with me, as I had told myself on frequent occasions. The domestic lives of others were not my concern!
Then, out of the blue, came an invitation to Kirkside. It was Trevor’s birthday, his fortieth, and therefore worthy of celebration, and Alison had arranged a buffet supper for some of his friends. Mary and I were invited; the party was to be in Kirkside, making full use of its splendid rooms and thus I would enter its imposing portals for the first time. The Groves were not party people — most of their friends had young families anyway, which meant it was never easy to arrange a date which suited everyone, so this was clearly a very special occasion.
On the night of the event we had arranged for Mrs Quarry, our baby-sitter, to look after our own four children and, feeling very cheerful at the prospect of a night out, we walked down the hill into the village and along the street to Kirkside. Although it was a chilly evening, we enjoyed the walk.
Kirkside stood behind a very high stone wall which fronted the street. There were two entrances in that wall, each leading to the gravelled forecourt behind it, and thus a one-way traffic system could be implemented! But we were walking therefore car-parking was not a problem. The front door, a sturdy oak structure with iron studs and massive hinges like those of a castle keep, was located beneath a pediment supported by a pair of Tuscan pillars. A most imposing entrance. A temporary sign outside said, ‘Walk In, Don’t Knock!’ and so we obeyed. As we entered, clutching our present for Trevor (a music token as we’d heard he liked the classics), I was staggered by the adornment on the interior wall immediately to our left. That wall, a huge broad expanse which rose to the height of two floors and almost the width of two substantial rooms, was decorated with a colossal brightly coloured mural. My first impression was a broad canvas of rich dark colours, deep reds and warm greens, but as my eyes grew accustomed to it, I saw it was a mythical scene full of human figures, male and female, which showed some apparently airborne upon wings like angels. Others were engaged in a variety of activities which required some detailed study and in the middle background was what appeared to be an area of barren landscape surrounded by the pale blue ocean.
It was the kind of huge picture that requires the viewer to stand back at a great distance in order to appreciate it and to study the detailed content, and I wondered if such a view could be obtained from the wonderful staircase which climbed to the first floor over to my right. Then our hosts appeared through another door to welcome us and after discarding our coats in a cloakroom we were ushered into a bright and spacious room full of people — the lounge — and handed a glass of wine.
Next we were introduced to those who had already arrived. I estimated there were about fifty people at the party, including the Groves’ own children who were helping dispense drinks and canapés. Beyond doubt the house was large enough to accommodate everyone with ease; supper was laid out on two long tables in the adjoining dining-room and when everyone was present we would eventually be invited to help ourselves.
It was a most enjoyable occasion and we met people from Trevor’s place of work — workers like himself, he told us, and not the bosses — and we also met some of his relations while chatting to other guests from Aidensfield and nearby villages. Then, around nine o’clock, Trevor stood upon a stool and called for our attention. Having persuaded us to become silent he thanked us for coming and for our presents, thanked Alison for organizing the party, told us that supper was next door and that we had to help ourselves both to food and more drinks. But he also said he had something else to tell us, some family news.
‘I wanted you all to know at the same time,’ he said, adding swiftly, ‘We’re moving. Alison and I have talked about it for a long time — and discussed it with the children I might add — and it’s not been an easy decision, but we think we should be closer to my work, so we’re going to put Kirkside on the market. We’ve found a nice semi-detached house in one of the York suburbs and we shall be putting in an offer. I know it means leaving something dear to us, something that is a part of our family — Kirkside I mean — but the new house will be handy for work and the shops, and close to schools for the children and Alison might get a job . . .’
‘But you can’t!’ someone called. It was one of his relations, because he added, ‘You can’t leave Kirkside, Trevor! It’s your family home! It was built for you . . . you can’t abandon it!’
‘It was my great-grandparent’s house, then my grandparent’s and then my parent’s, and now it has come down to me as my inheritance. But it’s too big and expensive for a modern family, and far too costly to heat; it needs someone with more money than I have, but I won’t go into the boring details. Quite simply, I can’t afford to maintain the house in the manner in which it ought to be kept,’ he smiled. ‘It needs a loving owner with lots of money and more time than I have! I know it is a break with family tradition, but time cannot stand still, and we have to accept progress, whether or not we like it. Anyway, we thought you, as our friends, should be the first to know about our decision.’
It was quite evident from the shocked response of the gathering that no one wanted the Groves to leave Kirkside and an uneasy silence fell upon the assembly, but that was speedily broken by Alison who called loudly, ‘Come on everyone, this is a party, not a wake! Food’s in the dining-room, help yourselves. Get a drink as well, and then I’ll propose a toast to Trevor, and to our new and exciting future as townies. James, John, Judith, make sure everyone has a full glass . . .’
Trevor’s news provided a lively debating point for the rest of the evening with some of us thinking he had made the right choice, believing he had no alternative if he wanted to live a quiet and contented life made easier by sufficient money for domestic essentials.
According to the townies present at the party life in a smaller house in the suburbs might solve all his problems; he’d be handy for the shops and for work and there was the works canteen for cheap meals and evening entertainment and he wouldn’t need to run a car. But those of us accustomed to a country style of life felt he was making a mistake. He’d miss the open spaces, the freedom of the moors and dales, village life, the opportunity to practise his art in the open air — and he’d miss the house itself, in spite of all the problems it was now giving him and Alison. Somehow, I couldn’t envisage Trevor settling down to a dull factory job while living in the blandness of suburbia and falling into the trap of trying to keep up with the neighbours. Although I could understand his motives I thought he was making a grave error, one born out of financial considerations rather than a true desire to be nearer work or close to the shops. Trevor was an individual and an artist, not a factory worker or a suburbanite; he’d be miserable if he was closer to the job he disliked. As a country man he’d be miserable living in a town, too — and so the discussions went on, sometimes between ourselves and Trevor or Alison, and sometimes among the other guests.
Then, as one invariably does at these events, I needed to attend the toil
et and so I excused myself and made my way to the cloakroom. Leaving the crush of people, it meant a trek through that wonderful hall with its amazing mural and I made a resolution that I would stop and examine it in detail on my return journey. I could do so in peace while everyone was partying. And so, I did. I stood as far away from it as I could, even climbing halfway up the flight of stairs to gain a wider view.
Then Trevor emerged from the party, also en route to the cloakroom and saw me. He stopped to see what was creating such interest in me.
‘I’m admiring the mural.’ I descended the stairs to talk to him. ‘Who painted it?’
‘I did.’ He grinned almost mischievously. ‘I didn’t know what to do with that huge expanse of undecorated wall so rather than cover it with emulsion, I did that. It took a long time, Nick, but it’s covered up a lot of dodgy plasterwork and a few screw holes, and it was cheaper than buying wallpaper.’
‘I think it’s brilliant, a real work of art. So, what’s going to happen to it when you move house? Is it on a board of some kind? Can you take it with you?’
He laughed. ‘No way! It’s painted directly on to the wall, and I can’t take the wall with me. Besides, there’s no way a thing of that size would fit into a semi, not even as a floor covering! And don’t suppose any buyer of this house would want it, so I’ll probably cover it up — with emulsion! Or wallpaper!’
‘I’d be trying to find a way of preserving it.’ I could not imagine anyone putting such an amount of expert work into a project of this kind and then destroying it. ‘It looks like something from the roof of the Sistine Chapel.’
‘I got the idea from Tintoretto’s The Ascension,’ he told me. ‘That’s in Venice, I think, not Rome. This is not a copy of that work, but it gave me the idea. I call this the Council of Ten, although you’ll see there are seventeen faces in the picture.’
CONSTABLE AROUND THE HOUSES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 3