Molly Clavering
Dear Hugo
When the time comes for you to retire, Hugo, if you want a quiet life, don’t settle down in the country. Bury yourself in London or any really large city, and you can live like a hermit, but avoid the outskirts of a village. I am dazed by the ceaseless whirl of activities in which almost everyone in and round Ravenskirk is involved.
Sara Monteith makes an ideal correspondent for Hugo Jamieson, brother of her lost love Ivo, killed in the war before they could marry. Her neighbours in the lovely Border village of Ravenskirk don’t know that Sara has moved here because it’s where Ivo and Hugo grew up, but they welcome her warmly. Soon, she’s drawn into the active village social scene of tea parties, gardening, carol-singing, and Coronation festivities, dodging the judgments of stern Miss Bonaly, defending her helper Madge Marchbanks, an unwed mother, befriending kind, practical Elizabeth Drysdale and charming Mrs Currie and her daughter Sylvia (the latter first met halfway through Sara’s drawing room window), and having an embarrassing first encounter with rugged Major Whitburn. Add in her nephew Arthur, neglected by an indifferent father, Arthur’s dog Pam, and even Hugo himself returning unexpectedly from overseas, and Sara’s life is a ‘ceaseless whirl’ indeed!
Molly Clavering was for many years the neighbour and friend of bestselling author D.E. Stevenson (in just such a village as Ravenskirk), and they may well have influenced one another’s writing. First published in 1955, Dear Hugo is one of the funniest of her spirited, joyful comedies of Scottish village life. This new edition includes an introduction by Elizabeth Crawford.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page/About the Book
Contents
Introduction by Elizabeth Crawford
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
About the Author
Titles by Molly Clavering
Furrowed Middlebrow
Copyright
Introduction
‘You will like Dear Hugo by Molly Clavering, that effortless expert on the Lowland Scots scene. It consists of letters from Sara Monteith, an old friend, to Dr Hugo, during his two years’ African exile, What letters though! Full of human stuff, charm and sly fun for the reader – in short, typical Molly Clavering.’ So wrote author and journalist Eric Moore Ritchie, reviewing Molly Clavering’s tenth novel in the Reading Standard. Like many other of her novels, Dear Hugo (1955) is set in the Scottish Borders, in ‘Ravenskirk’, a small town bearing a close resemblance to Moffat, her post-war home. Covering the period 1951-53, its characters are drawn from all strata of society, their condition and mores reflecting a time when individuals and families, while still mourning those killed or maimed in the war, were experiencing subtle societal shifts and grappling with quotidian difficulties, such as rationing. Dear Hugo is particularly interesting in recording the experience of Sara Monteith in forging a life as a single woman after the war-time death of her fiancé, a plight doubtless familiar to many of Molly Clavering’s readers.
Born in Glasgow on 23 October 1900, Molly Clavering was the eldest child of John Mollett Clavering (1858-1936) and his wife, Esther (1874-1943). She was named ‘Mary’ for her paternal grandmother, but was always known by the diminutive, ‘Molly’. Her brother, Alan, was born in 1903 and her sister, Esther, in 1907. Although John Clavering, as his father before him, worked in central Glasgow, brokering both iron and grain, by 1911 the family had moved eleven miles north of the city, to Alreoch House outside the village of Blanefield. In an autobiographical article Molly Clavering later commented, ‘I was brought up in the country, and until I went to school ran wild more or less’. She was taught by her father to be a close observer of nature and ‘to know the birds and flowers, the weather and the hills round our house’. From this knowledge, learned so early, were to spring the descriptions of the countryside that give readers of her novels such pleasure.
By the age of seven Molly was sufficiently confident in her literary attainment to consider herself a ‘poetess’, a view with which her father enthusiastically concurred. In these early years she was probably educated at home, remembering that she read ‘everything I could lay hands on (we were never restricted in our reading)’ and having little ‘time for orthodox lessons, though I liked history and Latin’. She was later sent away to boarding school, to Mortimer House in Clifton, Bristol, the choice perhaps dictated by the reputation of its founder and principal, Mrs Meyrick Heath, whom Molly later described as ‘a woman of wide culture and great character [who] influenced all the girls who went there’. However, despite a congenial environment, life at Mortimer House was so different from the freedom she enjoyed at home that Molly ‘found the society of girls and the regular hours very difficult at first’. Although later admitting that she preferred devoting time and effort to her own writing rather than school-work, she did sufficiently well academically to be offered a place at Oxford. Her parents, however, ruled against this, perhaps for reasons of finance. It is noticeable that in her novels Molly makes little mention of the education of her heroines, although they do demonstrate a close and loving knowledge of Shakespeare, Dickens, Thackeray, and Trollope.
After leaving school Molly returned home to Arleoch House and, with no need to take paid employment, was able to concentrate on her writing, publishing her first novel in 1927, the year following the tragically early death of her sister, Esther. Always sociable, Molly took a lively interest in local activities, particularly in the Girl Guides for whom she was able to put her literary talents to fund-raising effect by writing scenarios for two ambitious Scottish history pageants. The first, in which she took the pivotal part of ‘Fate’, was staged in 1929 in Stirlingshire, with a cast of 500. However, for the second, in 1930, she moved south and in aid of the Roxburgh Girl Guides wrote the ‘Border Historical Pageant’. Performed in the presence of royalty at Minto House, Roxburghshire, this pageant featured a large choir and a cast of 700, with Molly in the leading part as ‘The Spirit of Borderland Legend’. For Molly was already devoted to the Border country, often visiting the area to stay with relations and, on occasion, attending a hunt ball.
In the late 1920s Molly published two further novels under her own name and then, in the 1930s, another four as ‘B. Mollett’. The last of these was published in 1939 and then, on the outbreak of the Second World War, she joined the Women’s Royal Naval Service, based for the duration at Greenock, then an important and frenetic naval station. Serving in the Signals Cypher Branch, she eventually achieved the rank of second officer. Although there was no obvious family connection, it would appear that the Navy had long had an appeal for Molly, as many of her most attractive male characters are associated with the Senior Service.
After she was demobbed Molly moved to the Borders, to Moffat, the Dumfriesshire town where her great-grandfather had been a doctor, and in 1953 published a paean to the surrounding countryside. This, From the Border Hills, was her only work of non-fiction. Living in Moffat for the rest of her life, Molly shared ‘Clover Cottage’ with a series of black standard poodles, one of the
m a present from D.E. Stevenson, another of the town’s novelists, whom she had known since the 1930s. D.E. Stevenson’s granddaughter, Penny Kent, remembers how ‘Molly used to breeze and bluster into North Park (my Grandmother’s house), a rush of fresh air, gaberdine flapping, grey hair flying with her large, bouncy black poodles, Ham and Pam (and later Bramble), shaking, dripping and muddy from some wild walk through Tank Wood or over Gallow Hill.’ Fiction, as often in Molly Clavering’s novels, follows fact, for it is ‘one young black poodle puppy (standard size)’ that is sent as a present to Sara Monteith by ‘Dear Hugo’ and, yes, he is named ‘Pam’, because, as is explained, that ‘is the Knave of Clubs in the old card game of Loo’. Hugo, working as a doctor in northern Rhodesia, is the brother of Ivo, Sara’s dead fiancé, a naval officer, and when she steels herself to visit Ravenskirk’s war memorial to see his name inscribed there, Molly’s description of ‘a plain stone column with the town’s crest at the top’, situated ’in the main street on the site of the old Mercat Cross’, is just that, in form and position, standing in the centre of Moffat. Dear Hugo is slightly unusual among Molly Clavering’s novels in centring, not on relationships between adults, but on that between Sara Monteith and a young boy, ‘Atty’, whom she fosters. The rapport between the two is convincingly developed, speaking to Molly’s own understanding of children and their ways.
During these post-war years Molly Clavering continued her work with the Girl Guides, serving for nine years as County Commissioner, was president of the local Scottish Country Dance Association, and active in the Women’s Rural Institute. She was a member of Moffat town council, 1951-60, and for three years from 1957 was the town’s first and only woman magistrate. She continued writing, publishing four further novels, as well as a steady stream of the stories that she referred to as her ‘bread and butter’, issued, under a variety of pseudonyms, by that very popular women’s magazine, the People’s Friend.
When Molly Clavering’s long and fruitful life finally ended on 12 February 1995 her obituary, written by Wendy Simpson, another of D.E. Stevenson’s granddaughters, cited exactly the attributes that characterise Molly Clavering’s novels, remembering her as ‘A convivial and warm human being who enjoyed the company of friends, especially young people, with her entertaining wit and a sense of fun allied to a robustness to stand up for what she believed in.’.
Elizabeth Crawford
CHAPTER I
LATE JUNE, 1951
Dear Hugo, as you see by the address I am here at last, settled into my own little house, with the family belongings about me. It is strange to think that you and Ivo knew Ravenskirk before I had even heard the name, strange and yet comforting, because it gives me a feeling of belonging from the very start. To everyone in Ravenskirk I may seem what they call an “in-comer,” but we—you and I—know better.
There is no need, really, to describe the scene to you. You cannot have forgotten it—the beautiful sweep of the hills to eastward, broken by Windy Gans, that deep dark ravine like a sword-cut slashing the ridge in two unequal parts; the long wooded slopes south and west, gradually becoming bluer with distance until they faint into the sky; all the patchwork of fields, and the dry stone dykes running straight up over the hillsides above them, the white-walled farms and cottages gleaming silver in the sunlight, and on the north, at the head of our valley, that tremendous backcloth of high crests rising one behind the other, clear-cut as the amethysts they are so like in colour. Nothing of that has changed, nor ever will.
In Ravenskirk itself there are changes since you were last here. They are building on that pretty triangular meadow that stands rather high between the main street and Piper’s burn, and the one or two cottages fringing the road just where the lane to my house turns off have multiplied and become six or seven. Though it is a pity to see the little brick houses covering the green and blocking part of the wide prospect down the valley, it would be a greater pity to allow people to continue living in dwellings which ought to be pulled down in those back wynds and closes of the village.
Old Miss Bonaly is horrified by this outcrop of County Council houses spreading almost under her rather hooked nose. “Ruining Ravenskirk from our point of view,” she calls it. I don’t think Miss Bonaly lived here when you were a boy, though her grandparents used to take a house for the summer holidays in her girlhood sixty years ago. She came here to be safe during the War, and then, to her enormous indignation, enemy ’planes had the effrontery to fly over Ravenskirk on their way to bomb less fortunate areas, and once unloaded one of their deadly cargo among the surrounding hills. But if you did not meet Miss Bonaly herself, Hugo, you must have known someone exactly like her, for there is a Miss Bonaly in every little town and village.
She called on me the other day and disapproved of me, I fancy. For one thing, I was caught wearing slacks—they really are the only sensible things to wear when digging, and I was digging like a furious mole when she arrived. And she thought it odd that I should be living alone; wondered if I did not feel nervous at nights, and prophesied darkly that I would be snowed-up in winter. She assured me that two years ago during a bad snowfall nothing could be seen of Piper’s Cottage but the roof and chimneys, and seemed delighted to think that this might very easily happen again. Her final remark, as she took her leave, having pressed a neat calling-card into my earthy and unready hand, was intended to deflate me.
Like a fool I had said how lucky I considered myself in having been able to buy the little house at a price I could raise.
With a pitying smile she said, “But of course, Miss Monteith, you understand that this is not near the best part of Ravenskirk.” And stalked away.
I think I managed to restrain my laughter until she was out of hearing. And I patted the sun-warmed stone wall of my modest little house just to let it know that I do not give a single damn, like Marjory Fleming, whether it is near the best part of Ravenskirk or not.
However disadvantageous its position may be socially—and if, as I suppose, this means that it is nowhere near “Ascot,” Miss Bonaly’s villa, I am only too thankful—Piper’s Cottage has a matchless view of the surrounding country. Where the hillside rises in a gentle slope to the east of Ravenskirk, with the Piper’s burn running down through its garden, Piper’s Cottage stands looking south-west over the scattered roofs of the village. It has a neighbour, Wallace Cottage, but at present this is empty, the owners have been in England all winter, and there are no signs of their return yet. Not that I am anxious for them to come home. They will have to be delightful indeed for me to prefer them to my delicious solitude; but the effect left on me by Miss Bonaly’s disapproval is showing itself, and I feel I have to explain even to you, that I am not in the least isolated here, in spite of living alone.
Whoever built these two cottages which have gradually been added to and made into little houses had the good sense to stand them at right angles to one another so that only their gable ends meet. Wallace Cottage faces south and Piper’s Cottage west; the inhabitants of either can come and go without being overlooked. And as Wallace’s garden is east of the house, and Piper’s west, privacy is assured. If I could draw I should make a sketch to show you; but I can’t, and in any case no sketch could do justice to the great sweep of open hillside rolling away east and north behind the houses, or convey the wonderful feeling of spaciousness which is, I think, the chief characteristic of the place. There are two old rowan trees planted one on each side of the wide gateless entrance to our small domain, put there to keep away witches. Just now they are laden with big flat heads of creamy blossom which smells delicious in the open air. The rectangular space at the back, which is covered with rather rough grass, has mossy posts where clothes-lines can be slung for the Monday washing. It is divided with geometrical fairness into two equal parts by a high thick hawthorn hedge. Even from our respective back-doors my neighbours and I will not have to see each other. This, it seems to me, is an excellent thing. For we may loathe one another on sight, and even if
we love each other it is well to be invisible at times, from one’s nearest and dearest, and certainly from one’s neighbours.
These neighbours! They are rather weighing on my mind. How perfect everything would be without them; but it is useless to look for perfection in this world, so I must make the best of them when they come. Perhaps they are so disgusted at hearing that Piper’s Cottage is inhabited that they are delaying their return? Miss Bonaly had nothing good to say about them, and this is surely a hopeful sign?
It seems to me that I am allowing Miss Bonaly far too much space in this letter. I refuse to let her encroach any further, and to discourage her I shall go out and sit behind a hay-cock in the field beyond the garden and go on writing there. Miss Bonaly would never sit in a hay-field, I know.
*
There is only one drawback to the hay-field, it offers so many temptations to eyes, ears, and nose that it is difficult to concentrate. All the lovely scents of dying clover and grass are concentrated in the warm stack that my head is leaning against, and there is the fresh heathery smell off the moors blowing gently in my face as well. Larks are singing, and curlew calling, and from a distant field comes the drowsy clatter of the hay-cutter drawn by two brown Clydesdale horses. They shine like ripe chestnuts in the sun. Up the green hillside in front of me, patched with the paler green of bracken, a line of newly-clipped sheep, dazzling white, is walking in single file, by one of their little hard-trodden paths. Windy Gans is close below them, but they pick their surefooted way composedly and never falter because of the drop so near them.
I could, and would, have sat there for a long time enjoying it all, and writing a word or two from time to time on the pad balanced on my knees, but I was interrupted.
A shepherd and two black and white Collie dogs came round the hay-cock and discovered me.
Dear Hugo Page 1
