‘In some circumstances?’ I stammered, hoping he would elucidate. But he only nodded and repeated ‘If it were possible.’
The truth struck me like a fist in the jaw. There was an impediment.
‘But it isn’t?’ I stammered.
He looked up then and gave me a sad, hopeless smile which articulated a complicity I was by no means party to. I wondered at the nature of the impediment; I supposed it to be financial - neither of us had prospects which were very promising, just then. But he only said ‘In the future, it may become possible, but at present, it can’t be done, even if we wanted it.’ He turned his gaze back to the fire. In its ruby light, his brow was furrowed and troubled, so I didn’t press him further.
The sense of having fallen down a moral cliff engulfed me, and I felt as though I was spread-eagled on a beach of ruin and disgrace. I swallowed a lump of panic. I didn’t blame John - he had made no promises and our courtship had been unusual, unchaperoned, way beyond any boundaries of convention. I didn’t blame myself, particularly. My liaison with John was one more figure in what was becoming a natural pattern for me. I had never had any control over my life; choice was not a luxury I had ever enjoyed. This was no different. Left to the machinations of Sylvester Ratton, subjected to his outrages, what else could I have done than fall for the man who had provided a bulwark of protection? Clearly there were circumstances which John was powerless to alter and if he was powerless, how much more was I? A small, carping voice - my sister Isobel’s voice - chastised me for my gullibility; I had been taken advantage of, succumbed, when I should have resisted. But I didn’t listen. I was in love with John and would pay the price, whatever it was.
Later John made love to me with additional, almost furious tenderness. His climax, when it came, seemed to be as much emotional as physical; I might say almost spiritual. The spasms which shook him came as sobs, inarticulate, guttural cries which were ecstatic and fervent; overwhelming, but in some way holy. Afterwards, but still elevated by the aftermath, he looked down into my face. ‘We are married,’ he cried, ‘really, in every way that matters, aren’t we?’
His words spoke what was written across my heart. ‘Yes,’ I responded, cupping his beautiful face between my hands. ‘Yes, yes yes.’
We didn’t discuss the topic again. It was clear to me it was an issue which lay uneasily with him and I didn’t want to stir it unnecessarily. For myself, in my wilful blindness, I told myself no ceremony or piece of paper could make any difference to us. At Tall Chimneys I was as remote from the world as a savage on a desert island; I thought its standards were irrelevant.
1929 - 1936
I had been alone at Tall Chimneys about twelve weeks before I received news, not from my brother George but from my sister in law, Rita. Her letter, like the ones I occasionally received from Joan, seemed to come to me from a far galaxy - a region I would never access. She wrote from New York where, she said, she was staying with her mother. Her father was dead. I gathered, although she did not say it specifically, he had taken his own life, as so many bankrupt businessmen had done. George, she said, was doing his best to rescue what he could, but they were all-but ruined and all their property, virtually, would have to be sold. ‘My mother will be reduced to penury,’ she complained, ‘assuming she survives the shock.’ George himself, she confided, was unwell, sick with worry and struggling with some ailment. She confirmed she had heard nothing from Ratton. ‘Enemies and friends alike have deserted us,’ she grumbled, bitterly. She could offer me no comfort or hope that my situation at Tall Chimneys would be improved. ‘There just isn’t any money,’ she wrote, ‘and although our properties in England are safe from Papa’s creditors here, there are no funds to keep them up. It is likely they will have to be sold or, at the very least, let, unless one of your siblings can do something. At the worst, Tall Chimneys will have to be demolished. Surely as a pile of rubble it will cost nothing to maintain? In the meantime, retrench; live as cheaply and quietly as you can. I thank God,’ she concluded, bitterly, ‘that George and I have no children. At least we are relieved of the worry of their future.’
Late in 1930 my sister Isobel returned home with her husband for a Round Table conference about the Indian question.[4] Joan accompanied them, and I had been both hoping and fearing that a meeting might be arranged. I longed to see them, those two, who had been mother and sister to me. But on arrival in London Joan wrote to tell me that her mother was so gravely ill she had not been expected to survive the journey. She had done so but the end was very near. It would be impossible for her to receive visitors, or for Joan to leave her bedside in order to see me. Joan, married now to someone on the Viceroy’s staff, planned to return East ‘in due course’. She informed me my invalid sister had passed away already. Of my last surviving sister she had no news but Colin, she wrote, was an influential supporter of the opposition, active in foreign affairs and a close confidant of Edward, Prince of Wales. With these exalted connections it went without saying he had neither the desire nor the need to maintain any meaningful association with the family.
My life at Tall Chimneys seemed light years away from everything; the world at large felt like it had nothing to do with us and, because of my irregular relationship with John I did not court the world’s attention. Elsewhere electricity had taken over from steam, the motorcar replaced horses. Women over twenty-one had the vote and were more and more independent. The old ways were disappearing, as Ratton had predicted. But we remained sequestered in our little hollow, shut in by trees and protected by miles of wild moor. The seasons had more impact on us than Mr MacDonald’s government or Mr Hitler’s plans to re-arm Germany. I toiled in the kitchen garden, the orchards and the greenhouses to provide food. Occasionally a lad from the village would bring some rabbits or other game; our own stocks of game birds had gone native - it was beyond me to husband them and what was the point, when no parties of gentlemen would be coming to shoot them dead? It occurred to me, as I handed over a few pennies for a brace of pheasant, I was probably buying my own birds back, but I didn’t raise the issue with the lad. I nurtured a flock of hens and collected their eggs, reluctantly wringing the necks of the ones which stopped laying. From time to time I was invited to the Rectory to dine by that kind, Christian family. My friend the rector neither questioned, condoned nor condemned my relationship with John; he was all compassion and understanding, entirely non-judgmental, he demonstrated unconditional love. Oh! That all Christians could be so! My other contacts in the area dropped me, tactfully, from their acquaintance. Of course I could not return their hospitality and my relationship with John made me untouchable. I told myself I did not care. In any case, I was barely presentable. My clothes were threadbare and disreputable, my hair ungroomed, my hands calloused and the nails rimmed with soil.
I never went to the village, having the idea that, as discreet as John and I had been, everyone there would know our business. I gave up attending church, not sufficiently the hypocrite to sit through the rector’s sermons or to speak the responses in the prayer book. Perhaps I misjudged the locals’ loyalty to the Talbots - many of them, after all, had been employees on the estate or were tenants of our few remaining properties - they may not have condemned me utterly. But the moral climate at the time was somewhat dour and severe, right and wrong was understood in terms of black and white. I didn’t want to risk an unpleasant scene.
John stayed on at the gatehouse, painting; it was a time of incredible inspiration and productivity for him. He helped me with maintenance around the house but despite our best efforts the cold and damp began to seep into the fabric of the building. Materials began to moulder; water ingress was an increasing problem; the books in the library became bloomed with grey fuzz.
John’s work took him often to London. ‘Come with me,’ he would say. ‘There are shops and restaurants. I can introduce you to the Mitfords or the Bloomsbury people.’ But I would always decline these suggestions, shrinking from the public exposure of our private
involvement.
‘What would people say?’ I would frown, blushing.
‘They would slap me on the back and say “Well done, old man! What a catch!”
‘That’s alright for you,’ I retorted. ‘But what would they say about me? It’s different, for women. I’d better stay at home.’
The truth was I felt an ever-widening gulf between myself and others of my sex. They were grasping opportunities, working, learning, making their mark. They were breaking out of constricted indolence or enforced servitude in order to rise while I only languished, living my little life in a backwater. How could I take tea in Bloomsbury, where the talk was all of modern art and literature? How could I even meet the eye of the waitress in the Lyons Coffee House?
So John went alone and staged an exhibition there which was well-received, but which gained more critical than monetary acclaim. He took it to Paris also, where he met with old acquaintances and got some commissions which saw us through the next few months. Even though I understood conventions to be less rigid in France - our extra-marital relationship might have passed there with less comment - he did not ask me to accompany him. I wouldn’t have done so, anyway; it would have been impossible. We could not have travelled together without attracting comment and to go separately would have been ridiculous and disingenuous.
The years went by. We were happy. Tall Chimneys was our haven, our bastion, our refuge.
In December of 1935 I heard from my sister in law my brother George had passed away ‘after a long illness’ which, I suspected was more than a little self-inflicted. I was sad, but as I had only met George on the few occasions that he had visited Tall Chimneys I felt in many ways he was a stranger to me. I had no recollection of him at all from childhood. ‘George was always greedy,’ my sister Isobel had always told me, ‘an Epicure, he liked all the good things in life; food, drink, comforts of the flesh.’ Isobel, too, by this time had been long in the grave, her daughter Joan, my life-long friend, had returned to India where she now had several children to occupy her; I did not hear from her very often. My sole surviving sister was a mystery to me and, with George’s death, the estate devolved onto my youngest brother, Colin.
This was one of the two deeply disturbing consequences attendant on George’s death - that Tall Chimneys and I myself would fall under Colin’s control. It was alarming to me although I had no evidence the cruel little boy I remembered survived in the man. Now Mr Baldwin was back in power I understood Colin was deeply involved in matters of government, a close associate of Mr Chamberlain who stood poised to relieve Baldwin of leadership if he could. I comforted myself that, with any luck, matters of party and government would prevent Colin from interfering at Tall Chimneys.
On the other hand, it was obvious to me that unless Colin did interest himself, the outlook was dire indeed. I knew the death duties payable on George’s decease would be enormous and could result in the sale or even the demolition of Tall Chimneys. Demolished houses incurred no tax and many of the old families were choosing that solution to the crippling duties levied by the government. Finding themselves with insufficient funds to keep up their properties, problems finding staff and realising that those old days of aristocratic living were simply untenable in the 1930s, more and more owners of stately homes were selling them off, leaving them to wrack and ruin or knocking them down. I wondered if Colin would follow suit. As successful as he seemed to be, it was surely unlikely he would have the funds to rescue Tall Chimneys and since, as far as I knew, he hadn’t visited it since his boyhood, it appeared to me very doubtful he would exert himself for the sake of it.
In January 1936 news came of the death of the King.[5] The village went into mourning, but in truth the circumstances of the local people were so dire that the King’s death could do little to dampen spirits already critically low. Here again, the active intervention of Colin was an absolute necessity. The village was small, perched on the edge of the moor, by-passed by the developing road network and without even a branch railway line, it was without any of the excitements of dance halls, shops and picture houses which the larger towns could offer, so it didn’t attract new people or investment. Traditionally most inhabitants had worked in local agriculture or in service at the house itself, but work on the land was increasingly unrewarding and of course there was none to be had at ‘the big house’. Many young people had left in search of brighter lights and work in mills and factories but unemployment in the towns and cities in 1936 was rife, poverty extreme, hardship almost unendurable. I regularly found itinerants at the door, asking for work, or food, or shelter. I did what I could for them, feeding them from my meagre stores, treating their illnesses from Mrs Flower’s stock of herbal unguents and cordials, equipping them with clothing – old fashioned but serviceable – from the wardrobes of the rooms, and sending them on their way. When they discovered the situation at Tall Chimneys – not a monied stately home, just a crumbling shell of masonry, damp-infested rooms and a sole, struggling housekeeper (as they assumed I was) they left me in peace.
Tall Chimneys still had a small number of tenant farms attached to it as well as some half dozen tied cottages in the village. I don’t know what arrangements were in place for the payment of rents; certainly none of the tenants came to me offering payment but thankfully neither did they come complaining about their dilapidated farm-houses and draughty cottages. Perhaps they recognised in me a fellow sufferer of the times. Perhaps they felt I had negated any right I had to represent the Talbots. Whichever it was, the house, the land and the local community, all of which had been under the stewardship of our family for hundreds of years, were suffering terminal neglect. I was powerless. As much as I dreaded Colin’s appearance on the scene, I could not deny it was sorely needed.
I received a letter from Colin in February, type-written on House of Commons stationery, announcing a visit with several ‘influential’ friends. He required the house to be made ready, he said, the cellar and larder to be stocked and below-stairs staff hired in preparation for a visit over Easter. As relieved as I was, I laughed aloud when I read his requirements, looking round the dilapidated rooms, sorting through the damp linen, surveying my diminished stocks in the larder. The window in the principal suite of rooms had been broken and a blackbird was building a nest in the armoire. A dripping tap in the bathroom had left a livid green trail of slime down the enamel of the tub, a soot-fall in the dining room fireplace and coated everything in greasy grey ash. Even without these issues, the absence of the pictures and silver, the sorry dishevelment of the rugs and tapestries and the thorough-going air of neglect about the place made it hardly suitable for a visit by anyone, let alone anyone ‘influential.’ I wrote back to Colin expressing willingness to undertake the preparations he required but listing the works which would be needed and the moneys required to complete them. I expected to encounter opposition but in fact he wrote back enclosing a generous banker’s draft and instructing me to proceed without delay.
As welcome as this development was, it required me to engage with local people, something which I had been avoiding from a sense of personal unworthiness, shame, pride - a cocktail of hang-ups and insecurities attendant on my unorthodox relationship status. Very reluctantly, with extreme trepidation I took myself to the village and called in at the shop. I might not know much about the village but I did know this: I could do none of the things Colin required of me without the co-operation of Kenneth’s mother.
She appeared to me exactly as she had done previously; the same fleshless frame, the same stiff apron, the same anachronistic aroma of sweet confectionery and indulgence.
‘I have come to offer Kenneth employment,’ I said, quickly, before she could harangue me with being the cause not once, but twice, of her son’s dismissal, or with other crimes. ‘There are to be wholesale improvements at the house and I want him to over-see them. No-one better, in my opinion.’
She looked at me narrowly. How much she knew of my historical ordeal with Ratton I did
not know, but I almost hoped some details of it would have found their way to the ears of village gossips. Surely, I thought, that might ignite some spark of womanly sympathy? But then it was equally likely, I thought, she might brand me a harlot and chase me down the street with a tin of tar and a sack of feathers.
She put her hands on her scrawny hips. ‘You want Kenneth to come down to the house?’ she asked, in a tone which mixed exasperated incredulity with doleful resignation: she was amazed I’d had the temerity to ask, but knew with certainty - and against her better judgement - that he would oblige.
‘Yes please,’ I said, in a small voice. ‘Indeed, we will need many people; gardeners, house maids, a cook. If you know of people in need of the work?’
‘Ha!’ it was a hard bark of laughter, cynical; everyone was in need of work in those straitened days, but I did not know if she would overcome her animosity to help me and them out. Still she looked at me with focussed intensity as though she was trying to read my soul. I trembled before her. Feeling, suddenly, tainted and unworthy.
‘We’ve seen nothing of you for a long while,’ she stated.
I nodded, and kept my eyes fixed on the pristine counter top. ‘I haven’t felt able to…’ I trailed off, unsure as to how I could finish my sentence.
‘Been managing, have you?’
‘Barely - like everyone, I suppose. Keeping body and…’ I almost choked on the next word, ‘soul together.’
Mrs Greene sniffed. ‘You’re young,’ she said. ‘Can’t have been easy.’
Suddenly her demeanour relaxed and she placed her hands on the counter before her. ‘I’ll send Kenneth down,’ she said. ‘As for the rest, leave it to me.’
For weeks, all was hustle and activity. I hired every local man and woman Mrs Greene sent my way for repairs and cleaning, glad to give them employment and pay them good wages. Kenneth stripped down the generator which had provided us with sporadic supplies of electricity in former days and also the water pump which fed the plumbing - I had not used either for years. In addition to this he oversaw the outside works. Stone masons and carpenters repaired the roof and the windows. The chimneys were swept, the coal bunker stocked and the ancient furnace coaxed back into operation. An army of gardeners tamed the parterre and trimmed the hedges, the beds were dug over, trees pruned, gravel paths raked free of weeds. He directed these operations with quiet efficiency, a word of advice here, a request there, a muttered suggestion elsewhere, and, as often as not, grasping a rake or a spade to help the work along.
Tall Chimneys: A British Family Saga Spanning 100 Years Page 6
