Tall Chimneys: A British Family Saga Spanning 100 Years

by Allie Cresswell

  He rummaged in his rucksack and brought forth a file of documents. He placed them on the table and put a reassuring hand on them. ‘All in good time,’ he said, eyeing the scones, ‘pleasure first, I think.’

  ‘Taste the scones, before you pass judgement,’ I said, ruefully, pushing the plate over to him. ‘Goodness knows what’s in the flour, and I only passed the sugar packet across the mixing bowl.’

  ‘You have jam though,’ he remarked, helping himself to it.

  ‘I have something red in a jar - once again, I had to be sparing with the sugar, but the fruit was naturally sweet, so that’s something.’

  He began to regale me with stories of his holiday - the difficulties he had had, to begin with, even finding accommodation - everywhere seemed to be booked up. The less than comfortable rooms he had endured, the unreliable bus timetables, the local character who had told him his eighty four year life story in a pub one night, in return for three halves of mild. I found him interesting and entertaining and almost forgot to go and meet Awan from school at half past three.

  ‘Have a look around the place,’ I told him as I shrugged on a coat, ‘feel free. Despite what you’ll hear in the village, there are no ghosts. I hope you’ll stay and have dinner, and spend the night. I have plenty of spare rooms! Unless you feel your reputation would be compromised? I can enquire if Mrs Coombes at the Plough and Harrow has a room if you like.’

  ‘What about your reputation?’ Mr Ironmonger raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Oh!’ I waved, airily, ‘shot to pieces already. Quite beyond the pale!’

  Mr Ironmonger clearly took me at my word and gave himself a very thorough tour of the whole house. It took Awan and me a while to find him, but bedroom doors were left open which were usually closed, curtains pushed to one side, a cloud of dust hovered at knee level where he had disturbed it in passing. We found him in a far attic, straining to look through a high window, presumably at the roof which, no doubt, was in a parlous state of disrepair.

  ‘Here you are!’ I cried, looking around me. ‘This room used to be for the maids. Poor things, I expect the wind scared them rigid. Nobody has set foot in here in years.’

  ‘That chimney is unsafe,’ he declared immediately, indicating one visible from the window, ‘and the roof needs work.’

  I peered where he indicated. He was right; the mortar round the decorative brick work had crumbled away and a buddleia had rooted itself in a gap beneath the pot. ‘It all needs work,’ I said, with a note of exasperation, ‘but unless I sell my soul to the devil, what can I do? Let me introduce you to Awan.’

  The pair shook hands and we all retraced Mr Ironmonger’s steps. I noted with some satisfaction that, as he went, he reclosed curtains and pulled doors firmly to after him.

  ‘You have some lovely pieces of furniture here,’ he commented. ‘Those Chinese lacquered cabinets, for example, the Hepplewhite chairs, the Chippendale desk in the library. And some of the curios in the cabinets - they’re probably very valuable, you know, to the right collector.’

  ‘And now belong to someone else,’ I remarked, dryly. ‘In any case, they probably have rot or worm.’

  Mr Ironmonger made a humphing noise, but did not reply.

  The sausages I cooked for supper tasted of nothing at all but Mr Ironmonger ate them with apparent relish with lots of fried onions and some stringy greens from the vegetable garden. I opened a bottle of beer to wash the food down with. Afterwards I produced a semolina pudding, one of Awan’s favourites, sweetened with honey from a bee-keeping friend in the village. Awan gobbled her portion down in an instant. Mr Ironmonger pretended to be full and took only a very little. Awan gladly finished the rest of his share. His kindness endeared him the more.

  When Awan had gone to bed, I cleared the table. Mr Ironmonger pulled his file of papers towards him and put on a pair of spectacles. As the evening progressed he repeatedly put them on and took them off again depending on whether he was referring to his notes or speaking to me, or alternatively, looked at me over the tops of their tortoise-shell frames. He made quite a comedy business out of it, the only light note in an evening of doleful tidings.

  ‘To business,’ he said. ‘Firstly, let’s deal with the estate of Mr John Cressing. Your friend Mr Percy has been most helpful. It seems likely Mr Cressing was the sole beneficiary of his late wife’s Will, but, things being as they are, I have had no joy in gaining any information whatsoever on that front. We can assume that any chattels were seized either by unprincipled looters or by the Vichy government which, you may well argue, are one and the same. Monies likewise will be held permanently in Escrow for the convenience of Mme Cressing’s legal representatives, banker or any other highwayman who gets his hands on them. There may come a time when we can unravel this mess, but, sadly, that time has not come. However,’ Mr Ironmonger took a sip of his beer, and smacked his lips, ‘I am happy to say Mr Cressing’s Will is far more transparent. Miss Awan is named as his sole beneficiary. Therefore anything you have of his becomes hers. This includes (specifically, I may say) any and all unsold works of art, sketches, part-works, studies etc. She has both actual and intellectual copyright of these, which means they may not be reproduced without her permission and a royalty would, naturally, be due. As her parent and legal guardian one would assume you would hold these things in trust until she comes of age.’

  ‘His agent says there is no market at the moment,’ I replied with a sigh.

  ‘Indeed,’ Mr Ironmonger sighed. ‘And unfortunately what market exists is being flooded with works purloined illegally in the aftermath of war. Greek sculpture, Italian frescoes, works of the French and Dutch masters are all to be had on the black market.’

  ‘What kind of world did the Allies fight for?’ I wondered.

  ‘Now, to your late brother’s affairs. I’m afraid it has been very difficult to extract information from the Executor.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ I said, rolling my eyes, ‘Sylvester Ratton?’

  ‘None other. I had to contact a friend in the probate office and make all kinds of other ‘casual’ enquiries to find out much at all.’

  The long and the short of Mr Ironmonger’s findings was that, essentially, Ratton had correctly reported things. There was virtually nothing left of the Talbot money. What there was would go, rightly, to Amelia as the oldest surviving child. ‘We can be glad the estate was not entailed[16],’ Mr Ironmonger declared, ‘or some forgotten cousin would have been the beneficiary. As it is, I have corresponded with your sister.’ Mr Ironmonger extracted a hand-written letter from amongst his papers, ‘Have you?’

  ‘Other than to let me know she arrived safely in Texas, I have heard nothing,’ I said. ‘To be truthful, we didn’t really get on.’

  ‘Then I have happy news to impart,’ Mr Ironmonger said, ‘she is to marry, a Texan rancher by the name of...’ he scanned the lines of writing, ‘Charles Wyman Jr. She tells me they intend prospecting for oil on their property and will use the funds for that.’

  ‘Good for her,’ I said, through clenched teeth. ‘I will lose my home while she drills holes in the ground.’

  Mr Ironmonger removed his spectacles and made a steeple of his long-fingered hands. ‘This house,’ he said, in a tone of someone delivering necessary but unwelcome news, ‘would be an albatross around your neck, my dear. I know it’s your home, the only one you’ve known and you have had all the trouble of managing and maintaining it. But you have not borne the cost. And as the years go by, that cost is going to become more and more prohibitive. These old places are beautiful, some of them are historically significant, but in these modern days they are untenable as mere houses. Across the country they are being turned into schools, hospitals, prisons, or being demolished. Whatever Mr Ratton decides to do with the place, he has, in a way, saved you from the burden of it.’

  I stood up and walked to the range to feed in a few precious shovels of coal and move the kettle onto the hob. I wanted to cry. I knew he was telling
me the truth - but the truth was painful to hear.

  Mr Ironmonger busied himself re-ordering his papers and slipping them back into his file while I marshalled my thoughts. When he had finished he removed his glasses and waited patiently for my mind to settle. Whatever dream I had entertained - of finding myself a rich woman, of being able to buy back Tall Chimneys and renovate it myself, of securing a home for myself and Awan which would always be ours and which no one could take from us - was over. These things only happened in novels and this was real life.

  ‘I’m done for, aren’t I?’ I stated at last. ‘I shall have to marry Sylvester Ratton.’

  Mr Ironmonger beetled his eyebrows. ‘There’s the National Assistance Act,[17] have you heard of that? It’s new… ’

  ‘But where will I live?’ I almost wailed. ‘Would I get a council property? They’re going to build some in the village, I’m told, but there are whole families on the waiting list. What chance would I stand? How much does it cost to rent one anyway? What about a room in a lodgings house? Could I afford that? I know they’re awful, and I wouldn’t mind if it was just for myself, but with a child... I’ve never worked, Mr Ironmonger. I mean, I have worked, like a Navvy, but I haven’t a profession. I can’t type or teach. Perhaps someone would employ me as a maid - it’s all I’m good for.’ I rummaged for my handkerchief to stem the tears. ‘Even that, I suppose, would be impossible,’ I sniffed. ‘There must be a thousand former parlour maids looking for work.’

  Mr Ironmonger closed his file of papers and placed his hands on the table, his work completed.

  Later, I showed him to his room and, for the first time ever, felt ashamed of Tall Chimneys. I had chosen one of the ‘good’ rooms off the East landing, but saw it through his eyes; a threadbare carpet, the wall-paper darkened by mould in a draughty corner, a shutter so swollen with moisture I could not get it to close properly, a drip of greenish ooze from one of the taps. One of the lamp shades was scorched from where a bulb had blown - I hadn’t noticed it before, and when I turned the bed down the sheets felt damp. I would not want to sleep in here, I thought to myself, and when I looked at Mr Ironmonger’s face I caught a baleful expression, although he was quick to mask it with an easy smile.

  ‘It isn’t very comfortable,’ I burst out. ‘You should have gone to The Plough.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, placing his bag on the faded chair cushion.

  ‘There won’t be any hot water,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring you shaving water in the morning. What time?’

  ‘Eight? Will that be convenient?’

  I nodded. ‘Certainly.’ I fiddled with the counterpane. It was so long since I’d had company that, although it was late, I didn’t want to say goodnight. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘the thought of not living at Tall Chimneys feels like looking in the mirror and not seeing my own face there: utterly, utterly wrong. But, suddenly - I don’t know if I can explain it - I feel as though if I could see myself, I would look like a stranger.’

  He nodded. He had such an innately empathetic air about him; I instinctively sensed he knew what I meant.

  ‘Before I turned to the law,’ he said, ‘I dabbled in Architecture. In fact I did two years of Architecture at King’s before I switched horses. And I’ve visited a number of houses like this - so many of our clients are people in your situation - impoverished descendants of once-landed families - I mean no offence, you know.’ He looked at me from beneath his bristly eyebrows.

  ‘I take none,’ I murmured.

  ‘Even in a brief tour of this house,’ he went on, ‘I see issues. The stonework is crumbling. The masonry of the famous ‘tall chimneys’ is particularly bad - if you weren’t so protected by this odd little hollow, I’m certain at least one of them would have crashed down by now.’

  ‘There was a storm,’ I told him, ‘in the winter of 1942.’ I remembered John trying to get us to the safety of the ice house that wild and stormy night. I had stood in the yard, I recalled, dazed by my grief and depression. ‘John said the chimneys were swaying.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. There’s more, I’m afraid. You have mice, and your wiring is very old. A fire could break out in the attics and you might not know about it for hours - these things smoulder, you know. I notice you have no fire-escape. Anyone in the upper rooms would be trapped.’

  I clapped my hand to my mouth. The thought of fire was too terrible to contemplate.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Mr Ironmonger said. ‘I’m sorry, but I feel I have to say these things. You have damp. You probably have dry rot - all those rooms which never get ventilated. It’s fungal, you know. And wet rot. Imagine the floorboards giving way…’

  ‘Oh please,’ I cried.

  ‘I know it’s awful. You must feel as though I’m telling you your best friend has some incurable disease, but what I’m trying to tell you is that, now, none of these things is your responsibility. Even if Mr Ratton manages to win your heart, he’s looking at years and years of works and thousands, hundreds of thousands of pounds. In the meantime the house will scarcely be habitable.’

  I hardly slept that night. Of course I had seen the dulling of wallpapers, the yellowing of paint, curtains faded into stripes by the sun, carpets losing the thickness of their pile and the richness of their pattern. Worse, I knew about the leaks, the spongy floor boards, the flaking plaster, the ruined artefacts and soggy books. Now I knew the very fabric of the building was crumbling around my ears. I did indeed feel as though a dear friend was dying. As I had said goodbye to Cameron and to John, to Rose and to Kenneth, I would have to say farewell to Tall Chimneys.

  In the morning Mr Ironmonger ate bread and drank tea but refused a precious egg. He claimed to have slept well, but dark shadows under his eyes made a liar of him.

  We made desultory conversation about the itinerary for the remainder of his holiday. Meanwhile he packed his bag and laced his boots. I felt jaded from lack of sleep. I didn’t want him to leave but knew he must. At last he was ready, and held out his hand to shake mine. Like him, it was long and bony, but warm. I took it and held on to it for longer than was necessary. ‘You’ll be alright, you know,’ he said, seeing the doubts and fears which must have shone in my eyes. He placed his other hand over mine and squeezed. ‘I’ll be in touch very soon,’ he said, but we both knew he could offer no hope, no solution to my parlous situation; none whatsoever.

  I watched the loping figure of Mr Ironmonger stride off up the drive and then went back inside.

  The telephone was ringing. I picked up the receiver. It was Sylvester Ratton. Over the telephone his voice was gasping, his breathing laboured, as though he had climbed several flights of stairs to make the call. He enquired, briefly, after my health before arriving at the purpose of his call.

  ‘I’m going abroad,’ he announced. ‘I have business prospects in Hong Kong and Singapore. I’ve been invited to join a Ministry of Trade delegation.’

  ‘What an honour,’ I murmured.

  ‘Indeed. I rather hoped you’d have an answer for me, my dear, before I went.’ Ratton’s coquettishness made my stomach turn. It was glutinous and unpleasant. ‘I could buy wedding clothes, jewels and so on, while I’m away,’ he went on, smoothly, as though those things could possibly butter any parsnips with me. ‘And I could contract a builder to begin repairs on the house. If you agree. You understand, Evelyn?’ For the first time since his proposal I glimpsed beneath the veneer of his false charm. I could see his selfish intent, like streaks on glass which had always been there but were only shown up by a certain angle of the sun.

  ‘Perfectly,’ I said, coldly. ‘If I agree to marry you, you will repair Tall Chimneys. But I have to tell you, even if I don’t agree, the house is going to need considerable work.’ I listed the issues Mr Ironmonger had pointed out; crumbling masonry, wet rot, dry rot, faulty wiring, ‘and sooner, rather than later.’

  ‘Have you had someone there?’ Ratton’s jealousy rose up, razor-sharp.

  ‘Yes, actually, a friend with ar
chitectural experience.’

  Ratton struggled to resume his composure. ‘I didn’t know you were in the habit of entertaining personal friends. Who are they? Anyone I know? In any case, you’re not telling me anything I don’t know already. Anyone with eyes can see the house is in a terrible state.’

  ‘You’ll want to protect your investment,’ I suggested.

  ‘My investment can go to hell,’ he barked. ‘You’re what I want, Evelyn. You. You’re what I bargained for, when I paid Colin for the house. I don’t know how I can make my feelings plainer.’

  ‘An attitude like that is hardly likely to thaw my feelings towards you,’ I retorted. ‘There are some women you can “buy”; I’m sure you’re well acquainted with many of them. But I’m not one of them.’ I put the receiver down sharply and stalked from the Butler’s pantry with a sense of enormous satisfaction.

  Three days later I received a letter from Sylvester Ratton. It was conciliatory, full of mollifying sentiment and regret.

  I can see I must be patient (the letter concluded). I have waited this long for you and must resign myself to wait a little longer until you see that I am a changed person. To this end I propose to leave you in peace for six months. My trip abroad will be of at least that duration as we will travel by sea and make stops at commercial hubs en route. In the meantime I hope that you will come to truly appreciate the life which could be yours as Mrs Ratton.

  It did not occur to me until some weeks later what Ratton really meant; he sent no money and there were no further deliveries of groceries. He had left me to stew and, if necessary, to starve, in the hope it would concentrate my mind.

  In a way, it did. I began to read the situations vacant section of the local paper, and applied for jobs: as a housekeeper, a matron at a school, a companion to an elderly lady and a governess to two boys. I described myself as a widow with a young daughter and stated accommodation would be required for both of us. Of course I could provide no references and any account of my experience to date was sketchy, to say the least of it. I was summarily rejected for all the posts. The wording of the letters wounded me, words like ‘unsuitable’, ‘unqualified’ and ‘unthinkable’ but, in truth, I had had little expectation of even being invited to interview, and the prospect of actually travelling, of arranging accommodation, of presenting myself to a stranger, had been appalling to me. Perhaps my reluctance had shown itself in my letters. My heart was not in them.