by Sheila Ray
Only Scottish obstinacy kept me going. Especially when it soon became clear that finding information would be difficult, for at that time very little was known about Elinor Brent-Dyer. Few of the standard works of reference, surveys and so on even mentioned her; and one that did include her name in a rather dismissive listing of school-story writers “popular between the wars”, managed to misspell that name as “Eleanor”.1 The only reasonably detailed entries were those in the editions then current of Twentieth Century Children’s Writers and Who’s Who of Children’s Writers; and both of these — for reasons to be considered later — turned out to contain inaccuracies.
Of course some ideas about Elinor Brent-Dyer could be gleaned from her writings. A series of 59 books will inevitably reveal something of its creator; and no reader could doubt that the woman who wrote the Chalet School stories had at some time been a teacher; professional inside knowledge springs from the pages. Clearly, too, Elinor Brent-Dyer had been much interested, even though not expert, in music, history, foreign languages, legdns and local customs. She had loved beautiful scenery, travel and good food. She had possessed a sense of humour. And unquestionably she had held strong religious convictions — while being unusually ecumenical in attitude for someone of her generation.
All this could be deduced from the Chalet series. And although it can be dangerous to try to guess too much about an author from his or her writings, in this case the list of preconceived ideas was to be confirmed by later discoveries.
Not so, however, the vague impression of Elinor’s appearance that, quite irrationally, had grown in my mind over the years. A strong authorial presence does pervade the Chalet stories; but there was no real justification for my picturing Elinor as tall and graceful, with dark wavy hair and finely chiselled features, always elegantly attired in some flowing garment topped by a long fur stole, and generally resembling a younger slimmer version of the Queen Mother. No doubt an unconscious mingling, here, of Madge, Joey and Miss Annersley. And it came momentarily as a shock to be confronted, quite early in my researches, with a photograph — not a flattering one, either — of the real Elinor Brent-Dyer. The squarely built, rather dowdy woman portrayed, her large heavy features carefully set in a self-conscious photographic smile, was quite unlike my imagined author. Even today this particular portrait (dating from 1963)2 does not appeal to me, although I know others would disagree. To my mind, there are many far more sympathetic and characteristic pictures of Elinor. But in any case a growing knowledge of the real person quickly dispelled the fantasy image. Besides, there were other, more dramatic surprises waiting along the road.
A long uphill journey. Uncovering the early years
The quest for information began in earnest during November 1974, when, deaf to opposition and wise counsels, I decided to work seriously on a biography of Elinor Brent-Dyer. My own interest in the Chalet School had survived for more than 30 years, dating back to my ninth or tenth birthday when The School at the Chalet — a second-hand early reprint containing, happily for me, all the Nina K. Brisley illustrations — was my present from an eccentric elderly relative. She, despite her advanced years and striking intellectual gifts (a pet hobby was making verse translations of Dante) had become, and remained to the end of her life, a staunch devotee of the Chalet School. At the time I naturally didn’t realise it, but she thus embodied the possibility that even intelligent adults could enjoy the Chalet books — something my parents would have found hard to believe. And to her I owe the good fortune of reading all the early Chalet stories in the correct order — always a bonus when reading a series, to my mind. With her as my guide, the world of the Chalet School became very real to me as a child, and through countless rereadings I got to know many of the books almost from memory.
That it was also possible for children of a completely different generation and upbringing to enjoy the Chalet School came home to me only when my daughters, at about ten and eight, took to the stories with huge enthusiasm. Initially I was surprised. This was the 1970s: the girls’ school story was thought to be stone-cold dead and deservedly so. Publishers were becoming ever more socially conscious; and children’s books, as well as having to be unisex (if not actually slanted towards boys) were expected to cover only subjects considered relevant to the 1970s. My children were happy enough to read stories in this contemporary genre (later they would nickname it “Oil Rigs and Rape”); but their enjoyment of the Chalet School books continued unabated right into their teens.
During this period, a number of immensely enjoyable holidays at Pertisau-am-Achensee — the real-life Tyrolean setting of the early Chalet stories — had fuelled our collective “Chalet-o-mania”. We found Pertisau an enchanting place, and could easily see why Elinor Brent-Dyer fell in love with it when she visited the Achensee in 1924. That visit unquestionably was, and would remain, her inspiration in the Chalet series. And although the years have brought changes to the village — and many more, alas, since our first 1970s visit — nothing can alter the extraordinary beauty of the lake and mountain scenery; or change the essential atmosphere of the district, so well recaptured in the early books of the series.
Our trips to Pertisau were pure pleasure. But little did I realise how difficult the task of following Elinor’s footsteps in other directions was to prove. The nearest parallel would be a treasure hunt, where not only are more than half the clues missing but most are presented in the wrong order, while false clues lie scattered everywhere. How often during the researches I would hear words to the effect: “Now, old Mrs So-and-so could have told you all about that; but of course she died last year . . . ”. And quite early it became plain that Elinor herself, for reasons that didn’t emerge until much later, had taken pains to cover her tracks.
My first step had of course been to contact the two publishers of the Chalet School series: W. & R. Chambers and Collins (now HarperCollins Armada). And now began a scenario that would be replayed many times, with endless irksome variations. On each occasion I would set off with high hopes and a long list of queries, only to find that — despite a friendly welcome, for people were invariably kind — I came back with little definite information. Chambers, where I talked to two editors who had known and worked with Elinor, did supply some colourful background material, but they knew almost nothing about Elinor’s personal life and origins. Armada knew even less. But at least they did suggest my getting in touch with a Mrs Phyllis Matthewman in whose house, at Redhill in Surrey, Elinor had spent the last years of her life. And when Mrs Matthewman sent an amusing and friendly letter, confirming that she had known Elinor since childhood and inviting me to lunch, it seemed that at last my troubles were over. Surely, with the guidance of such an old friend, the growing list of queries would be answered.
Yet again things turned out disappointingly. Mrs Matthewman was a characterful old lady in her late 70s. Herself a writer, she could recount things with an intriguing touch of colour, and she provided a completely new slant on aspects of Elinor’s personality. She had indeed known Elinor since the days, around 1905, when “She lived in South Shields with her widowed mother and her brother and untold numbers of cats”.3 But there had been a gap of more than 30 years in their acquaintance. And it was soon apparent that Mrs Matthewman’s memory was far from reliable. Very few hard facts emerged, and where anything like dates was concerned she was hopelessly vague. References to “the war” turned out to mean sometimes the First World War, at others the Second. And, as transpired later, there were many things in Elinor’s early life of which Phyllis Matthewman was ignorant.
The situation was particularly frustrating because all the papers Elinor had left were apparently still in the house, together with the remains of her large book collection; but this wasn’t a straightforward matter. The Redhill house was both large and riotously untidy. Piles of letters and manuscripts (many of them Phyllis Matthewman’s own, or belonging to her late husband) lay everywhere, spilling from dirty cardboard boxes and old suitcases. Books were scat
tered all around — only some of them in bookcases, and many in a state of neglect that would give a book-collector nightmares. Who knew what secrets lay buried? But plainly it would have been insensitive for me, a complete stranger, to have insisted on plunging into the chaos. Especially when the signals emanating from Mrs Matthewman suggested that she hadn’t really liked Elinor very much . . .
In fact — as I gradually discovered — Mrs Matthewman’s feelings towards her long-standing friend were decidedly mixed; and tinged, it must be acknowledged, with a good deal of professional jealousy. Looking back, I can see that this undoubtedly coloured the first impressions Phyllis gave me of Elinor — many of which I was later to rethink, and often to revise.
On later visits I did have the opportunity to look at some of Elinor’s papers and notebooks. But it was not until after Phyllis Matthewman’s death in July 1979 that I had access to them all. And, sadly, by this time some had disappeared — along with a set of our family photos taken in Pertisau that I had lent to Phyllis. However, much valuable material had survived, enabling me to add things, or occasionally change them, in the first draft of the biography.
That first, 1974, session with Mrs Matthewman did at least provide me with two new — and correct — pieces of information: Elinor had been born in South Shields, and the family name was not Brent-Dyer, but just Dyer on its own. With this knowledge and little else I set off for the National Registrar’s office at St Catherine’s House in London, and began to search through the four enormous volumes which record all births in England and Wales during the year 1895. Mrs Matthewman had assured me this was the right year, as had the entries in the two reference books mentioned earlier. And yet, not one single Elinor Dyer — or for that matter Eleanor, or even Mary Elinor/Eleanor — appeared to have been born in South Shields that year.
Much checking and rechecking still failed to find her. So I proceeded to search the four volumes for 1896, then for 1897 — and so on, right up to and including the 1901 volumes — that year having seemed just worth a try since I’d read in a newspaper article that Elinor Brent-Dyer was 21 when her first book was published in October 1922 (the latter date being established beyond doubt by the British Library catalogue). By this time almost a couple of hours had passed, what with lifting down and replacing those 28 massive volumes, not to mention the laborious process of checking the name: Dyer may not top the list of the most common British surnames, but there are nevertheless quite a few of them.
So now it was back to square one, with nothing for it but yet another go at 1895. This time I decided to scan every single entry under Dyer, not just the girls’ names containing Elinor/Eleanor. And in the July to September volume my eye was caught by the unusual first name of Henzell. That, according to Mrs Matthewman, was the name of Elinor’s brother, and sure enough this particular Henzell had been born in South Shields. But wait a minute — hadn’t Henzell been Elinor’s younger brother? Perhaps I’d been working in the wrong direction. Into reverse then, and full speed into 1894. And there at long last was recorded the birth in South Shields of a Gladys Eleanor May Dyer. Not quite the name I’d expected, but it was so near the Elinor Mary of Chalet School fame that it had to be right. I hurried to apply for a copy of the certificate and a couple of days later the date of Elinor Brent-Dyer’s birth had finally been established as Friday 6 April 1894.
All that work for just one date! And the whole pattern was to be repeated over and over again. Frustration, disappointment, false trails and dead ends were everyday occurrences. However, by way of compensation there were also a few pieces of unbelievably good luck. Particularly in the matter of establishing the facts about Elinor’s education. This, through almost a year of researches, had proved an exceptionally difficult area. No one appeared to recall even the place where Elinor had attended school, let alone the name of the school itself. There were plenty of vague rumours, including one that she had been for a time at the well-known Dame Allan’s Girls’ School in Newcastle upon Tyne. There was also a definite statement in The Times obituary notice that Elinor Brent-Dyer had studied at the University of Leeds.4 But these rumours, when checked, all turned out to be unfounded; and an enquiry to the University records office in Leeds revealed, surprisingly, that Elinor had never in fact been a student there.
Around this time the whole enterprise might well have foundered, but for a fortunate coincidence when a not too demanding professional engagement just happened to take me to the north of England. Here I found myself staying within a few miles of South Shields, and with time to spare I was able to visit the town frequently and to spend several days in the Central Public Library searching through their extensive records.
At first this process, though highly interesting in itself, did not seem very productive. True, I was learning a lot about the local and social history of South Shields during the decades round the turn of the century; and it was fascinating to find, for example, that in those days the passenger fare on the Tyne ferry between North and South Shields had cost a mere half penny, old style; while a hundredweight of best coal could be bought for about 5p. There was, too, some gentle amusement lurking in odd corners — like the census report with the ambiguously worded statement: “the increase of population in [this area] is attributed to the presence of a number of workmen temporarily employed there in building a bridge . . . ”. And at least the discovery that, during Elinor’s early life tuberculosis had caused several hundred deaths each year in South Shields did have some relevance to the Chalet School books, since it helped to explain why this disease plays such an important role in many of the early stories. But, where strictly essential information was concerned, the rate of my search compared poorly with glacial flow.
Then one day, quite unexpectedly, a young woman who worked in another part of the library came into ask if I was interested in meeting her former schoolteacher, who had “been at college with Elinor Brent-Dyer”. That casual offer marked an important milestone. For not only was Mrs Isobel Miller, the splendidly entertaining old lady I met, able to establish that Elinor had indeed been her fellow student at the City of Leeds Training College, but, along with exact dates, she also knew the name of Elinor’s school and provided a lot of information about it into the bargain as well as on a number of related matters.
Things were beginning to make progress. And only a short time later it transpired that the mother of a South Shields newspaper editor, Mrs Eva Oliver, had actually been at the same school as Elinor: it was invariably known locally as “the Misses Stewarts’ School”, after the two formidable women who ran it, although its proper name was St Nicholas’s. Best of all, a 1908 school photograph was found, which included the 14-year-old Elinor — then called May Dyer. And when, in August 1975, that photograph appeared in the Shields Gazette, along with a request for information, the letters began to pour in (the people of South Shields being fortunately gifted with long memories, and Elinor, as one correspondent pointed out, was “Not the kind to be easily forgotten”) and this brought much invaluable new information.
In the mean time the treasure hunt had slowly been going ahead in other directions. It was a complicated operation, for Elinor during her 75 years had lived at numerous different addresses, and she had used a variety of first names during her first three decades, including at one point the colourful but unlikely appellation “Patricia Maraquita”. She had also, for reasons that slowly became apparent, taken pains to disguise her background. To uncover it demanded much sheer hard slog. It meant countless trips to St Catherine’s House to unearth further certificates of birth, death and marriage. It involved many visits to Somerset House to scan wills; to the Office of Public Records to look at census information and other documents; to the British Library to study all manner of publications. It required much travelling around the country, visiting and talking to people who were all strangers to me at the time; that some of them would later become friends was among the unexpected bonuses offered by this particular treasure hunt. It also require
d a staggering number of letters and telephone calls.
Altogether a formidable undertaking. I found it exhausting and at times exasperating, but all round enormously enjoyable. In particular it was rewarding when a picture of Elinor Brent-Dyer’s personality began slowly to emerge. And with this picture came at least some understanding of the reasons behind those inaccuracies in official records. For one thing it soon became clear, as I delved into the various certificates and wills, that Elinor’s early life had been lived against a curious background of secrecy and evasion.
Not that there really had been anything sensational to hide, at any rate not to our late 20th century ideas. But, for example, Elinor’s mother had gone to amazing lengths in concealing the complete breakdown of her marriage after barely four years, preferring to give an impression and to have it assumed that she was now a widow, whereas in fact her husband did not die until a further 14 years after the legal separation took place.
Of course it is important to remember that in those far gone days, and especially in the kind of narrow small-town world where Elinor grew up, a broken marriage was regarded as something of a social disgrace, and one moreover that often bore more heavily on the woman in the case. Society honoured widows — in theory, if not always in financial terms. But where divorce or separation was concerned there could be a tacit assumption that the wife must be at fault in having failed to “keep her man”. Everything indicates that Elinor’s mother, Nelly Dyer, attached prime importance to the opinions her neighbours voiced behind their lace curtains; and she would have felt the more vulnerable because, while her husband came from the faraway south of England, she herself belonged to a family that was well known and respected locally.
