by Mavis Cheek
Mrs Perry pointed and Angela followed the line of her fingers. Strung between two trees and hanging from a thin wire were several dead carcasses - possibly birds, possibly rodents, possibly not.
'Does it really frighten them off?'
Mrs Perry shrugged. 'I never thought so’ she said. 'I'd have thought that animals just saw other dead animals as food. Only humans would understand it as a warning.' She shook her head and smiled that grim smile of hers. 'Not so long ago it was folk rather than vermin. There's been a few -of those strung up round here.' She nodded her head directionally. 'Up on the hill. And not so long ago either. My grandmother said her mother had seen a hanging.' She gave Angela a straight look. 'That's where your ancient arts could get you. My mother made lotions and potions and left me all her recipes. And her mother's. But if you'd called her a witch she'd have spat in your eye. I must look them out.'
The second room, with another window on to the garden, had the same proportions.
'My mother used to say the house was like an old duchess, with everything carried at the front. We don't use this as a dining room. Shame really.. ‘ She went over to the window and pulled a crumpled, faded chintz curtain further aside. 'It's got the best view of the house - this and the bedroom above it,' said Mrs Perry. 'Front and side view. The Mump and the church.'
Angela stroked the old chintz as gently as if it were a cat. She perched on the window seat and gazed out and thought of Goldsmith. All these years she thought she was a pragmatist and now here she was, a romantic.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flower grows wild. There where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
'Royal land,' said Mrs Perry. 'Never to be built on.' She came and stood by Angela. 'And we own that field at the side. That's not part of the sale. We want to keep that. Lord knows why we want to keep that. .. the peasant in us, very likely. You don't get rid of all your land.'
'Can it be built on?' Angela's mouth went dry.
'Not while we own it, it can't’ said Mrs Perry firmly. 'Too much building in my opinion.' She looked about the room, as if for the first time. 'Panels need a coat of paint, fireplace needs unplugging . . .' She crossed to one of the cupboards beside the mantelpiece and opened it. 'There's a bit of damp in this one. Are you a do-it-yourselfer, Mrs Fytton? Archie and I are not... as you will have noticed.'
Angela thought of all her years of paint pots and wood finishes. And shook her head. Not this time, she thought, not this time.
'What are the neighbours like?' she asked.
'You've got the new vicar. Not married. Plays the guitar...' Mrs Perry pulled a face. 'And a couple I don't know very well beyond him, weekenders - boys away at Frome Hall, they board’ She sniffed. 'Both solicitors in Bristol. Rudge, their name is. Never see them really. Then on this side -' she pointed westwards - 'you've got Dave the bread, who delivers.' She shrugged, as if arguing with herself. 'Well, saves making it.' Angela nodded.
'His wife, Wanda, does weaving and craft things. Beyond him the Elliotts. Some sort of writer he is, and his wife and children - three under six, I ask you.'
Angela tried to look as if she had never had two under two.
'And further up the lane you've got the history woman, Daphne Blunt. Swears by olive oil and doesn't like fat bacon.' Mrs Perry turned to Angela and said, as if in deepest sympathy, 'A thin woman. Very thin. Interesting, but likes to poke her nose...'
'Ah’ said Angela. 'Aren't there any true locals, like you?'
'Not many’ she said, apparently without sentiment. 'Most of them have moved into sensible accommodation. We've still got Sammy with the pigs up that hill.' She pointed beyond the window and her eyes softened. 'His place is right at the other end. The eelers still come in. You can see the eel beds from the church. And then there's old Dr Tichborne and his wife down there.' She pointed again. 'They were born and bred round here, but grandish. I remember my father taking off his hat to his father when the car went by, just after the war. And she came from the Hall. . . which got pulled down to make room for the road. They've a niece who's set on marrying an estate agent.' For some reason she looked a little flustered at this last. 'Well, anyway... Now, the bedrooms.'
They mounted the stairs. Creak, creak, creak.
'It doesn't mean anything. Just age. I creak myself some days.' She opened a door and smiled at Angela as she did so. 'You will too one day...'
They walked into what Angela supposed was the main bedroom. Master bedroom, as the estate agent's details described it. Mistress bedroom from now on. And eventually - why? - master and mistress bedroom, she supposed. A branch or two of an outside tree came right up against the window, but the view was clear. 'You can see the church and the vicar's garden from up here,' said Mrs Perry. 'The church land comes right to our boundary hedge at the back.'
But Angela was looking around the room. She wanted everything in it: Mrs Perry's high brass bed and the ancient white pique bedcover, the brass rail that held up the old blue and white striped curtains, the dusty fireplace with its faded tissue paper stuffed into the flue and the gas taps that still poked out of the wall. Next to them were electric wall-lights: imitation shells made from Woolworths Lalique. Modern by this house's standards, probably fifty years old - ugly then, somehow quaint and delightful now. It was all too much, like eating too many sweets. A setting from Country Life entitled Rural Chic.
The next bedroom was darker because the tree stretched across the window. There was an enamel basin set into an enamel stand with an enamel bucket below. She smiled to see such an old-fashioned vanity unit. Once she would have wandered around making notes about improvements. A shower here, a second bathroom there. But now she felt she knew these walls, could relax into them. The floor sloped slightly, the bed looked high and lumpy - essence of bed, much as Van Gogh painted his. Looking around, she doubted if there was a true right angle in the place.
'Don't use it much,' said Mrs Perry, ushering her out. 'Third bedroom,' she said, opening another panelled door.
In this little bedroom there were the original window shutters. Just for a moment Angela imagined some dimpled owner of cap and ringlets peering around. She went over to the window and pushed them. They were fastened down but workable. Behind her, and oddly out of joint, were bunk beds.
'For the grandchildren,' said Mrs Perry. 'When they come. Of course, they're nearly grown up now. But that's why the shutters are fixed. Didn't want them pinching their fingers. They're useful though - keep out the draught. Have you got children, Mrs Fytton?'
'I have two.' 'How old?'
'Eighteen and nineteen. Boy and a girl.'
Mrs Perry stared at her.
'I had them young’ said Angela. 'I wanted to.'
'I had mine late’ said Mrs Perry. 'Daughter. Moved to Bristol as soon as she could. And I don't blame her... Two sons, but nothing for them here. Long gone.'
They came out into the corridor. 'One more bedroom’ said her guide, opening a door. They peered into a small-windowed, sloping-ceilinged room almost bare of furniture but piled high with cardboard boxes. Mrs Perry looked at them and sighed. 'Have to start filling those soon.' She closed the door firmly. 'Now, just the old sewing room, and then that's it and we can have our tea.'
'Imagine having a whole room devoted to sewing’ Angela said.
Mrs Perry looked at her with sharp look again. 'It's the lightest place upstairs. And it was work. Everyone sewed on the side. It wasn't called needlework for nothing. My own grandmother was such a needlewoman that they'd send over with stuff from beyond the Quantocks. And her mother did some of the lace trimmings for Wells when the Queen and Prince Albert visited. I had a little bit put by in a box somewhere.'
They went down a short corridor. At the back the house was a hybrid of half-landings and diversions, with all sense of eighteenth-century rationale gone. Angela thought it was the same with life. You put all your balanced bits at the front
for the world to see and kept the muddled accretions of a lifetime out of sight.
Mrs Perry opened the door on to a small room with bare boards and bare walls and full of dazzling sunlight streaming from its one huge window. But if Angela had hoped to see a couple of mop bonnets nodding over fancy stitchwork, she was disappointed.
'Not much sewing room in here now’ said Mrs Perry wryly, indicating the mountains of agricultural magazines, cardboard boxes full of yellowing papers, unappetizing bric-a-brac. Above it all sat a glassy-eyed stuffed stag's head. In much the same condition as herself, Angela thought.
Mrs Perry sighed. 'Archie’ she said. 'Another good reason for moving. Since we got rid of the last few milkers, he's started going to car-boot sales. Only he brings back more than he takes.'
'Now, here's my pride and joy. The bathroom.' They entered.
Two outside walls to it - Archie never thought - but we've got one of those electric wall-heater things she made a mime of pulling at a corded switch - 'and that does all right. It's the only room we did up.' She touched the avocado suite with reverence. 'Before this it was Saturday night in front of the fire.'
Angela decided to concentrate on the velvet curtains, gooseberry green like the room below. In a bathroom... velvet? Caption for Tatler photograph: 'Angela Fytton chooses velvet for the family bathroom...' She had the grace to wince.
Mrs Perry's eyes softened as they had done at the door of her old room. ‘I shall be sorry to leave this bathroom’ she said. 'You only need curtains for the cold, not because you're overlooked. That's why I've got these thick things up.' She touched the velvet and dust flew about. 'It's all got too much for me’ she said softly and more or less to herself. Then she pointed. 'You see, the trees outside hide everything. Even in the winter. The holly and the yews protect you. If it ever gets hot, you can sit in the bath with the windows wide open and enjoy a chat with the birds. I might miss that.' She touched the edge of the big, ugly sink. 'If we'd only had more time and the inclination, we'd have put in more improvements like this’ she said wistfully.
Angela, who had never quite understood the philosophy behind Zen and archery before, now got the idea. For just as the arrow flies truest when you detach yourself from the act and let the spirit guide you, so she heard her own voice, coming from somewhere she did not know she had visited, saying, ‘I’ll take it. I'll pay the full price. And you can leave behind anything you don't want. Anything.'
Now she felt wonderful. Shriven. Purged. Born anew. It was, indeed, as delirious as the moment of acceptance of a lover. Yes, she was saying. Yes.
Mrs Perry's mouth went into that thin line again. 'Oh,' she said. 'I thought the agent would have told you. It's already sold. He's buying it.'
Angela Fytton, embarrassment notwithstanding, immediately burst into tears. Of sorrow. And of rage. "Then why the bloody hell did he send me here if he's going to buy it?'
'Ah no,' said Mrs Perry, 'that was the other agent who sent you... Tea?'
They sat at the table with the milk bottle and large brown Betty between them. The brew was dark brown and the biscuits were ginger snaps, which they both dunked. A couple of hens came tottering in and Mrs Perry shooed at them absently. Then, from beneath a bench on the far side of the room, there was a stirring and a low groan or two, and the unmistakable sound of a fart. Jesus! thought Angela, it's a drunk. But it was an ancient Labrador who slithered out, padding thoughtfully towards the hens. Relieved, and from the deeps of her disappointment, Angela watched. They stood their ground, those poultry, defiant, heads cocked, aware of the ginger snaps that were so near. The dog pushed on, his nose coming within inches of their feathered scuts. Still they remained: determined, brave, resolute. Robert the Bruce had a spider, thought Angela, I have sodding hens.
'Mrs Perry,' she said, ‘I will pay more.'
'Mrs Fytton,' came the reply, 'those are town ways.'
The hens squawked and rose on their silly wings, but still they did not get out of the Labrador's way. Any other buyer, she knew, would butcher the place. The very things she wanted to conserve would be thrown away.
'This estate agent,' said Angela, 'you know what he'll do. He'll buy it, do it up and sell it for a fortune.'
'That's up to him,' said Mrs Perry, pouring again.' We don't want to, that's for sure.'
She put the teapot down and gave Angela a straight, if slightly weary, look. 'It's over. Time moves on. Does it never occur to you town folk that we country folk might like the look of what you want to leave behind? It's not very comfortable living here and it never was. You should think about that.'
'What? Noise pollution, air pollution, shops that don't know you?'
'Shops of any kind. And air pollution means some form of transport. We used to have a railway station and buses to connect us to it. Noise is a part of the price you pay for still being included in the human race. What the common agricultural policy began, BSE just about finished. Along with politicians up in London telling us what we can and can't do. They should try telling a young lad of sixteen that he can go out on the withies for a living but he can't make a bob or two for the hunt.' She sniffed. 'Anyway, what withies are there left nowadays?'
Well, quite, thought Angela, wondering what the hell a withy was and putting it in the box marked still room.
Mrs Perry took a packet of cigarettes from her apron and offered one to Angela, who, in distraction, would have taken a brier pipe.
'My family was from around these parts for a very long time and I'm the last. It's the same with Archie - apart from his old aunt in the home over Shepton way. My family did dairying and were blacksmiths for generations.'
'Blacksmiths?' Angela was enchanted.
'Blacksmiths,' said Mrs Perry, a little irritably. Her hostess struck a match. Angela bent to the flame. Mrs Perry looked up. 'But oddly enough, Mrs Fytton, the latest farm models do not require shoeing. It was all over when they stopped the hunt. I ask you...'
Angela hoped her eyes looked back clear of the guilt of that twenty-pound note. 'Must have been a hard life,' she said.
'It was. But when I look at my daughter I'm not so sure. We women were better off here on the land in some ways. It was hard work, but it was your home. What husband in his right mind is going to have a dairy herd and a pig unit and leave his wife? He's a fool if he does. Risks everything. Whereas the towns . . . well.' She leaned back and gave Angela a very straight look. 'Country women had more independence than you think in the olden days. And time. It was the seasons that dictated, not clocks.'
Angela said defiantly, 'When I am here, I shall adopt the ways of the country and go at the season's pace.'
Mrs Perry ignored this with as much contempt as Canute poured upon the notion of sea-control. She shrugged. 'Well, it's over now.' She leaned forward and looked into Angela's starry eyes. 'It is not a romance, Mrs Fytton, the life. And I can't say I'm sorry it's over. Leastways I'll never have to go up that hill in midwinter to rescue some damned stray beast. Or get my hands frozen to the churn. Or worry to Archie's coughing.' Suddenly she banged the table with the flat of her palm. Angela jumped, and so did the hens, which ran scattering. 'Get out, you lot,' said Mrs Perry, quite good-naturedly. But they lingered by the door, still eyeing the biscuits and the dog alternately. They showed no fear. Just for a moment Angela felt like putting her head on one side and clucking too.
'Well, I want what you don't, Mrs Perry,' she said defiantly. 'Sanctuary and a bit of history. Ancient and modern.' She tried not to think of the avocado suite.
'If you want sanctuary, you need a church,' replied Mrs Perry quite sharply.
'Immunity, then,' said Angela, suddenly understanding what Virginia Woolf meant when she wrote the word in her diary. 'I want immunity, protection, safe harbour, peace’
It's a lot to ask of a house, Mrs Fytton.'
'I know’ she said. 'But as soon as I saw this house I knew it was right. Like a lover.'
Mrs Perry looked at her. 'Do you think those give you pea
ce, Mrs Fytton?'
Angela realized that it was not the language for a purebred country wife. She changed the subject. 'Why is it called Church Ale House?'
More tea was poured. The cigarette was sucked.
Mrs Perry said, 'They used to brew the church ale here. Daphne Blunt says it would have been done by an ale-wife once upon a time. Apparently it was women's business but it made them too independent.' She laughed. 'There's always been good profit in drink. Anyway, it was celebration stuff. Church ale, bride ale. Before God and the priests said they mustn't.'
'Was that recently?' said Angela, thinking of licences, regulations about the marketing of comestibles and Women's Institute jam.
Mrs Perry shrugged and looked amused. 'Depends what you call recent’ she said. 'Not bad in country terms. Three hundred or so years.'
