by John Masters
‘London,’ Tim muttered. ‘Fogs, people …’
‘Harrods!’ Sally said reverently. ‘Shall I be presented at Court, Mummy? What shall I wear? Shall I be a debutante?’
‘All that’s a few years off,’ Susan said. ‘I am sorry, Tim. I know how you feel … because I love it here too. I’m not really a town person, either. But we have to go.’
‘I’ll steal the ducks’ eggs off those lakes you showed us,’ Tim said. ‘And snare rabbits in Hyde Park, and …’
‘I shall go to Uncle Tom’s and become a mannequin,’ Sally said, sticking out her chest. ‘Men will crawl at my feet and I shall laugh at them, deep in my throat – ha, ha, ha.’
‘You’ve been reading too much Elinor Glyn,’ Susan said. ‘Go and wash before supper.’
Isabel Cate, standing in the window with her husband at her side, muttered, ‘Where is Mr Kirby? Doesn’t he always come?’
‘All my life, he has,’ Christopher said. ‘But perhaps he’s not feeling up to it. He is seventy-nine after all. Rickman’s here … and Miss Hightower, simpering at him, just as she always did at Mr Kirby.’
Outside, it was still trying to snow, or sleet, and not quite succeeding. Twenty waits, led by the Reverend Gerald Rickman, BD, curate of the parish of Walstone-cum-Taversham, were serenading the Manor with ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Rickman was dark-haired, earnest, and had a Midland accent. It was understood that he would take over the parish as soon as Mr Kirby had the decency to die, or formally retire. The parish was in the Diocese of Rochester, and the Bishop had spent the thirteen months since the end of the war in vain hints. Mr Kirby apparently meant to die in his rectory; and the longer he could put off the succession of this fellow, who did not approve of blood sports, and spoke in an unctuous, condescending voice – the better.
‘There are Betty and Fletcher,’ Isabel said, ‘singing away for dear life … I remember her writing, her first Christmas here, how much the waits had impressed her. That was the day she first met Fletcher.’
The waits ended ‘Good King Wenceslas’. In the pause before they began on their next carol, the Cates distinctly heard another choir, not far off, singing ‘O Come All Ye Faithful,’ the voices borne up to them on the wind from the south-west. The voices, male and female, were being accompanied by two cornets.
‘What’s that?’ Isabel asked, as the waits outside started on ‘The First Noel,’ drowning out the more distant singing.
‘Another party,’ Christopher said, ‘led by Captain Woodruff, to serenade the people in the new houses on Lower Bohun … He’s organised a regular club, including the cornetists.’
Isabel said, ‘Do you mind? It’s like splitting the village into the old inhabitants and the newcomers … the past and the present.’
He said, ‘It’s inevitable. Walstone’s going to be a melting pot, and soon the new people will think more as we do, and we’ll think more as they do. I suppose Guy and Florinda are having carols at the Hall?’
She said, ‘She’s arranged for some Hedlington waits to sing there, for those who can’t move, but most of the Foundationers, led by Guy, are going in buses to Hedlington, to sing carols round town, at the Mayor’s house, in front of a few pubs …’
‘Wing Commander Sir Guy Rowland, VC, KBE, DSO, MC,’ Cate murmured. ‘One of our greatest air aces and flying pioneers, and he never uses his rank, or his decorations, unless he has to. He’s just Guy, or Sir Guy … while down there’ – he pointed his chin towards the village growing awkwardly into a town below – ‘you can’t take a step without running into the works of Captain Woodruff, wartime temporary officer.’
‘And gentleman?’ she asked.
‘No, that’ll be permanent now. Rank is but riches, longpossessed – Burns … They’re finishing. Signal them in for a glass of sherry, or a ginger wine … and Fletcher there will certainly have a whisky mac.’
Seated comfortably on the big bay gelding, Guy Rowland surveyed with keen pleasure the animated scene on the sweep of gravelled drive in front of the main entrance to Walstone Park. It was the Boxing Day meet of Lord Walstone’s Hounds, once the North Weald Hunt, until its demise at the end of 1917 under its then Master, the late Earl of Swanwick. He remembered the New Year’s Day meet of 1915, when he was not quite seventeen … things hadn’t changed as much as you might have expected. Wilkinson was back from the Wiltshire Yeomanry as Huntsman, and Billing from the Royal Horse Artillery as one of the whippers-in. The other pre-war one, Snodgress, lay in a soldier’s grave in Palestine, killed with his regiment of Hussars in the final advance on Jerusalem. His replacement was a young fellow … Guy didn’t know his name … it was interesting to see that a young man would still make hunting his career.
Today it was the dog pack … a new terrier, of course; the old one had been given away, and was a farmer’s dog in Beighton now, too old and fat to get his job back. Lord Walstone looked like a caricature of a war profiteer, fat-faced, fat-bellied, wearing the peaked velvet cap perched ridiculously on top of his balding head, sweating profusely even in the chill. The horses’ hoofs made deep impressions on the grass, for it was wet from the sleet that had fallen most of Christmas Day … There was Uncle Christopher and his new Aunt Isabel, he in pink, she in black, with top hat and veil … Wilkinson’s whip was cracking out over hounds, as he yelled, ‘Garraway boick, Lancer, Driver, Baron, Chaser … boick, I say!’ Crack, crack, and a sudden yelp from the too slow Chaser … He walked his horse over to the edge of the gravel, where Florinda was standing with Probyn, Fletcher and Betty Gorse, and five Foundationers from Scarrow Hall.
‘A big field today,’ Florinda said.
‘Old Eaves is capping them now,’ Guy said. ‘I didn’t think too many of the new people would be interested, but they seem to be. And a good many have come down from Hedlington. Half a dozen from London, Eaves told me.’
‘They been told hunting’s the right thing for a country gent,’ Probyn said, ‘and this is one of the closest packs to London.’
Florinda said, ‘It’ll become very fashionable if it provides reasonably good sport.’
‘With that fat old Hoggin as Master?’ one of the Foundationers said. ‘Not bloody likely!’
Guy laughed – ‘Lord Walstone has never yet failed to get what he wants, Bright. If he wants to be known as Master of a great pack, he will be …’ A servant approached, bearing a tray loaded with glasses of sloe gin and cherry brandy. Guy stooped, picked one off, said ‘Thanks,’ drank it in one gulp, and handed it back. ‘That’s the stuff to give the troops!… They’re moving off. Bye, darling!’
‘Have a good time,’ Flo called up, blowing him a kiss. ‘And please don’t break your neck. I do want a golden wedding binge … I’m going home now. These fellows are going to follow you.’
Guy smiled down at the five Foundationers; one had only one leg, two only one arm, and the fourth was missing an arm and an eye; the fifth was ex-Private Snaky Lucas, almost fully recovered from near starvation. Somewhere, somehow, in the last few days he had acquired a bowler hat and a red-and-black striped waistcoat to go with his blue suit; the ensemble, he was certain, being the correct wear for a modern knight’s valet.
Guy said to one of the one-armed men, ‘I thought you were against blood sports, Lindley.’
The man who was missing an arm and an eye broke in, ‘He is, sir, but he’s from Manchester. We told him, what the hell can he know about us country blokes if he doesn’t know what we like. So we dragged him along. And we’re ruddy well going to be in at the kill, too.’
‘By God, if you are,’ Guy said, ‘I’ll see that the Master gives you the brush and the mask. Come hup, Hi say, you hugly beast!’ He touched his spurs to the bay’s flank and trotted off after the field, down the drive towards the East Gate and the Old. Bridge.
Christopher was still dressed in hunting clothes, without his boots, wearing bedroom slippers instead, when the telephone rang in the hall. Garrod came in a moment later, saying, ‘It’s for you, sir.’
Christopher said, ‘Pour me another whisky, darling,’ went out, and picked up the receiver – ‘Cate here.’
The tinny voice at the other end said, ‘I’m John Ross, Mr Cate, from the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s office.’
‘Good evening, Sir John,’ Cate said. The caller was a well-known barrister and KC, famous for his work in Admiralty courts during the war.
Ross said, ‘The Chancellor and the High Court judges wish to recommend you to His Majesty as High Sheriff of Kent. As you know, there has been no High Sheriff for the past six months … Are you willing to accept the post?’
Cate said slowly, ‘High Sheriff … It’s really a figurehead post, isn’t it, with everything actually done by the deputies, prison governors, and so on?’
‘That’s about it,’ Ross said. ‘He does have to make some ceremonial appearances, especially if His Majesty or the Lord Chancellor visit Kent officially … but otherwise, it’s meant to be an honour. Well-deserved, from all we have heard in this six months of searching. Everyone we spoke to, who knew of you, said that you were the man who brought your area through the war with its spirit as intact as …’
‘Not all its young men,’ Cate said.
‘No.’
Cate said at last, ‘Very well. I shall be honoured.’
‘Good. I am instructed to tell you that you may also have a Knight Bachelorhood, if you so wish.’
Cate answered that more quickly, ‘Thank you, Sir John, but we’ve been plain Cates for thirteen or fourteen hundred years and it would be best if we stayed that way.’
‘I quite understand … Will you come up to London to see the Chancellor, early Monday? No. 11 Downing Street. He has to leave for Edinburgh at 10, so can you make it at 9 a.m.? It’s early, I know, but …’
‘I’ll be there,’ Cate said briefly, and hung up. He returned to the drawing-room, thinking, we’ll take the late train up on Sunday night, and stay at the Cavendish. Rosa Lewis always made a stay interesting, and by now she should have recovered from losing Lord Ribblesdale.
He took the glass of whisky from the side table, where Isabel had put it, and said, ‘I’m to be High Sheriff of Kent … and we’re going to London on Sunday night for a few days.’
She jumped up and flung her arms round his neck – ‘Oh Christopher, darling! I thought no one would ever do or say anything to show appreciation for what you did here … what you’re still doing. You’ve been the mortar holding it all together. You’ve held the people through the war, and now you’re guiding them through the peace, towards the future.’ She kissed him long and lovingly on the forehead, holding his head in both hands.
He stood away. He said, ‘I wish I could have done as much … or anything … for my children … I think I will change and go and say some prayers at the War Memorial, Isabel.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Daily Telegraph, Saturday, December 27, 1919
CHRISTMAS IN LONDON
PEACE AND PLENTY
This year, after an involuntary absence which had lasted since 1913, the Spirit of Christmas returned to London. It was the Spirit beloved of Dickens at the time he wrote the story of Marley’s ghost; the Spirit of good cheer, of fun and laughter, the Spirit of the roaring hearth, with the reunited family circle around it … Since 1918, 4,000,000 of ‘the boys’ have returned, to compare their reminiscences of Christmastide in the Flanders mud, on the sands of Egypt and ‘Mespot’, or amid the olive groves of Palestine, with the peace and the comfort and the plenty which have come to them this year as their reward …
The King, the Queen, the Prince of Wales, The Princess Mary and other members of the Royal family, with their customary forethought, sent to the various hospitals in London gifts of birds and other good things for the table, as well as toys to delight the hearts of the children. Soldiers who are under treatment in the various institutions were also remembered …
IN THE WORKHOUSES
The inmates in the workhouses and infirmaries were well catered for. Special dinners were provided, and in some instances pantomimes written by the staff were produced … A huge Christmas pudding, 300 lbs in weight, was the main centre of attraction at Kingston Workhouse. In its making there were used thirty pounds each of raisins, sultanas, currants, flour and sugar, ninety eggs, sixty pounds of suet, one and a half pounds of baking powder, fifteen pounds of peel, and seventy-five pounds of bread crumbs, all moistened with seven and a half gallons of milk, and flavoured with nine ounces of nutmeg, fifteen lemons, and eight ounces of spice …
CHARITABLE ORGANISATIONS
… On Christmas Eve Lady Stoll gave a party to the 205 disabled soldiers and sailors and their wives and children who live in the homes at Fulham provided by Sir Oswald Stoll … The children of the tenants, numbering over fifty, had their tea in the workshop, where Father Christmas … came down the chimney to the call of the chimney sweep, and proceeded to dismantle a heavily-laden Christmas tree. He handed toys to Fairy Greatheart (Lady Stoll) who presented them to the children …
‘Fairy Greatheart!’ Guy muttered. ‘Good God! Well, let it be a warning to us, not to think we are Fairy Greathearts, just because we are in a position to help a few of our fellow creatures.’ He looked at Florinda – ‘Our Christmas here went off pretty well, I thought.’
She nodded, her mouth full of toast; when she had swallowed it, she said, ‘What’s half a dozen drunks and disorderlies, and one broken arm, among so many? I thought that Meadows’ recitation at the Christmas dinner table was the best part.’
She stood and declaimed, in cockney –
‘’Twas Christmus Die in the Work’us, that die of all the year,
When the paupers’ ’earts is full of gladness, and their bellies full of beer.
Up spake the Work’us master, “To all within these walls,
I wish a Merry Christmas,” and the paupers answered …’
‘Dead silence!’ Guy said, laughing. ‘Because there were ladies present. You don’t count as a lady, but there were Mary Gorse and her girls, and Anne Stratton and hers, and Dorothy Norvell, and…’
She raised the coffeepot menacingly over his head, put it down, and said, ‘And then they gave us that marvellous wreath of poppies …’
He glanced at the wall beside him, where the red wreath hung, bedecked with green ribbons and a big illuminated scroll – TO SIR GUY AND LADY ROWLAND, OUR PALS, RESPECTFULLY, THE FOUNDATIONERS. He looked across at his wife and suddenly found his eyes blurring with tears. After a moment he said, ‘I can’t believe it. The war’s over … I don’t want to kill anyone … And I’ve got you … you, whom I’ve loved more than half my life, and I’m only twenty-two.’
She jumped up and came round the table to lean her breast against his head and, standing stooped over him, murmur, ‘You’ve got me, Guy. And I’ve got you … till death us do part.’
It seemed ten minutes had passed when Padre Caffin came in, helped himself to a kipper, and said, ‘Fred Stratton’s had a baby boy, out in India. Frank’s had a cable.’
‘I expect his wife had the baby for him, padre,’ Florinda said, sitting down. ‘Sahibs don’t do anything for themselves in India.’
Caffin sat down, laughing, and Lucas poured out coffee for him. Caffin turned to Guy – ‘Guy, just before Christmas I had a letter from a young fellow I knew in Westport … a painter. He’s starving out there, doing odd jobs to keep body and soul together. But he’s a good painter, I’ll swear he is. He didn’t ask me for anything, but I’ve been thinking … could we bring him here and have him teach Foundationers how to paint and draw?’
Guy stared at the wall, the wreath, the scroll for a moment; then said, ‘Yes. One year at least. Minimum wage, and we buy his materials … Now, who can teach music?’
‘Why, by Saint Patrick, I can,’ the priest said. ‘The piano, the fiddle, and the mouth organ!’
‘We’ll buy some mouth organs,’ Guy said, sitting back dreamily. ‘We’ll have a Foundation Band. It�
�ll play at cricket matches at the County grounds, and …’
‘That’s something else I’ve been thinking about,’ the priest said. ‘You should get back to first-class cricket. You’ll not be able to turn out every day, but … think of the publicity you’ll be getting for the Foundation, Guy! And you must have some break from your work here.’
Guy said, ‘I’ve thought of it. I might spend 1920 seeing if I can get back into form, then before 1921 tell the County they can have me, say, three matches a month, if they want me … Meanwhile, Florinda, why have we run out of red cloth for the poppies? And do you know that I’ve passed four other applications? So there’ll be seventeen more Foundationers, not thirteen, arriving on the 2nd …’
The change ringers were beginning a long peal of Kent Bob Majors. Mr Rickman might not approve of fox hunting, but he was enthusiastic about most other folklore, and had eagerly joined the change ringers and learned their art as soon as he came to the parish. The sound of the bells came muffled by lightly falling snow through the darkness of early evening, to Walstone station, where Christopher and Isabel Cate waited for the 5.10 Hedlington train, with connections to London, Victoria. Beside them, where they stood near the west end of the platform, the up starting signal glowed red above them, a small pool of white light directly underneath it, from the unshielded opening in the bottom of the lamp. Their suitcases stood beside them, for Bertha, the stable girl, had taken the trap back to the Manor, on Christopher’s orders.
A figure approached through the darkness, bustling along with the certainty of familiarity through the pools of yellow light from the platform lamps, past the big board inscribed WALSTONE … He peered at them – ‘Ah, Mr Cate … madam … Going up to London to see the King, sir?’
