An Essex
Village Hall, 1938
Margery
Allingham’s ‘The Oaken Heart – The story
of an English Village at War’ is a narrative demonstrating how an ordinary
Essex village faced World War Two. Allingham lived in Tolleshunt D’Arcy and in
1941, her US publishers (Doubleday) commissioned this book as a means of
explaining to Americans why Britain was in need of their support. It is a straightforward,
unsentimental account of the descent into war and how the inhabitants of a
typically English village reacted to the events as they became aware of them.
As such, it is a fascinating read and it opens up thoughts and opinions that I
never knew or considered that people had at that time. But it also gives a
cracking description of the village hall. In September 1938, air raid and gas
precautions were being demonstrated to the inhabitants of the village. The
local hall was the natural place to hold talks and demonstrations. Here’s an
extract:
“The hall,
which is only a glorified army hut, has two main rooms, the smaller containing
a billiard table…[P.Y.C. – Allingham’s husband] and Sam were on the stage
together in a big room and were framed in an exceedingly dusty and shabby red
curtain. Immediately behind them was a dilapidated forest glade with a tear in
the sky and scraps of paint flecking off all over it, while a single electric
lightbulb with a prosaic green shade hung directly over their heads. Between
them was a very shaky card table and one small creaking chair.”
 |
| I heartily recommend this book |
Obviously
the hall’s main room was the venue for local performances – amateur dramatics
or musical recitals. A very common method of community entertainment and
something that still happens today. Something else that still seems to happen
at this kind of event is the reluctance of audience members to sit on the front
row. People tend to drift towards the back rows at gatherings of all kinds in
village halls and I always thought that this was a hangover from school days and
that very English fear of being singled out by the person at the front.
However, much to my interest, Allingham offers another explanation for this:
“Even as late
as twenty years ago that front row was reserved, even in church, for ‘the
gentry’, and now it always seems to be avoided by nearly everybody. This is not
because there are no gentlefolk left but because very few of them want to
associate themselves with any society that took it for granted that it should
get the best view without paying more at the door.”
By
leaving those front seats empty, are we unconsciously harking back to our old
feudal selves? I wonder…
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Twitter: @agathadascoyne
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