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The Oaken Heart of the Village


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

Read my short stories set in a WW2 cinema by clicking here

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