Maud
When the squire of
Bradbridge Manor finally took the decision to sell up and move to Eastbourne,
it came as a great relief to his wife. Several of their genteel neighbours had
already taken themselves off to milder climates, putting their heirloom
furniture up for auction and selling their homes off to the Youth Hostelling
Association, or to private schools. The Dukes of Devonshire and Rutland kept
their Derbyshire residences going, but it had been a strain – Chatsworth,
Hardwick and Haddon were all millstones around their necks. The Hooper-Dakindales of Bradbridge however
were ready to throw in the towel.
Maud Hooper-Dakindale, the
squire’s wife, had a great friend in Gertie Lampton, late of Wye Grange. Gertie
had taken off to the New Forest six months previously. Her husband had developed
gout and their son and heir had been last seen in a Belgian trench in 1916. Wye
Grange, previously a burden with no new generation to pass it on to, was
shortly to become an agricultural college.
The Hooper- Dakindales had
never managed a son to lose in the Great War in the first place. They had one
daughter, whose entry into the world had been so troublesome to her mother that
no further child had dared to follow. This only daughter had married a
Manchester businessman who had later taken her off to London. They had no
interest in inheriting Bradbridge Manor and Maud had no intention of burdening
her only child with the draughty old pile. This intention remained a secret
from her husband however, whose ancestors had built the manor and shivered their
way through two centuries in it.
Before her marriage to
Hereward Hooper-Dakindale, Maud had taken a romantic view of Bradbridge Manor.
In love with both the young squire and the Charlotte Bronte novel “Jane Eyre”,
her impending chatelaine-age of a grey pile of stones on top of a windy hill
was thrilling. A single winter in this Peakland valley soon cured her.
Bradbridge village squatted somewhere between Sheffield and Manchester, at the
point where the smoke from the two cities mingled on a bad day. The wind could
blow from every direction over the course of one hour and all the draught
excluders in all the world would not stop it from getting under the doors. The
big hill that overlooked the village was a brooding presence which Maud first
took to be a kind of topographical Mr Rochester, protecting them all from the
worst of the weather while maintaining a bad countenance. She changed her mind
about this as well. Mr Rochester Hill simply blocked the view from her bedroom
window and stopped the rainclouds from moving on. Going south, closer to her daughter,
grandchildren and now Gertie had become a recurring fantasy that Maud hardly
dare dream of. The manor meant a great deal to her husband, and the silly old
squire meant a great deal to her. Maud was silently resigned to the idea that a
Hooper-Dakindale should reside at Bradbridge for as long as possible.
Luckily for Maud, the
Hooper-Dakindales had not been immune to the effects of the economic rough and
tumble of recent years. Hereward had kept this a secret from Maud, not wishing
to cloud her days with financial constraints. She liked rich food and he liked
to see her eating it. She liked trips to
London to buy nice clothes and he liked to see her wearing them. But the fact
of the matter, and his accountant, gnawed away at Hereward. It was the doctor
that really opened the gates though.
“You really would fare
better in a milder climate” the doctor insisted when he examined Hereward.
“Your chest would probably clear up altogether if you managed to find a nice
sheltered place on the south coast.”
Hereward dutifully sent for
details of properties in Eastbourne, a place he chose because the Duke of
Devonshire had a house there. It would be an added attraction for his Maud if
she could keep an eye on the comings and goings of a family she considered to
be most interesting. He thought he might have to do some coaxing. Maud’s
readiness to decamp came as quite the pleasant surprise, and gave Hereward the
satisfaction of thinking yet again how well he had chosen his wife.
Scenes from curtains at a village hall
*
Once the property in
Eastbourne had been selected, and the auction sale of Bradbridge Manor and a
good half of its contents had been arranged, it only remained to announce the
departure officially to the village. Of course they all knew. The parlour maid
and the chauffeur had seen to that between them. But it was not official until
the squire or his wife had uttered the fact in a public sphere. This took place
at a meeting of the Women’s Institute.
Maud had graciously bestowed her presence at Institute gatherings on an
irregular basis since the war. Wanting to be seen to be doing something useful
towards the war effort; she had joined the women of Bradbridge in sundry
activities that would bring comfort to the Bradbridge boys that had joined up
and gone away, and to those women who lived in daily fear of a telegram. Maud was guilty of not providing a son or two
to add to the efforts, so helping to knit gloves for other people’s made her
feel better.
It was during the Great War
that the tradition of the Christmas party for the village children had begun.
Although not nearly as old as some Peakland traditions, it had become
established and expected by all. Each Christmas Eve, every child was invited to
the Manor for a small feast and games with prizes that were heavy on the citrus
fruit theme. The children went mostly
for the jellies that were prepared by the cook, who was particularly gifted in
the creation of fruit based desserts. So, it was the Christmas party that
everyone had been wondering about when the news of the sale filtered through.
When Maud made the official announcement that she and her husband were leaving
at the Institute’s prize-giving night, the faux consternation was soon replaced
by a whisper that consisted of “Christmas”, “party” and “kiddies”.
The genteel, gloved hand of
Amelia Drinkwater was finally raised, as she lurched forward, possibly
following a sharp shove in the back.
“Ah, Miss Drinkwater?” Maud
prepared herself for the first of an onslaught. She sat back in her chair and
thought of Eastbourne on a summer morning.
“Mrs Hooper-Dakindale, we
will be awfully sad to see you leave Bradbridge. Indeed, you and your husband
are Bradbridge personified! Do you know who will be purchasing the Manor and
will they continue with certain traditions?”
Maud thought she heard a low
voice declare “oh for goodness sake Amelia, just ask about the party” but she
might have been mistaken. But still, it occurred to her then that this would be
a major point of concern among the mothers, who might now have to find some
other form of entertainment for their children on Christmas Eve.
“The expectation is that it
will not be an individual that purchases the Manor” Maud had to tell those
concerned faces ranged before her, with a sorrowful tone that she did not
actually feel. “It is more likely to be an institution of some kind. It may be
turned into a school or a hostel.”
Those ladies whose husbands
were involved in local commerce raised an interested eyebrow as it
dawned on them that their custom might widen as a result of this change. Older
and more genteel ladies were a little more aghast at this closing of the
association between the Hooper-Dakindales and Bradbridge, passing those
inevitable remarks about departed family members shifting in their resting
places. The room was not without murmurs.
Mrs Hooper-Dakindale was sat
at the front of the room, alongside the Chair of the Women’s Institute. Mrs Kitty
Sparkes, the widow of a Sheffield businessman, considered herself to be second
in command of the village’s female population on the strength of her honorary
position. She also, quite wrongly, thought herself on the same social scale as
the Hooper-Dakindales and insisted on calling on them from time to time,
issuing many return invitations to her Georgian double-fronted house on the
main street that were usually deliberately overlooked. Hereward considered
Kitty to be the perfect target for his awful jokes, the kind that Maud knew she
oughtn’t to laugh at but couldn’t help herself. His favourite name for her was
Whiffy Sharks, a double fun-poke of a name which made reference to her habit of
dousing herself in Lily of the Valley cologne and her prominent teeth. During
her visits to Institute meetings, Maud had to take particular care not to make
reference to Mrs Sharks, and was quite glad that this troublesome effort would
soon be a thing of the past. It was Mrs
Sparkes who brought the attention of those present back from their business
expansion or grave spinning reveries to the question of the Children’s
Christmas Party.
“As you can see if you look
about you, ladies, the schoolroom isn’t big enough to hold all of the children
at once, this room being for the infants only. This is the only meeting place
in the village.”
Kitty did not include the
public house, which she would on no occasion enter, being of the Temperance
persuasion. The schoolroom was the only other public space, and the building
contained only very few adult sized chairs. If a particularly interesting
speaker had been booked for the Institute meeting, or if an especially
interesting piece of village business to be discussed, the children’s chairs
had to be brought into action resulting in locked knees and creaking corsets. Those
ladies who insisted on not getting any older, whose ages regressed or remained
static rather than advancing on each birthday, often made a show of taking a
child’s chair, thus proving themselves young enough to sit on one. The smell of embrocation could permeate the
village for days.
“Where will the children
have their party?” Kitty continued “And come to that, where can we hold a
summer fete? These are the things that we should be organising but we simply do
not have the facilities.”
Maud Hooper-Dakindale felt
the weight of sundry bloodshot eyes (it was a particularly windy day, even for
Bradbridge) and pebble-thick spectacle lenses resting on her. If she had been a
weaker-willed woman, she would have given into her guilt and cancelled the
Eastbourne move with immediate effect.
“It is really rather
difficult to say at this stage, Mrs Sparkes.
When whoever takes over the Manor moves in, perhaps you can approach
them for advice. If it becomes a private school they may perhaps be willing to
lend out some space to the village for occasions such as the children’s party.”
Maud could take no more of
the guilt provoking stares and, easing on her gloves, she rose to leave the
meeting. Her last words had offered hope and that was as far as she could take
it. Kitty Sparkes also rose with a clank
of ostentatious pearls.
“But Mrs Hooper-Dakindale,
ladies, I have an answer to our quandary. Her earlier questions then had been rhetorical
then, just a lead in to another of her great proclamations. Maud could have
taken her gloves off again and smacked the woman. All guilt dissipated. She was
glad she was leaving behind old Whiffy Sharks. “My question was rhetorical.”
Kitty confirmed with a toothy smile. She turned to the women ranged before her,
all bearing expressions that ranged from grudgingly inquisitive to the
expectation of boredom. “Bradbridge simply needs a village hall. Lots of other
villages are gathering the funds that they need to build a community meeting
place. One reads of these schemes all of the time in the newspaper. I propose
that we launch a Bradbridge Village Hall Committee. Who would like to join?”
No murmurs of dissent filled
the room, but no hands were raised either. This did not deter Kitty Sparkes.
“Oh, you are all so shy, so
modest!” Her eyes darted about the assembled ladies, several of whom busily
re-tied their shoelaces, sought their gloves or even visibly shrunk in their
seat. “Amelia! You must join as you are on the Parish Council with me. And Mrs
Biggin, surely you and the Reverend Biggin must join. I’m sure that a village
hall would benefit the church enormously. Think of the jumble sales you could
organise!”
“Yes, of course, Mrs
Sparkes.” Mrs Biggin began to think of the best way to break the news to her
husband, who only really minded committees when Mrs Sparkes was on them.
Kitty turned to Maud, who
had still not managed to make an exit while all this was taking place, her
manners would not allow it. “I’m sure that Mr and Mrs Hooper-Dakindale will
begin our appeal fund off with a parting gift to the village...” Maud merely
put her hat on her head and moved her mouth into a gracious smile, a technique
which she had copied from the Duchess of Rutland.
“But of course. I will send a cheque from Eastbourne.”
She neglected to say how
much this would be for.
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