Author Topic: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie  (Read 64713 times)

Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #45 on: July 03, 2011, 03:03:06 PM »
***chapter 33***

***London,  Spring 1955***


Jimmy was never the same man he had once been.  He could never be.

Arthur and Prudence did as much as they could.  Even though Jimmy tired much more easily, he still enjoyed driving and was still the excellent driver he had always been, and so, diplomatically, they suggested he concentrate on short journeys only and they would hire another driver to help out, giving him more time to concentrate on the gardening he loved so much.  And so, with exceptional careful scrutiny, they personally interviewed hundreds of hopefuls for the well-paid post of chauffeur, aware that the new man’s ability to empathise was every bit as important as driving skills and references.  They needed, they explained to Jack Stanford, a cheerful young Cockney fellow with a heart as big as a house, and the successful applicant, someone who would understand that Jimmy was, and always would be, regarded as chief chauffeur even though it would be Jack who undertook the longest periods of driving and Jack who would, during important political occasions, receive telephone calls any time, day or night, requiring him to drive somewhere urgently.

Jimmy still lived rent free in the homely cottage in the grounds and the Maddocks still paid him his regular salary without any deductions to reflect his fewer hours driving although, in truth, he needed very little.  At his suggestion, they tried, in vain, to find some family, a distant cousin, perhaps, or an aunt or uncle he never knew, Jimmy said hopefully; oh, it was just a silly fancy, nothing more than an old man’s whim, he added poignantly, but it would please him know he wasn’t all alone in the world.  But every road they followed led nowhere.   There was no one for Jimmy to call family but the Maddocks themselves.  Their staunch friendship, and his strong Christian faith, were the buffers that kept him from breaking down completely. 

Yet even they, for all their riches, for all the very best consultants, for all the very best medicines, could not stop the ravages of time.  Barely turned sixty-one, Jimmy aged ten years in as many weeks.  His shoulders hunched with the weight of the world, his face greyed with shadows of the past, his sharp blue eyes dimmed with sadness.

One March day, his hair turned snow white overnight, which so shocked Prudence when she saw him next morning that she clasped her hands to her mouth and sprang up from her chair, shaking her head and muttering, almost like an incantation, “But it doesn’t really happen!  But it doesn’t really happen!” as though, if she said it often enough, his hair must surely return to its original brown peppered with flecks of grey and this, in turn, would reverse all that had happened so that the tragedy never was.

“Does he hear us, do you think?”  she asked Arthur in a stage whisper, sitting down again with a thump, such was her sizeable frame nowadays, and, continuing to stare rudely, she slapped some cheese and thinly sliced tomato on a piece of toast, then proceeded to smear marmalade over it, there being no limit to Prudence’s peculiar food preferences these last few months, and Mrs Geraghty, the breakfast cook, having provided the items requested.
 
Jimmy, who stood in the doorway, gave Prudence, who still gawked shamelessly even as she ate, a vague, unseeing glance, but made no attempt to enter the room.  Her husband, with far greater sensitivity, folded the newspaper he’d been perusing and pocketed his reading glasses.

“Jimmy, good morning!  Come, take your usual seat,”  He called jovially, hiding his own distress, and he walked over to place his hand lightly under the other man’s elbow and guided him gently to the table.

(continued in next post due to word count limit)

Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #46 on: July 03, 2011, 03:25:23 PM »
(chapter 33; London, Spring 1955; continued from previous page)

Saturday breakfast with his employers had been Jimmy’s privilege since the War years but, he being uneasy dining in the company of his “betters” unless specially invited, and Arthur and Prudence, being unable to quite shake off the shackles of snobbery, a formal invitation was verbally issued and politely accepted every Friday.

“Though I have to warn you, Margaret, old batttleaxe that she is, is on the warpath again, insisting we follow my wife’s example and drink more cranberry juice,” Arthur added.  “Well, I, for one, can’t drink gallons of it like Prudence does and I feel so rebellious at her badgering that I declare I shan’t EVER touch a drop again!  What’s more, I’ll pour the whole damned jug down the sink in grand ceremony before I’m done!  Are you game, old chap?” 

He winked conspiratorially and was rewarded with a small smile. 

Lord and Lady Maddocks were actually quite fond of Margaret Geraghty, and Arthur had no intention of carrying out his threat.  But, at a loss how to be with his friend at such times when he seemed to retreat within himself, he would often take refuge in humour.

Jimmy, for his part, tried to reassure Arthur and Prudence that it was simply no more than that he would slip into some happy moment from the past and, the memory being so pleasant, “spend longer there than he meant to.”  The doctors agreed.  The result of extensive tests, they declared to the worried Maddocks, was that they could safely say his mind was as sound as it had ever been.

Reluctantly, he shook himself out of his reverie, and, sitting down as bidden, calmly buttered some toast and joked to his dining companions that he might grow a beard to match his hair and double for Santa this Christmas.

Prudence exchanged a puzzled glance with her husband, absently rubbing her nose, which had been so badly disfigured in the riding accident.  She was still extremely sensitive about the deformity and, even now, many years later, could not bear to look in a mirror or see a photograph of herself without feeling an overwhelming surge of anger towards Magic.  Nor had time dimmed her hatred of horses; if anything, it made it stronger.  A more nasal tone, that grated on her own nerves, had crept into her voice as she aged, which further added to her resentment.  Why, she sounded like the common working class, she had sobbed heartbrokenly on Arthur’s shoulder, and could scarcely be consoled. 

Jimmy however was made of sterner stuff.  He had gasped in disbelief when he first saw his own reflection that morning, but, with the same resilience that he’d had to find at a poverty-stricken, half-starved very young age, he quickly reached the conclusion “what can’t be cured must be endured” and if God wanted him to have white hair, then white hair he would have, and there was an end to it.   And while, momentarily, the sight had upset him, for even the least vain among us must dread the onset of old age, he was far more concerned about his employers’ feelings than his own.  Lord and Lady Maddocks, he reasoned, born into golden lifestyles as they were, had never had to face adversity and so must always be shielded from it.  Touchingly, he was as anxious to protect his vastly wealthy employers as they were to protect their humble chauffeur.

Baffled by his stoicism, convinced nobody could simply accept what, had it happened to herself, would have been a major tragedy, and, despite what the doctors claimed, his mind must surely be gone, Prudence heaved herself up from her chair and waddled over.

“There, there, there,” she soothed, patting Jimmy’s hand as if he were a simpleton. “There, there, there.”

Arthur winced at the patronizing tone, but even he wiped the corner of his eye with his knuckle, blew his nose noisily and muttered huskily about “this confounded cold.”

It was so sad to see Jimmy come to this, he thought sadly, recalling the bitterly cold January day and the snowflakes whirling furiously around Follyfoot Farm, when a proud man in thin, ragged clothes had come to beg for work.  About to set off for a brisk winter’s ride, they could so easily have passed him by but for a chance remark.  Thank whatever gods there were that they hadn’t.  Despite the tragedies that had blighted his own life, he had been their rock, their mainstay, a quiet influence on all their staff, a trusted friend, who had even helped the British government during the War by ensuring top secret files and documents were safely delivered.  Arthur didn’t think Jimmy would ever be so capable again.

But Jimmy was still sharp as a tack, as they were very soon to discover, and  they would rely on him once more, when their whole world changed, when London was covered in a blanket of white, when the rain turned to ice and the snow fell…




Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #47 on: July 16, 2011, 01:08:49 PM »
***chapter 34***

***London, 17 May 1955***  ;)

They referred to him as The Old Man at Hepplethwaite Riding Stables.  Not without reverence.  There was a quiet, grandfatherly air about the man with the thatch of snow white hair, something deep within his blue eyes that inspired trust. 

The Old Man first visited one sunny but bitterly cold day, when frost sparkled on the grass like diamonds, and droplets of sleet dripped slowly down through the trees, as if they were comparing the heavy snowfalls of the previous month with the sunshine of today and mulling over the vagaries of winter.  He came often afterwards though he spoke little about himself. 

My father told me when I was very small and timid of a big dog that those who learn to love animals learn to be at one with every living creature.  At such a tender age I barely understood, and yet I sensed something magical happen as I clung to my father’s reassuring hand and tentatively patted the elderly Labrador, who immediately returned the greeting with a large, friendly lick. 

Those who worked at Hepplethwaite’s never questioned The Old Man.  It made them smile to see how, from the very first, tails swishing, ears pinned back, their charges whinnied with joy whenever they saw him as though they had known him forever. 

The horses liked him and that was testimony enough. 

**********

One afternoon on his way back from the stables, Jimmy was surprised by young Jack Stanford coming to meet him on the narrow road.  Motorways were still a handful of few years in the future and roads in the capital then were not as thick with traffic as they are today so only one or two cars passed leisurely by the grass verge that pedestrains could, and often did, stroll along.  He had only had to walk a few miles to reach Hepplethwaite’s, for even in a congested city like London, smoke and fumes could quickly be left far behind and give way to vast expanses of greenery.

“Wotcher, Jim!” Jack drew the Rolls to a smooth halt and pulled down the car window to yell through it. 

He knew of his colleague’s love of animals and of his visits to the nearby riding stables.  Jimmy had taken him into his confidence some time ago, explaining how Prudence hatred of horses had come about, and how greatly he missed the old days of Follyfoot Farm.  Jimmy had asked the Maddocks whether he could keep a dog or a cat in the cottage, but, while Arthur may have eventually been swayed, Prudence fell into a near swoon at the request, although she later conceded a parrot or budgie might just about be acceptable.  But Jimmy believed no bird should ever be caged and so the cottage remained occupied only by himself.

“’Op in, quick!” Jack invited urgently, throwing the car door wide open.  “I’ve been sent specially to fetch  yer.  There’s  a right bleedin’ two ‘n’ eight at the ’Ouse and they need yer there at once!” 

“Is it Lord or Lady Maddocks who’s ill?  How bad is it?  Can anything be done?”

Jimmy sat down, small flakes of snow flying inside with him, and falling off his clothes and boots.  His mind raced with scenarios, from Arthur or Prudence or both being at death’s door, to the house burning down, to the Maddocks losing all of their vast fortune on stocks and shares and being left penniless. 

“For pity’s sake, Jack, drive as fast as the law will allow.  They’ve been very good to me and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”   And he looked askance at his companion, wondering why they had not sped off immediately.

(continued in next post due to word count limit)

Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #48 on: July 16, 2011, 01:14:34 PM »
(chapter 34; London, 17 May 1955/
continued from previous post)


“Steady on, mate,” Jack said calmly.  “I’m not at liberty to say what’s goin’ on seein’ as ’ow the gaffer wants to tell yer ‘imself.  But I can promise yer, it ain’t bad news.”

Jimmy heaved a huge sigh of relief and sank back in the car seat.  “Thanks be to God!  But what HAS happened?”

A broad grin spread across Jack’s genial face and his eyes flashed with sudden mischief.  “Can’t tell yer more than that, me ole china, but what I CAN tell yer is, it AIN’T a puppy or kitten or even a flamin’ foal, that’s for bloody sure!”  He winked, tapped the side of his nose and revved up the engine.

Jimmy, having no choice but to contain his curiosity, sat in baffled silence, watching the snowflakes flutter lightly down from the sky and sinking into a carpet of thick white snow, for the whole of London had been covered that morning by the unseasonal weather in the middle of May.  He had been woken last night by a commotion outside and had glanced out of the cottage window just in time to catch a very fleeting glimpse of Jack driving the Maddocks off somewhere.  Assuming it was some political event, he had very quickly gone back to sleep.  Tuesday was now his official day off and after a leisurely breakfast and tending to the flowers and vegetables he grew in his own little garden, he had gone for a brisk walk to Hepplethwaite’s and not called at the House at all that day.  Perhaps, he guessed, trying to make sense of Jack’s mysterious speech, Arthur had finally persuaded his wife to keep horses again.  Not a foal, Jack had hinted, so perhaps…

But the sudden wailing, screaming and sobbing that assailed their ears as they approached the Maddocks residence sent shivers of alarm down his spine.

“Oy!”  Jack said, clapping a hand on the older man’s shoulder as Jimmy made to jump swiftly out of his seat.  “Good news!  Remember?”

Jimmy nodded, his heart in his mouth, and hurried on to the living quarters.

Calling out a loud but uncertain “Mr Maddocks, sir?” he rapped on the door to the parlour and Arthur opened it so swiftly he must surely have been standing directly behind.

The sight that met Jimmy’s eyes was so surreal that for a moment he wondered if he’d been transported into some parallel universe, as often happened in the sci-fi paperbacks that Jack had lately introduced him to.

“But I DON’T KNOW what to do with her!”  Prudence was protesting.

She stood in the middle of the room, holding at arm’s length, although she had, at least, the sense to clasp the child’s head, a tiny, wrinkled, red-faced, screaming baby, who was clad in a pretty lilac bodysuit and struggling desperately to break free.

“In Heaven’s name, Prudence, surely a mother…a mother’s instincts and all that…” 

Arthur, keeping a safe distance from this pocket-sized, unpredictable human being, mopped the beads of sweat on his forehead with a large cotton handkerchief, looked imploringly at Jimmy, and downed another large gulp of whiskey…






Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #49 on: August 01, 2011, 10:47:12 AM »
Day off today so thought I'd post a short chapter. :)

***chapter 35***

***A New Arrival***

Prudence gave a squeal of horror as the bawling infant suddenly kicked so fiercely that she almost slipped from her grasp and could so easily have joined the  baby shawl that already lay crumpled on the carpet.  The alarming possibility of an accident snapped Jimmy out of his daze.  Wondering afterwards wherever he found it in him to be so bold, he strode purposefully to the centre of the room and held out his arms.

“Give her to me, please, ma’am,” he demanded firmly.

Only too willing to hand over the responsibility, Prudence deposited the child without hesitation, sighing a sigh of pure relief as she poured herself a glass of wine from the bottle set in the ice bucket.  (Presumably the couple had intended to wet the baby’s head in low-key fashion, but it seemed the cause of the celebration had had other ideas about the celebrations, low-key or otherwise.)

The tiny bundle nestled safely in the crook of his arm, Jimmy stooped to retrieve the shawl, wrapped it around her and sank into an armchair near the hearth, the first time he’d ever made himself at home in the Maddocks parlour without being invited to sit down.  But so many things were different today.  The small tears that streamed down the baby’s face and her frantic wails tore his heart asunder.  Even the normal deference he kept towards Lord and Lady Maddocks as their “being of a higher class” flew from his mind.  The poor, poor little mite!  Whoever she was, whoever she belonged to, however the Maddocks had come by her, what a cruel, cruel welcome into the world! 

“Shhh, shhh,” he hushed, emotion swelling up inside him, as he remembered rocking his own children, Peggy and Johnjo, to sleep, and, much later, his granddaughter Susie.  All gone now.  All.  Nothing left to say they ever were, but faded photographs and dusty memories.

“Shhh,” he soothed again, and then, in a gentle voice barely more than a whisper:   “It’s alright.  It’s alright.  We have each other.”  Why he said this, he did not know.

The child was calming now, warm and secure, her cries become exhausted whimpers.  Firelight shadows flickered on the walls and through the large French windows, although it was mid-May and they had no business being there in the pale yellow sunshine of spring, feathery snowflakes, almost silver in the sunlight, danced and swirled.  It reminded him of a game Susie invented one winter’s evening, when Peggy and his son-in-law Tom had been invited to a “do” at friends’ house nearby and had asked Jimmy to babysit. 

His little granddaughter was finally drifting asleep.  He closed the fairytale book he’d been reading to her, clicked off the light and made to draw the curtains when, in that breathless night, the snow began to fall quietly, timidly at first, and then, as though making up its mind, tumbling down in a flurry of white, quickly blanketing the roofs and chimneys of the little Yorkshire town of Ashtree and the distant fields beyond.  The sight was so beautiful that that he stood there for a while watching, glad he had no need to venture outdoors.  The Maddocks had hired a temporary chauffeur for the weekend  and a bed had been made up for Jimmy in the cosy spare room.  He was looking forward to later snuggling under the covers with a cuppa and listening to the supposedly-true spooky tales on the wireless.
 
“Grandad!  GRANDAD, it’s SNOWWW-INGGG!”  Susie announced.  “Can I build a snowman?” 

 He was sure he hadn’t made a sound, but some noise must have disturbed the little girl, for she was wide awake.

“Tomorrow.  Bairns can’t be playing out at this hour.  Come on, pet, settle down.”  Jimmy tucked the blankets around her again, wondering how on earth he was going to persuade her to sleep now.

But Susie unintentionally put herself to sleep.

“It’s like floating,” she said excitedly, as he sat down with her, realising too late that he hadn’t fully closed the curtains so the lamplight still shone through and gave a theatre-like quality to the winter show.  She sat up in bed, clutching her grandfather’s arm and rested her head against him, aware he was putty in her hands.  “Grandad, let’s play we’re going up in the sky, let’s play we can float higher and higher and higher and higher…” 

And, as they gazed together, till Susie’s eyes closed in sleep, at the silently hypnotic flakes fluttering down, just as they did now through the French windows of the Maddocks firelit parlour, it really did seem as if another world far away, where dreams were spun on golden threads, would carry them home…


Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #50 on: August 14, 2011, 03:10:30 PM »
***chapter 36***

***Family Matters***

“Apologies, my good chap,” Arthur’s voice sliced into Jimmy's tender memories of yesteryear. “We wanted you, being such a dear friend, to be the very first to know.  Unfortunately, in your absence, it was necessary to take a few others into our confidence - Margaret Geraghty, and our regular contacts at Harrods, and of course Jack drove us to the hospital when Prudence was so suddenly taken ill…”

“Such a shock,” Prudence interjected.  “Such a terrible, terrible shock.  To think, only this time yesterday I little dreamed…”  She shook her head and Arthur squeezed her hand reassuringly.

They sat together on the sofa, Prudence, unusually pale, sniffing delicately and dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief, and Arthur drinking his whiskey with unusually pensive demeanour.

“My wife refused to stay in hospital,” he added, as though everything made perfect sense.  “Press and everything, you know.  There are only a handful of people who know of this…this dreadful state of affairs.”

“But…but who does the child belong to?”  Jimmy queried, bewildered.

“To whom does she belong?”  Arthur corrected pedantically.  “Why, Prudence and I, of course.  Quite a shock, old sport, quite a bally awful shock to discover you’re going to be parents only five hours before a birth!”

Jimmy, wondering once more if he really had stumbled into a different realm, jumped at the startling revelation, and the baby, asleep now that she felt more secure, whimpered briefly at the jolt. 

Bit by bit, the broken pieces of the jigsaw locked together. 

Prudence had been seized with agonizing stomach pains the previous night, Arthur continued, as he poured Jimmy a tumbler of whiskey.  Not wishing to attract the attention of reporters if an ambulance were to be seen arriving at, or departing from, the grand residence of Lord and Lady Maddocks, they had instead telephoned Jack to drive them to an exclusive private hospital just a few miles away.  It was here that an obstetrician told the astonished couple the incredible news that Prudence was not only pregnant but about to give birth!  And, five hours later, in the early hours of the following morning, as the snow fell over London, a healthy baby girl weighing 61b 4oz had been born. 

The doctors wanted to keep Prudence and her daughter in hospital for at least another week, Lady Maddocks being not only a first-time mother but a mature and menopausal one at that.  But Prudence had no intention of staying in hospital for another day, let alone another week, and the Maddocks’ huge wealth and high political importance meant they had never done anything they didn’t wish to.  It was arranged for the parents to take their newborn home and for Prudence to receive daily visits from the midwife, who, like all the medical staff involved, had been sworn to secrecy about the birth until such time as Lord and Lady Maddocks chose to make a statement to the press. Should the news be leaked beforehand, they warned the small pool of people in the know, then they would immediately lose their lucrative posts.

“And what are…what are your plans for the future, sir, ma’am?”  Jimmy asked, feeling he sounded like a prospective father-in-law. 

He knew that Prudence and Arthur disliked children and he wondered, but fervently hoped not because he already felt mightily attached to the poor, unloved little mite, if they would put their daughter up for adoption or perhaps have her brought up by one of Arthur’s married brothers (Prudence being an only child) and pass her off as a niece.

“Well, Margaret’s already fed and changed her twice,” Prudence replied, misunderstanding, and not seeing as far into the future as Jimmy was.  “To think, they actually expected ME to learn how to change nappies at the hospital!” (she shuddered at the memory.)  “It was so fortunate Margaret was on hand when we came home though, goodness, she never expected to be preparing bottle feeds instead of breakfast!  We haven’t hired a nurse yet and dear Margaret, being a grandmother of three and quite used to the things, has agreed to take on that role until we have time to explore the avenue further.  And we’ve ordered the nursery furniture, which is being assembled even as we speak, the gentlemen from Harrods having assured us of total discretion.  As you can see, Jimmy, we are quite the doting mother and father!” 

She and Arthur exchanged smiles and clinked glasses, inordinately proud of themselves, blissfully unaware that they had yet to show an inkling of affection towards their daughter, let alone dote on her...

Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #51 on: August 26, 2011, 10:38:23 PM »
Just a short (and far too wooden :() filler chapter.  Thankfully, the chapter I'm working on at the moment has much more flow!  :)

***chapter 37***

***Plans***

“And you intend to…um…bring her up yourselves?” Jimmy tactfully rephrased the question.

Arthur looked shocked.  “But of course, my dear fellow!  Can you imagine the scandal if we didn’t?  The damage it would do to our political reputations?” 

Jimmy swallowed the lump that rose in his throat.  It was the answer, but not the reason, he wanted to hear. 

“We shall, over the next day or so, through our press secretary Finlay Patterson, grant an exclusive interview with the BBC and arrange for official photo shoots.  We certainly need to have the child better better dressed for the occasion.” Arthur frowned, recollecting the hasty purchase of baby clothes that had led to them accumulating, among other things, the lilac sleep suit.

The infant began to stir and whimper anew and Prudence, hitherto relaxing with another glass of chilled white wine, stiffened in alarm. 

“Oh!  Oh!  Is it waking up?  Don’t pass it back, please, I couldn’t possibly bear any more of that dreadful kicking!” She waved a hand as though to fend her off.
 
And perhaps it was hormonal, Prudence being so new a mother, but she fell into her husband’s arms and sobbed like a child herself.

“Could you sort it please, Jimmy, there’s a good fellow?”  Arthur asked, patting his wife’s back.  “Is the creature being sick?  I believe that’s quite common with babies, as well as their constantly wetting or soiling nappies, and then there’s being too hot or too cold.”

“Nowt to fret about, sir.  She’s grand.  Probably just hungry.”  Jimmy smiled at Lord Maddocks’ assumption he knew all about fatherhood after being a father for less than twenty-four hours.  “Have you a name for the bairn yet?  Only I was wondering…” 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.  He took the bull by the horns and plunged headlong into a subject dear to his heart. 

“I know she’ll have several names, important people always do, but if you could maybe see your way to including Dora as one?  Rose and me, we’d planned to have another babby, though it never was to be, and if it was a girl we said we’d call her Dora.  It means gift and I thought the bairn being a gift from God and all…” 

He paused, hoping he hadn’t spoken out of turn and overstepped the mark.  The Maddocks might regard him as a good friend nowadays, but they were still his employers.

“But, Heavens, Dora is PERFECT as a FIRST name!”  Prudence, now that it was established she needn’t take the baby back, seemed to recover rapidly from her recent trauma.  Her cheeks were pink from alcohol, and, having quickly drained her second glass of wine, she downed a third and enthusiastically began on the fourth that Arthur had just poured.  “Dora was my grandmother’s name and the name of Arthur’s mother too.  It’s long been a traditional name in both our families.”

“The name Dora has a long, illustrious history,” Arthur agreed.

“Quite.  A long, ill-lush-ill-lush, ill-lush…”  Prudence giggled, unable to finish the sentence.  “Arthur, I do…hic…declare, this unassuming wine has…hic…gone to my head.”

“Vintage wine, my love, vintage. Only the very best is good enough for my darling wife.  We are, after all, the proud parents.”  The several glasses of whiskey he had enjoyed since they brought their child home took its toll on Arthur now, for he slurred his words and, like Prudence, seemed incapable of sitting upright. 

As a new bottle of wine was being uncorked and the top of a new bottle of whiskey unscrewed, they readily agreed to Jimmy’s suggestion that he take Dora to Mrs Geraghty for a feed.  And, animated by drink, freed from their responsibilities, the proud parents fell into discussion (which, to judge by their frequent gales of laughter, must have been highly amusing) about the unseasonal snow, the clock on the mantelshelf, the prime minister, the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, what colour Prudence should have for a new coat, of “ships and shoes and sealing wax”, of everything except their baby daughter…

Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #52 on: September 02, 2011, 10:16:04 PM »
***Chapter 38***

***1960***

They were inseparable, The Old Man and the little girl.  Old Jim, they called him now.  The stable folk had long ago learnt that his name was Jimmy but they always called him Jim.  It seemed to give a dignity somehow to one so much older than they, for the staff at Hepplethwaite’s Riding Stables were generally very young.

His constant companion nowadays, Dora, a little girl with hazel eyes full of dreams, and brown hair like autumn, glinting as it did with red, gold and chestnut when caught by sunlight, was a natural with the horses although she was never allowed to ride.  It was “her parents’ strictest instructions in case she ever hurt herself”, Old Jim explained sadly, and when it seemed, as if often did, that Dora was about to throw a tantrum because of her “parents’ strictest instructions” Old Jim only had to quell her with a look.

“They only want what’s best for you, Daz,” he reminded her.  “And remember the Ten Commandments, The Lord tells us Honour thy Father and thy Mother.” 

And Daz, as he nicknamed her, would gracefully swallow her disappointment, not because she thought her parents knew best, nor even because she thought The Lord knew best, oh, no, but simply because she adored Old Jim and thought he knew best.
 
Dora was a funny little soul.  Like many other small girls, she dreamed of being a princess but, unlike other small girls, her dream was not to meet a handsome rich prince and live happily ever after. 

“When I grow up, I’m going to marry a very poor prince and we’ll keep lots of horses in the very poor palace,” she confided gravely one day to Paul, one of the stable hands, to his great amusement though, to his credit, he managed to keep a straight face. 

At Hepplethwaite’s, nobody knew quite what to make of the pretty little miss with the cut-glass accent and refined manners, who could whisper to the horses and have them understand, who wore the most expensive outfits, yet wished enviously that she could “wear hand-me-downs and be like Lucy” (twelve-year-old Lucy came from a large, desperately poor family and earned her weekly riding lessons by mucking out and running regular errands) and who, despite her obvious wealth, at only five years old, already abhorred the trappings of wealth.  Old Jim, with his Yorkshire brogue, weatherbeaten face and rough hands, was from working class stock like themselves, but Dora remained an enigma. 

And so, as people will when the full facts are unknown to them, they created their own story, and, as people do, came to believe it to be the true version of events.  Because she called him by his first name, they decided Old Jim, who had once mentioned being a widower, must have married someone who already had a grown-up family and the youngster must be the granddaughter, perhaps even great-granddaughter, of his late wife.  One of the step-children or their offspring had done very well for themselves too, they further embellished their wonderfully imaginative tale, and wanted Dora to have the very best of education and opportunities that poverty had denied them.
 
Dora would have been a great disappointment to her nouveau rich parents, however, for her aspirations were alarmingly low.  When asked the age-old question what she wanted to be or do when she grew up, besides being a very poor princess, she inevitably answered cleaner or housekeeper or maid or simply to “drive a car”.

Yorkshire colloquiallisms and London slang words, sounding so out of place among her carefully enunciated vowels, slipped easily into her childish chatter although, whenever they did, she would clap her hand over her mouth in sudden realisation and exclaim, eyes dancing with delighted mischief, “Mummy and Daddy say I must NEVER talk so - oh, but it’s much more fun!” 

Then she would smile a huge smile at Old Jim, a smile that grew broader and broader and spilled over into giggles the more he shook his head in stern disapproval until, in the end, he couldn’t help but smile himself. 

But at other times her laughter would give way instead to a heartfelt sigh and she would catch hold of his hand and say wistfully, “But, Jimmy, it feels REAL to talk this way.  I wish I always could.”

Jimmy never went riding again, not in all the time he regularly called to Hepplethwaite’s.  At first, it had been because it seemed disloyal to Beauty’s memory but, a little later, and just when he was considering whether or not he should, he returned home one day to be greeted by the surreal sight of an extremely anxious Prudence and Arthur, the pair almost running down the driveway towards him, Arthur holding on to his hat, and Prudence trying to give the appearance that she was in no hurry whatsoever and just happened to be waddling at an unusually fast pace. 

It had been back in the very early days of his visits some four or five years ago when, out on a brisk walk, his solitary footsteps crunched into the pure white snow had led him to a glorious winter scene.

A beautiful bay horse, cosily clad in warm, striped hand-woven blanket, stared curiously out at him for a moment from the comfort of its stable, the blue-grey fog of its breath rising on the icy air, and then whinnied a cheerful greeting to the stranger…

Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #53 on: September 15, 2011, 06:47:02 PM »
Long update, meandering ::) update, hope you like it.  :) Going on a short holiday early tomorrow.  :)


***chapter 39***

***Companions***


Jimmy would never forget that first magical glimpse of Hepplethwaite’s.  The sadness that had weighed him down ever since the tragedy fell away like the shedding of a heavy cloak.  He had always loved animals, but the Maddocks were adamant none would ever be kept on their vast London estate.  Prudence, who had never been particularly fond of them to begin with, still unfairly blamed Magic for the accident that disfigured her nose and, illogically, held every dumb creature, horse or otherwise, personally responsible for everything wrong with the world. 

Being swept up in the demands of his job as chauffeur, ferrying his employers to and fro all hours day and night, Jimmy had given little thought to how greatly he missed Whistledown and Follyfoot.  It was only since Jack Stanford had been hired as assistant chauffeur that he had had time again to resume his enjoyment of long country walks. 

London wasn’t, and never could be, where his heart truly lay, with the quiet villages that dotted the old brown earth and green rolling hills of Yorkshire, but even here gems of nature could still be found.  In the 1950s its long Roman roads, along which soldiers had marched and chariot wheels trundled, were not enough for the growing number of cars and more and more transport links were being built.  A great many years ago, unsullied by exhaust fumes and belching smoke of factories, perhaps here had been some medieval farm where a chattering stream sparkled in the sun, or there some iron age settlement where offerings were made to gods and horses roamed wild and free, but the land was often nothing more now than a tangled mass of trees and stagnant waters. 

Yet it had been on one such walk that Jimmy had happily stumbled on Hepplethwaite’s several miles away.  And, as always, from passing the time of day at the riding stables, making small talk with staff and riders, although, mindful of the Maddocks’ high political importance and fabulous wealth, he never revealed much about himself, he returned home, lighter of heart.

Lord and Lady Maddocks however had been frantic.  Arthur had happened to tap on the cottage door to present Jimmy with a rare plant that had been given him by a visiting diplomat, and, receiving no answer, began asking if anyone knew where he was.  When he discovered nobody had seen him since he left early that morning in swirling snow, he and Prudence were convinced he’d slipped and broken his leg or stepped unwittingly on a glacial pond and fallen through or frozen to death in the middle of nowhere (the scenarios worsened with each passing minute) and they were just about to phone the police when young Jack Stanford returned, whistling happily. 

Jack, who was the only one Jimmy had told about Hepplethwaite’s, had been enjoying the rare treat of being “on call” but not required urgently and had spent a pleasant day with his girlfriend, rekindling the embers of what had seemed to be a dying romance.  Fresh from his lover’s arms, blissfully unaware of the lipstick smudge on his neck and congratulating himself on always keeping a packet of condoms in his pocket in case he “got lucky”, he smiled broadly and smoothed back his hair, a man of the world.  Jimmy would be back in no time, Jack predicted confidently, adding that his friend had been loath to tell Lord and Lady Maddocks about his visits for fear of upsetting them as he knew they both disliked horses.

Almost as if he’d just read an instruction to “enter stage left” Jimmy did indeed come through the gates at that very moment, warm winter scarf half masking his face, coat flying in the wind, flat cap pulled down low over his forehead, his boots leaving a trail of ridged footprints pressed into the icy blanket of white.  Deep in thought, watching out for slippy patches, he was astonished when Lord and Lady Maddocks hurried towards him as fast as the treacherous snow underfoot would allow.  Thanking Jack for his help and informing him he may take tomorrow off too, the predicted blizzard conditions making it too dangerous to drive, they linked Jimmy at either side.  Arthur brushed away from his eye a hasty tear or two that had nothing to do with the bitter weather (although he would have you believe otherwise) and Prudence was, to Jimmy’s bafflement, talking rapidly about an alarmingly long list of possible winter accidents.  There and then, albeit with the very best of intentions, they made their friend promise that if he must go and see horses (Prudence shuddered at the very notion) he would at least never ride them.

“I couldn’t bear it if a similar misfortune were to befall you,” she declared, rubbing her much hated nose and sounding as though she had a very bad cold, her thickening nasal tones another legacy of the day Magic threw her whilst trying to avoid the swerving car and drunken pedestrian.

“Or worse,”  Arthur remarked.

Prudence squealed dramatically.  “Darling!  Don’t!  We should be thankful the brutes didn’t have a chance to harm him.  Jimmy, we must retire to the drawing room and toast your safe return.”

It was in vain that Jimmy tried to explain the “brutes” were actually gentle giants who would give much love if only they were allowed to.  It always was.  Whenever he left for Hepplethwaite’s, they urged him to “take great care” and fretted until his return.

(continued on next page)

Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #54 on: September 15, 2011, 06:55:16 PM »
(continued from previous page)

Chapter 39/Companions (continued)

Of course, as soon as she could walk and talk, Dora wanted to go with him but this was hardly surprising.  Prudence and Arthur gave their only child everything money could buy, but as love and attention cost nothing they were at a loss to know which store they could purchase these priceless items from and, stocks being in very short supply, the little girl latched on to the one person who gave her both in abundance. 

It was quite usual to see Dora, chatting excitedly as she clutched Jimmy’s hand, on the way to his cottage where she had her own plot in the garden; or “helping” Ada bake, standing on a stool and covered in flour up to her elbows, while Jimmy, enjoying a cuppa and catching up on kitchen gossip, ensured she didn’t topple the mixing bowl; or, strapped in her car seat, wearing her own pretend chauffeur hat and pretend chauffeur badge that Jimmy had made (and which she would have worn to bed if she only could) as they set off to fill up with petrol or to light a candle at his church. 

The household had changed a good deal since Dora’s arrival.  Prudence’s great friend Daphne, having time to kill as she waited for a large divorce settlement from her ex-husband, the Duke of Hunterwood**, had been hired as Nurse, and, as wealth and titles impressed Lord and Lady Maddocks more than experience and qualifications, this arrangement suited everyone except Dora.  The Duchess, who found small children somewhat irritating, almost daily handed her charge over to Jimmy the moment she was washed, dressed and breakfasted (usually by one of the other house staff) and then went off to shop, wine or dine or to discuss complicated divorce matters with her lawyers.  The various snobbish tutors employed to educate the privileged child were scandalized that said privileged child “hobnobbed with the under classes”.  But Lord and Lady Maddocks  (and Daphne) were only too delighted to hand over responsibility and Jimmy and Dora were quite happy with the status quo.

Arthur and Prudence were at first extremely reluctant to allow their daughter to visit a riding stables, but they had told Jimmy they would consider the request.

“She is very fond of horses.”  Arthur, sitting up in bed, lay down his book and sighed.  Affairs of the state were much easier to attend to than children.  “And Jimmy thinks it would be good for her to spend some time with animals.”

 “Dora is given an expensive new toy every week yet one would think the child never owned any!  Those dreadful chipped wooden horses go with her everywhere.” 

Prudence, sitting at the dressing table, applying face cream and frowning at her nose, had, like her husband, either forgotten or was genuinely unaware that the figures were Beauty and Magic, and carved by Davey.  (I like to think that, had they known, a later incident might never have occurred.) 

At last, they reached a compromise.  Dora was permitted to go to Hepplethwaite’s every Tuesday provided she NEVER rode a horse for fear of accidents and that nobody ever learnt her true identity or connections.
 
Still, the Maddocks need not have worried about ransom demands or political dishonour or whatever it was that troubled them.  There was very little curiosity about Dora and Old Jim at Hepplethwaite’s.  The young people who worked there, being young, were far more interested in dating, dancing, music and fashion than exactly who their visitors were.  They simply accepted Old Jim and Dora.  Perhaps, as my father told me long ago, those who share a love of animals always do.

Oh, but then another thought strikes me!  Hepplethwaite’s HAD come to be in a very strange manner.  A very strange manner indeed and I wonder if...

No.  I’ve done enough talking for now.  I shall tell you all about it in the next chapter.

**Hunterwood is a fictitious area and the Duke and Duchess fictitious characters - just in case anyone thought otherwise!!!  :D  ;) ;D



Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #55 on: September 29, 2011, 09:31:11 PM »
***chapter 40***

***Hepplethwaite’s***

“Horses.  A riding stables.” 

Aged twenty-eight Gwendolyn Hepplethwaite, heiress to the famous (and many say cursed) Hepplethwaite fortune, had been considered a dramatic beauty, slim and pale, with raven hair, dark, soulful eyes and an appealing, almost ethereal, vulnerability.  Aged eighty-eight, bony, wrinkled and ravaged by time, white-haired and wild-eyed, she dictated plans to her solicitor in the same way she chose to communicate with everyone nowadays:  through a microphone, attached to unbreakable glass, in one bare room of her luxurious mansion.

Because of the need to eradicate germs, and as per her instructions, each and every room of said luxurious mansion was daily swept, scrubbed and disinfected until it shone as blindingly as the core of the sun.  And because people will often dance to the tune of money, if enough of it is paid, even though the well-being of the giver would be far better served other than pampering unquestioningly to their whim.

And so, as she wished to, and not because she should, Gwendolyn lived all alone in her self-imposed prison, just as she had done for a decade or more, when her deteriorating mental health finally crumbled.

Now Miss Hepplethwaite had been shocked to read about teddy boys in the national newspapers and was heard to mutter as she agitatedly paced the bare floorboards (Gwendolyn believed carpets and rugs to be riddled with insects) “Whatever will become of the world?” 

That she was even remotely concerned for the world came as a great surprise to everyone, as, in addition to human beings, televisions (radiation) wirelesses (gamma rays) and telephones (bacteria) were all banned from her imperious presence.

Newspapers however had always been the exception.  Every morning, at 9 o’clock precisely, and ironed neatly, they were delivered through a small hatch by a white-gloved butler.  At 9.03 am precisely Miss Hepplethwaite would sit on a bubble-wrapped chair (germs) wearing a surgical mask (polluted air) and disposable gloves (possibility of human contact) and peruse current affairs.  National Service, read she anxiously, was not enough to tame wild youth that was apparently running amok in 1950s Britain. 

It seemed working class people in their teens and twenties had more free time and more money than any previous generation.  And what did they do with their new-found freedom and wealth?  Did they, like the pious Gwendolyn, build churches and temples and pump cash into various religions?  (Gwendolyn thought it wise to hedge her bets and contributed to all major ones no matter which god(s) they worshipped or laws they abided by, thus, she reasoned, securing eternal happiness should there prove to be an afterlife.) Oh, dear, no!  They had instead set about creating their own music and fashion, and, according to the more sensational of the broadsheets, these terrible delinquents had even added to their heathen culture with drugs, drunkenness, wanton destruction, and, most worrying of all, a complete lack of regard for their wealthy betters.

Miss Hepplethwaite first tutted in disgust and then became more and more alarmed.  What if the young savages, á la the Storming of the Bastille, pushed their way past her security guards and house staff, perhaps even killing them, and into her home?  Who would protect poor Gwendolyn then?  What if they breathed in her air space or coughed or sneezed in it or, worst of all, touched her?  Whatever would she do? 

And then a certain news item in one of the more serious papers, known for its lofty and lengthy style of journalism, captured her attention.

Drumgold Building Set Ablaze

Follyfoot Farm, Yorkshire, designed early in his career by renowned architect William Drumgold, has been struck by lightning for the second time in its history.  Built in 1668, Follyfoot was primarily known for the sale and hire of horses, in its heyday attracting thousands of visitors from across the globe, but trade fell into sharp decline with the advent of the motor car and it has remained unused for several years. 

Born in York, Drumgold spent the latter part of his life in London, where, around 1700, he was consulted by the Duke of Buckingham over the building of “a new townhouse”.  This would later form the core of today’s Buckingham Palace.  A philanthropist, he believed the problems of crime and drunkenness that often blighted communities could be avoided by investing time and money in the future of the young.  Almost bankrupting himself in the process, he established what could be seen as a forerunner to the ragged schools, where, in addition to a basic education, destitute boys could learn skills such as carpentry, shoe-making and tailoring while girls, rather quaintly, were taught “keeping a good home for gentlefolk”.  The breathtakingly beautiful Drumgold Chambers, situated in Covent Garden, is now converted into some dozen shops, including a milk bar where our modern day teens can meet and listen to the juke box or play pinball, but the eighteenth century motto  “the devil finds work for idle hands to do” can still be seen carved above its ornate arched entrance.

Follyfoot’s first fire in the 1930s burnt down much of its stable block, but, fortunately, the latest blaze is not thought to be as severe.  Mr Finlay Patterson, acting on behalf of its current owner, Lord Arthur Maddocks, yesterday confirmed that the damage, to the east wing of the manor house, was minimal.  He paid tribute to staff and patrons of The Three Bells public house in nearby Whistedown, who saw smoke and raised the alarm, adding that their quick action averted what could have been a major disaster.

Repairs are expected to be completed by the end of the month.

Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #56 on: October 14, 2011, 02:54:39 PM »
***Chapter 41***

***Gwendolyn***

Gwendolyn knew next to nothing about horses.  That they lived in stables, neighed, chewed grass, and that people sometimes rode them could justifiably be claimed to be the sum total of her knowledge.  But that report, shamelessly using a minor fire as an excuse to write a short biography of architect William Drumgold, was to change everything.

The elderly and cantankerous heiress’s mundane existence was broken only by sacking staff for any perceived slight and by terrorizing herself in speculating what germs may lurk beneath the most innocent of household objects.  And her childhood was so very long ago that she could barely remember being a child at all.  But, deep within her psyche, lay her very first memory. 

There was someone with her  - mother?  father?  governess?  servant? - she couldn’t recollect who her companion had been now, though she remembered…

…A thrill runs through her as they feed the horse, and colours shining Technicolor bright, clouds silver-grey, the grass and trees a rich, rich green…a breeze sweeping impatiently by, lifting her hair, fluttering the horse’s mane, shivering through trees…quiet raindrops starting to fall, gaining strength, glistening on the beautiful animal’s coat, trickling through branches, cold on Gwendolyn’s shoulders…

Years pass by, faster than the wind, faster than thought, faster than the timeless rolling of the ocean.  But the image is constant and it leaves her with tears moistening her eyes and wishing again for a long-ago time when everything was tinged with a breathless, magical wonder.  What happened afterwards?  Did she and her mystery guardian, no more than a shadow now, laugh as they ran for shelter, was she scooped up into someone’s arms, was she loved once?   Or was it always as lonely as this?

For another memory of childhood is cold as ice.

It is  a year or so after the death of a father she barely remembers.  She is perhaps seven or eight years old, sitting at a mahogany writing bureau, pasting pictures into a scrapbook, sketching ink patterns in childish, spidery hand.  Pale and distracted, her mother, who, in the fashion of Queen Victoria, still wears widow's weeds, hurries by, her skirt rustling along the floor.  She is carrying something folded inside a muslin cloth and the grandfather clock in the hall is loudly ticking and dust motes dance and fall.  She walks through the French windows and into the summer-scented garden, to the cherry tree, so they tell Gwendolyn later, so they tell her when she has finally calmed enough to listen.  Days after the loud bang pierced the air, days after Gwendolyn, suddenly knowing, had begun to shudder violently, while shouts and screams rang out and footsteps clattered from every direction.

A childhood gone then. 

Keep out the world.  The world is full of misery and harm.  Never touch or be touched.  Was it always so?

If things had been different…If there had been a different ending to a story so full of promise when colours were bright and the world new, could she, would she have been someone else?  If Mother had never been prone to fits of depression, would the summer afternoon have been no more than a summer afternoon, and Gwendolyn never lived this lonely, miserable existence? 

Could people, would people, change, if given another chance?

A splash of tear fell on to the newspaper report, a damp grey star smudging words and pulling them randomly out of the comfort of their sentences, mixing “problems avoided young” irrevocably together. Oh, if only, if only!  She dropped a tear-sodden paper tissue into a bowl of disinfectant, kept there for the purpose, and reached for another.

A thin shaft of sunlight crept over the tiny chink above the closed curtains, its tremulous light, unsteadied by the March winds, crawling cobwebby fingers across ceiling and walls before slipping noiselessly away again.  Gwendolyn’s blurred gaze fell back down upon the newspaper and she thought of another time sunshine had streamed indoors and left nothing but darkness behind.  problems avoided young.  She read the jumbled words once more and suddenly a rare optimism consumed her.  It had to be a sign!  The only truly happy memory she had was of a horse.  The article had been about an apparently world-famous riding stables.  There was a way to protect herself AND to change the future.  According to William Drumgold, young folk kept out of trouble if kept occupied…

The stipulation was that Hepplethwaite’s must employ those in their teens or twenties, but especially those for whom life had dealt some cruel blow or who had nowhere else to turn.  A helping hand, as it were, she explained to a startled Mr Henry Dingwall, of Shuttleworth, Dingwall & Brown, long time Hepplethwaite solicitors, for he had often remarked to his wife on the family’s lack of charity towards those less fortunate.

Ironically, almost as soon as the ink was dry on the paper, Miss Gwendolyn Hepplethwaite breathed her last and shuffled off this mortal coil, perhaps to be held accountable to a greater god, perhaps to return forever to dust, none of us will ever know, until our own days on this Earth are done. 

But the riding stables thrived. The wheels set in motion rolled on, smooth and well-oiled, with barely a bump or a squeak, and Shuttleworth, Dingwall & Brown were kept extremely busy dealing with the venture.  The waiting list to work at Hepplethwaite’s was always exceptionally long and, for once, the privileged found themselves at the very back of the queue while those who were used to being shunted to the back found themselves, for once, enjoying the giddy heights of the front.

You might think it a strange coincidence that Dora should visit Hepplethwaite’s and later join Follyfoot Farm, which, oddly enough, was the inspiration for Hepplethwaite’s.  I, too, often puzzle over the coincidence and I wonder whether it was coincidence or her destiny.  Now you might well point out anything can be tweaked and twisted and turned to make it seem so.  You might well observe that the more gullible among us will insist on ghosts, goblins and good luck charms, when there is inevitably a common sense explanation.  Always, but always, a common sense explanation.

Oh, so you say, my logical friend, so you say!

Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #57 on: October 23, 2011, 10:00:50 PM »
Bit fed up at the moment due to some personal problems  :( so thought I'd cheer myself up by posting the beginning of the next chapter.  :) The title and the leap in time are both intentional, all will be revealed.....eventually......when I figure out what I'm going to write next...  ::)


***chapter 42***

***Daz***
(Part One)


Sometimes, when the moon was high and the whole of Follyfoot bathed in her silent grey light, the young girl would stir restlessly from her sleep and steal away to the attic window.   

Her first winter here, unused to being outdoors in mud, snow and sleet, and frozen by the bitter winds that every Yorkshire lad and lass will tell you whistle hauntingly down from the moors and cut like ice, she had become ill.  (Nesh, grinned Ron, winking, as he and Steve helped her indoors from the stables, and she smiled to let him know that, unlike in the early days, she realised he was teasing.  Although, so long had she been away from working class folk, she had no idea what the word meant until she checked in the Yorkshire dialect pocket dictionary she kept under her pillow in secret.)  Despite her burning throat, banging head and aching limbs, and against the doctor’s advice, Dora would have been working with her beloved horses again the very next day except her uncle warned they might pick up an infection.  Whether this was true or a ruse to ensure she rested, Dora didn’t know, but she did know she would never forgive herself if she hurt a single horse and so, ruse or not, the plan worked. 

One afternoon during her reluctant convalescence, and beginning to feel a little better, she wandered into the well-stocked manor house library.  Literary classics and poetry; encyclopedias; Parliamentary and law books; stirring tales of brave military men and historic battles won; advice on etiquette, tales of debutantes, constantly updated editions of Who’s Who, hundreds of different books, most left from the days when her parents, Lord and Lady Maddocks, had resided here at Follyfoot Farm, all jostled for space on heaving shelves.

But the leather-bound tome that captured her heart she found among a higgledy-piggledy jumble of books inside a sturdy solid oak antique bookcase.  His father’s book collection had been all that “Poor old Dotty Geoff”, as Arthur and Prudence mockingly called him behind his back, wanted from his will, bypassing the properties and fortune that was his inheritance as eldest son.  It contained many an old and rare edition, but somehow she knew it was kept for love and not to be sold. 

Clasping the tome to her bosom as though afraid to ever let it go, trying not to listen to the whinnies and clip-clop of hooves, for it tore at the young girl’s heart not be with the animals she loved so, she hurried through the falling snow like a small white ghost and settled before the cosy glow of the roaring farmhouse fire.  And from the book’s very first words, quoting the great man, she knew at once William Drumgold understood:-

Every building that is loved has a soul

Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #58 on: November 13, 2011, 12:16:41 AM »
***chapter 42***

***Daz***

(Part Two)

And she had loved Follyfoot Farm ever since, when she was very small, Jimmy told her stories of the time he’d worked here, being hired as head groom and later employed as chauffeur.  Some faded away from her mind as she grew up, but when she saw Follyfoot for the very first time one very special sleeping memory woke anew.

That hot Saturday the Maddocks family set off from London, with the sun’s reflection shimmering on a calm Thames and birds singing merrily, on what promised to be a glorious June day.  The promise was broken.  By mid-day black clouds obscured the sky and a silver curtain of rain obscured the land.

A roll of thunder growled menacingly above as Alec Bingham slowed down the Rolls to negotiate Whistledown Lane’s notoriously steep hill.  Soon after Jimmy’s death, Jack Stanford’s fiancee Lydia had discovered she was pregnant and, as her grandmother had lately bequeathed to her a house in Edinburgh, the couple decided to move to Scotland.  Jack’s replacement was a morose, taciturn man, but an excellent driver nonetheless and, even with rain drumming furiously down on the car roof, his passengers knew they were in very safe hands. 

Curious to see what was to be her home for some years while her father took up the post of ambassador to Brazil, Dora rolled down the rain-smeared window.  A wild flash of forked lightning chose that very moment to streak through the moody sky and freeze-frame the Farm in a picture she would remember forever.  At the bottom of the hill, near a  grey stone farmhouse and long row of stables, a figure clad in oilskins and sou’wester was opening a gate for a similarly-attired figure to lead a horse through.  Behind them, in the distance, stood the magnificent manor house owned by her parents, but Dora paid scant attention to the famous and much-photographed Drumgold building.  What held her gaze was the drenched, barren tree being battered by the storm, momentarily bowed by wind and rain, only to defiantly shake itself free and raise its torn branches to the Heavens like triumphant fists. 

“The lightning tree!” she whispered, enchanted, suddenly recalling Jimmy telling her how the stunted tree was regularly watered for “dreams to come true” and awed, as so many have been, by the dramatic thunderstorms that frequently strike this little heart of Yorkshire.

The magic was over almost as soon as it had begun.

“Dora!” squealed Prudence, shuddering as rain swept inside, and Arthur slammed down the window, drowning out the storm’s fierce roar.

Her exasperated parents exchanged thankful glances that their daughter was not to accompany them to Brazil.  Dora, with her constant daydreaming, was such an embarrassment in elite social circles.

But The Honourable Dora Maddocks, albeit educated in the most exclusive Swiss finishing school that was, and still is, favoured by Royalty from all over the world, cared not a jot for elite social circles.  Kicking off her winter shoes and wrapping herself in an old furniture throw, she curled up on the arm-chair cosily as a cat, her windswept hair dripping with melted snowflakes and a crooked line of dust across nose and cheek.  Had they been there, Lord and Lady Maddocks would have been mortified.  But fortunately Arthur and Prudence were thousands of miles away, dining with another fabulously wealthy couple, all four, under the guise of polite conversation, sniping at each other over who owned the greater riches, and the daughter born with a silver spoon in her mouth and gypsy in her heart was free as a bird.

The fire crackled loudly and, sleepily content with warmth while outside in the darkening afternoon snowflakes furiously swirled, the future heiress looked up from studying pencil sketches of Follyfoot, and reading of how round windows were a hallmark of Drumgold’s architecture, to rest her chin on the book and watch the dancing and darting flames.

She had always found the ancient stone farmhouse, despite its cold clay floor and draughts and creaking doors, cosier than the manor house.  For all its luxury, the manor house seemed icy and distant.  Perhaps it was because, when she was very young, Jimmy would take her with him about his work and she had come to love the honest company of the serving staff, preferring them to her parents’ shallow associates.  She stared pensively into the fire, the smell of burning coal, the taste of soot and red glow of firelight sweeping back memories of Jimmy’s homely little cottage in the grounds of the Maddocks’ huge Kensington mansion.   Jimmy and she had sat by the hearth on many a winter's evening, drinking cocoa and toasting bread that they spread with plum or raspberry jam made by Ada the cook, and Dora would sob so heart-brokenly when it was time to go home to bed.  Jimmy had been like a grandfather to her.  It was Jimmy who took her to see horses and read her stories and taught her to tie shoe-laces.  Who helped her make Chinese paper lanterns and put her paintings up on his wall and showed her how to grow strawberries.  Who had given her the nickname Daz. 

When the December snow fell, and she had run out into a brand new white, powdery world, wearing designer coat, hat, gloves and boots, all made specially for her by an exclusive Paris fashion house and, crème de la crème of her many Christmas presents from her parents, a diamond bracelet.  Prudence and Arthur, believing that expensive gifts equated love, congratulated themselves when they saw their little daughter’s delighted face upon opening the jewellery box.  (Although, in truth, Dora, being barely five years old and too young to understand the concept of money, had been fascinated by the colours and would have been just as happy with a multi-coloured bracelet made of plastic.)  Her favourite Christmas toy was the cuddly toy horse, a gift from Jimmy, and which she was hugging to her as she slipped on an icy patch and fell in a heap.

(continued on next page)

Offline Marie

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Re: When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie
« Reply #59 on: November 13, 2011, 12:29:39 AM »
(chapter 42:  Daz (Part Two) continued from previous page)
 
Jimmy picked her up, dusting clumps of snow from her coat.

“Razzle Dazzle Dora, whiter than white!”  He grinned as the winter sun picked prisms of light from the diamonds.  “You can see her in the daytime and you can see her in the night.”

Dora, who’d been about to cry, giggled.  They loved making up silly poems together.  Their favourite was the one that they always tried to recite as fast as they could without pausing for breath:  The cat was very fat because he ate the bat and the rat and the gnat and the hat and the mat and the mouse ate the louse and the sprouts and the scouse and the very fat cat that ate the bat and the rat and the gnat and the hat and the mat so THAT WAS THAT!”

She became Razzle Dazzle after that, then Dazzle, and then Daz.  The other House staff  picked up on the name, but Jimmy, being such a good friend of her parents, was the only one who could call her Daz without being reprimanded by Lord or Lady Maddocks, who, nickname or not, declared it to be “suitable only for a common servant”.  With Jimmy, however, Prudence and Arthur softened and were generous and caring.  Dora was reflecting on how different things might have been if only all their acquaintances had been like Jimmy when voices sounded nearby and she quickly dabbed away nostalgic tears as the farmhouse filled, or seemed to fill, with people.  The visitors brought in the icy air and the blue smoke of their breath, stomping snow from their boots, blowing on their hands, faces red and eyes bright with the kiss of winter. 

Of course, seeing her there, they began to mock. 

Ron called her “m’lady, wot lounges about all day” and bowed extravagantly as he set a chipped mug of steaming tea down beside her. Slugger tutted, swiped him gently across the ear, and chided, “Yer uncouth lout, fetch a bleedin’ china cup and a bleedin’ china saucer and a bleedin’ buttered scooone for ‘er Gracious Ladyship“, then pulled a comical “snooty” face and doffed his woollen hat.

Steve sat down on the arm of the chair to read over her shoulder, and ask in that usual half resentful voice, which always unsettled her, did she plan to buy another stately home with her vast riches then?  And added, with a flash of his dark eyes, a peck of her cheek and a disarming smile as he squeezed her shoulder before jumping up again, “I’m only joking, girl.”

Uncle Geoffrey said nothing, merely poked the fire, shaking his head and smiling as though he agreed with every word they said, as he tapped and re-filled his pipe. 

She took their humour in her stride.  At least, now she did now.  At first, Steve, Ron and Slugger, being so very different from the people she had mixed with since she was seven years old and sent off to boarding school after Jimmy’s death, she would fly into a rage whenever they made comments about her privileged background.  Until she realised, the more angry her reaction the more fun it was, and what she saw as accusations of snobbery was the affectionate teasing of friends. 

But Ron and Slugger always made her laugh.  Steve always left her confused. With Steve, she felt a topsy-turvy myriad of emotions, the like of which she had never felt with anyone else before.  And she wondered if…

…If…

…………because, you see, the young girl had never known…

………………and yet somehow she knew...

One frosty night, as she tossed and turned, the silver light of the moon and the rattling of a nearby door conspired to break her slumbers.

She sat up, wondering what had woken her.  A door banged in answer.  She realised at once the cause.

The day had been bitterly cold but sunny, and while out riding, from the high point at the other side of the river, Dora had noticed a sudden flash of sunlight on the manor house roof.  She hadn’t been too surprised.  A charity which dealt in recycled goods had recently approached Uncle Geoffrey for donations and two men had been invited today to sift through the contents of the vast attic, a silent, cobwebby, shadowy room, largely undisturbed for decades.  No doubt they’d opened the window to let out the dust of centuries, but not secured the catch when they’d closed it again. 

She pulled on dressing gown and slippers, and, guided by the pool of moonlight that crept inside, hurried down the long hallway and climbed the spiral staircase at the very end.  Now Drumgold buildings are noted for eccentric features and Follyfoot was no exception.  Directly below the skylight had been built a set of stone steps and ornate handrail with a small seat at its very top.

Perhaps Drumgold had built it especially for dreamers.

For she was about to fasten the lock when she stopped and instead pushed the glass further open.  The air was ice cold, but Dora barely noticed.  Follyfoot had never looked more beautiful, nor beat more closely to her heartbeat than it did at that moment.
 
A quiet full moon hung in the midnight sky, where thousands of stars shone brighter than they’d ever shone before.  From Whistledown Hill to the frozen lake, from the distant fields to the quaint old farmhouse, not a sound was heard, not a blade of grass quivered, not a breath of wind stirred.  Frost glinted and glistened everywhere, on grass and trees, on roofs and windows, on walls and fences.  But, most of all, the lightning tree stood proud, its sturdy trunk coated with silvery white, its moonlit shadow cast against the stable block, its torn limbs sparkling with jewels of ice. 

Every building that is loved has a soul

And Follyfoot was so loved.  So much a part of everyone who had ever lived or worked here. 

If only here at Follyfoot someone would realise he’d stolen her heart.  The iciness caught her then and she shivered as she closed the window and shut out the dark.