When the Snow Falls (parts one and two) by Marie

[Marie]

***chapter 43***

***1962***

It is a sad fact of life that none of us will live forever.  And although some may dread the prospect of their own demise while others welcome the Grim Reaper, I suspect most of us, for a multitude of different reasons, on a multitude of different days, have mixed feelings regarding the inevitable. 

But for loved ones left behind, nothing can ever be the same.

Jimmy passed away, quietly in his sleep, as the first snows fell on what would prove to be the harshest winter for over two hundred years. The bitterly cold Friday evening preceding his death, he had, as usual, politely accepted the Maddocks’ formal breakfast invitation.  When he failed to appear at the table next day, an amused Arthur despatched a boy, who had himself been on his way to the staff’s hearty kitchen breakfast, to “rouse the sleepyhead”, adding with a smile “rap hard and fast as you can, Matt, for we all need a full breakfast in our bellies on a day such as this”.

But the youth returned alone to report, try as he might, he’d been unable to obtain any answer.  Arthur and Prudence sprang up as one from the table, the normally fastidious Prudence not caring that her sleeve dipped in marmalade as she caught hold of her husband’s elbow and exclaimed, “Oh, dearest, no!  Don’t let anything have happened to him!”

“I pray not, Prudence, but we must stay calm.”  Arthur, white as the falling snow, struggled to keep his own composure and twice almost dropped a bunch of keys he’d pulled out of his waistcoat pocket.  “Telephone Dr Moorcroft, my sweet, and have him meet me at the cottage immediately.  Matt, my boy, come with me.”

Matthew Mark Luke John Doyle (his doting mother had hoped, in vain, that her precious only son would become a priest) nodded, alarm flooding through his veins.  He was new to the Maddocks household, having been appointed General Help only a month ago, but he was already well aware that Jimmy, the chauffeur, was held in very high esteem.  At least, Jimmy was referred to as the chauffeur although, from what Matt could see, Jack Stanford chauffeured, Jimmy looked after little Dora, little Dora’s Nurse, curiously enough the vastly wealthy Duchess of Hunterwood, took no notice of her charge and instead shopped and dined out, and little Dora, the golden child, with the exception of private tutoring, was ignored by her family (unless some special occasion deemed her presence necessary) and casually mixed with the lower classes as naturally and happily as though she were the daughter of some passing labourer. 

Confusing though the household was, Matt was determined to “make a go” of it.  He had only known Jimmy Turner a handful of weeks but he was pleasant enough despite being a Christian (having felt as though religion had been rammed down his throat, both at home and at school, Matt hated religion with a vengeance) and had apparently put in a good word for him, which secured him the job.

And it was a blessing that Lord Maddocks had company.  Poor Arthur tried to pretend, even to himself, that he was shivering because of the icy outdoors, but his legs looked distinctly shaky and his gloved hands trembled so much that, in the end, Matt drew a deep breath and, without a word, gently plucked the keys from his master’s grasp and took it upon himself to unlock the door.

They stumbled inside a cottage cold, quiet and dark, its curtains closed, a crumpled rug left unstraightened, cold, grey ashes piled in the grate.  On the drawer of an old hall stand that had once graced the Maddocks’ residence, and which now bore Jimmy’s and Dora’s hats, coats and wellington boots, an animal picture book lay face down, forgotten by its young owner when called home last night.  Next to a half-eaten piece of toast on the draining board, yesterday’s dishes had been left unwashed in the kitchen sink and next to a child-size desk and chair, where crayons and childish drawings still lay scattered, yesterday’s newspaper had been left unopened on the arm of his favourite fireside chair.  A lump rose in Arthur’s throat.  It did not bode well.  Jimmy never would have retired to bed without ensuring everywhere was spick and span. 

Their feet thundered up the narrow staircase, Lord Maddocks calling out his name, although he knew in his heart there would be no answer nor ever would be again.

He pushed open the bedroom door, so quickly that a dressing gown on the hook behind swung briefly against his face.  A loudly ticking bedside clock was the only sound, a flicker of growing daylight the only brightness.  A bronze crucifix, a gift from the Maddocks, hung above the bed where Jimmy lay fully clothed, his eyes shut tight, a small smile on his lips, as if he had merely popped upstairs for forty winks and drifted away into a deep, agreeable sleep.  He must have been dead some hours, but the winter weather chilled the room and only a light floral scent from an unlit candle permeated the air. 

Arthur shook his friend, he checked his pulse, he checked his forehead, he looked wildly around, and then did exactly the same, over and over and over, as though everything might suddenly right itself if he repeated the ritual often enough.  But it was no use.  Jimmy’s head still slumped forward and his body still flopped like a rag doll. 

(continued on next page)

[Marie]

(chapter 42:  1962
continued from previous page)

A sudden “hallooing” from downstairs announced the arrival of Dr Moorcroft and Lord Maddocks finally tore himself away as far as the door frame.

“He’s gone, Tim.  Come up, come up.”  Lord Maddocks’ voice was trapped somewhere between a croak and a whisper and it was fortunate the front door was situated directly at the bottom of the stairs or the good doctor never would have heard.  “Matt.”  Arthur turned to the boy, thankful for the dark morning he imagined hid his tears, unaware that they glistened ever more brightly in the half light.  “Please wait outside while I speak in confidence with the physician.”

Matt, frightened and upset by the death, was glad to do so.  He hadn’t been able to make up his mind which made him most uneasy: the corpse or the crucifix, rosary beads and two holy ornaments.  It was something of a relief to be out on the landing, frowning at the painting of the Sacred Heart that adorned the stair wall, contemplating on the existence or otherwise of ghosts, and watching and listening warily in case the late Jimmy Turner, rather illogically considering the pair never had any disagreement or dislike of one another, should swear vengeance and haunt him.

“His death would appear to have been mercifully swift, sir.”  Timothy Moorcroft had completed the medical examination and scrubbed his hands in the tiny en suite bathroom that Arthur and Prudence had had added to the cottage when Jimmy’s health began to deteriorate with age.  A tall, thin man with silver hair and a hook nose, Dr Moorcroft had been acquainted with the Maddocks and Jimmy a great many years.  He finished his ablutions, but still he kept his back to Arthur, whom he could see through the shaving mirror.  Let the poor fellow weep in peace, he thought, wiping imaginary spots of snow from spectacles that had already been thoroughly cleansed.  But inwardly the doctor sighed.  He too was distressed by the loss, but this evening, when he and his wife discussed their day, he would drink a tot of rum to toast Jimmy’s memory and no doubt shed a few tears then.  He dealt with death often in his work and it was only professionalism that prevented him  from breaking down.  Lord and Lady Maddocks abhorred showing tears in public however because they feared it a “weakness” that might damage their political reputations.  One of the very last conversations he had shared with Jimmy had been about how nobody should be ashamed of showing emotions, but, they'd concluded, shaking their heads, it was frequently the way of the aristocracy and the world was a sadder place for it. 

“Indeed, indeed.  Mercifully swift, as you say.  We must be thankful his suffering was short.”  Arthur spoke at last after a long pause.  He had broken the heartbreaking news to Prudence via the bedside telephone that they had long ago installed despite Jimmy's protests that telephones, especially telephones in bedrooms, were for “toffs” and he could “get ideas above his station”.  He blew his nose loudly, dried his eyes with thumb and forefinger, and pulled himself together enough to request young Mr Doyle’s return. 

“Matt, I have several errands for you.  First, if Jack Stanford is back from his urgent leave of absence, have him drive Lady Maddocks to join me here.  If he has not yet returned, you are to seek out Wilson to fetch the car.  Then I wish you to go to the House and explain matters to both Sweeney and Mrs Geraghty.  They are to inform the House staff only essential work need be done today and that everybody goes about their business as silently as possible this morning as a mark of respect.  You may then go for the breakfast I so rudely interrupted you from (Arthur gave a wry smile at the irony of his own earlier words) and my deepest apologies for it.  I realise this has been a most distressing experience for you and you are granted the rest of the day off, for that then will be everybody told.”

No.  Lord Maddocks was mistaken.  Not quite everybody.  Nobody had told Dora.  Blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama, the little girl snapped suddenly awake…

[Marie]

God, I've lost my way with this!    And I forgot the Maddocks were in London and slipped into Yorkshire dialect!    Never mind! 

***chapter 44***

***A Bitter Winter***

At a little over seven-and-a-half years old, The Honourable Miss Dora Maddocks had finally mastered the art of reading the time and a framed certificate, signed by her almost despairing maths tutor, was hung on the bedroom wall to prove it.  Thus being expert in her field, she looked confidently at the ornamental pony bedside clock.  Ten past nine.  She was a whole hour and ten minutes late!  She picked up her watch and shook it.  (Dora had no idea why, but she’d sometimes seen adults shaking watches when they were puzzled about the time and so thought she ought to.) 

*****

Jack Stanford was distracted.  Uncharacteristically, he didn’t immediately report for duty after his hastily-granted leave for personal reasons or go to see his good mate Jimmy, as he usually did when he needed to share a problem.  Instead he keyed in his security code and, glancing round furtively, slunk through the gates of Saxe Coburg Mansion, originally built as a “spillover” for Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, renamed Windsor Manor during the War Years, and, after its brief delusion of non-grandeur, reverting to its old name, and home to Lord and Lady Maddocks and their only child.

Blinking at the ever-thickening snowflakes that flew in his face through the icy wind, Stanford made his way to one of the sheds on the allotments, relieved but surprised to realise nobody was about.  Granted, not much work could be done in the wintry conditions, but normally a couple of gardeners might be busy in the greenhouses or Bob, The Quiet Man, so nicknamed because he rarely spoke and flinched if anyone raised their voice, with maybe Les or George helping out, would have been given the task of clearing the paths. 

He sat on a workbench and pulled a packet of Embassy and an engraved silver lighter from his inside pocket, cursing the breeze that crept under the door to blow out the long yellow flame every time he flicked it alight.  But at last he managed to succeed and he took a long drag on the cigarette and watched clouds of smoke curling into the air.  It was freezing, but the late December snow was the least of his troubles and he paid it little heed.  He had a lot to think about.  Lydia was pregnant.  Jack was the father.  It wasn’t a subject he’d feel too comfortable discussing with Jimmy.  Being a Christian, Jimmy didn’t agree with sex before marriage.  And Jack, being in bad humour, was in contrary mood.  Could do without a bloody lecture, he thought, even though he knew Jimmy would never lecture him.  Could do without bloody religion and white weddings and churches.  Look at Bob, orphaned as a young kid, brought up in a religious Care Home for Boys and…well, folk said things had happened to Bob at that Home.
 
In spite of Jack’s belief the weather had nothing to do with him, the weather thought otherwise.  Unable to ignore the cold any longer, he picked up an old car blanket that lay folded on the tool shelf, discovering underneath it someone’s forgotten transistor radio.  Desperate for warmth, ignoring its musty smell and paint stains, he shook the blanket free of wood chippings, dirt and dead insects, wrapped it tightly around himself and turned the dial on the radio.  The Beatles' Love Me Do could just about be heard behind the crackling air waves and he turned the volume as high as it would go.  Twenty-seven years old and he was going to be a Dad!  He’d have to get married.  He’d have to pack in the smokes and start saving.  No more nights out with the lads whenever he wanted.  No more spending as much as he liked on beer or records or footie matches.  There’d be bills to pay and sleepless nights and a kid to feed and clothe.  And he did love Lydia and he had planned to marry and have kids with her, he just hadn’t planned on it all happening so soon.  He pressed the radio to his ear and lit another cigarette, making the most of what remained of his freedom, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

If he hadn’t been so preoccupied, if he had known about Jimmy, maybe Jack would have been the one who made the Maddocks realise Jimmy’s death broke Dora’s heart.

*****

It was strange that Millie or Ann-Marie or Jeanette or any one of the usual maids hadn’t yet arrived to run her bath and oversee her dressing.  And it was a Saturday too!  Saturday was the day she had to be especially nicely dressed because it was also the day she breakfasted with her parents.  For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Jimmy had insisted that they eat breakfast with their daughter at least once a week. 

Dora had wanted to tell him that she preferred eating in the kitchen, but he’d been really pleased when Mummy and Daddy announced the “new dining arrangements” to her and he’d seemed quite upset when he spoke to them about it so she never told him she’d accidentally overheard the conversation and pretended that she was really pleased about it too.  Anyway, it didn’t really matter that her parents had to be there as long as she was with Jimmy.  In storybooks, children had Mummies and Daddies (or a fairy godmother or kindly woodsman).  Dora, who considered herself far more mature than children in storybooks, had Jimmy and all the House staff.  She loved eating breakfast and lunch in the servants’ quarters, where she felt quite at home.  And Saturday breakfasts were just about bearable because Jimmy was there, which meant Mummy and Daddy were always more relaxed and much nicer.

Evening meals with her parents were an ordeal, especially when they had company.  She hated being told to sit up straight and she had to use exactly the right cutlery and to remember things she couldn’t remember, like “a young lady must always finish her soup by tipping the bowl slightly away from herself.”  It was much more fun in Mrs Geraghty’s kitchen, where everybody laughed and joked as they came in from work and Ada might be taking a batch of freshly-baked pies or cakes out of the oven, and nobody minded if Dora broke up bits of bread, stirred them round and round in her soup and pretended she was eating floating bread-fish or if she made a river of gravy in her mashed potato for “sausage ships” to sail through.  She’d got into terrible trouble the day she sat down to dinner and announced chattily to the Baroness of Somewhere or T’other (at least Dora had heard Jack say to a deliveryman she was the Baroness of Somewhere or T’other though she suspected there was no such place and the baroness was only pretending) “Me belly thinks me throat’s cut” though the servants said things like this all the time.  And they never got to eat fun food like bangers and mash; it was all very serious and served up very seriously by specially hired waiters and waitresses, and Larry and his wife Rowena, the two chefs who, like her tutors, were far too important to mix with the other House staff, “created” strange fancy dishes that everybody except Dora thought tasted wonderful.  Still, the little girl was happy enough and content with the status quo. Until today.

(continued on next page)

[Marie]

chapter 44:  A Bitter Winter/
Continued from previous page

Not being woken had never happened before.  Puzzled, Dora got out of bed and pulled open the long velvet curtains that swished on the thick pile carpet. Beauty and Magic, the two wooden horses that had belonged to Jimmy’s children, chipped and scraped now despite Jimmy often re-varnishing, stood guard, as always, on either side of the window-sill, and, as she always did, she kissed each on its head in greeting.  They were almost real to her and Dora was glad to have them there for company on such a strange morning. She held them to either side of her face and all three peered out into the snowy world. 

*****

None of the House staff thought to check on Dora that day.  They imagined, quite naturally, that Lord and Lady Maddocks had already broken the news to their daughter and would now be comforting her.  The Duchess of Hunterwood, having indulged in a little too much champagne while partying the night before, had stayed with a friend and thus knew nothing of recent events (and, I must be honest with you even at the risk of slander, I doubt it would have occurred to Daphne that her charge might be upset so perhaps her presence or otherwise is of little consequence to our story).   Sadly, although they were broken-hearted themselves over Jimmy’s sudden death, the notion Dora might be too didn’t cross the mind of either Prudence or Arthur.   

Let her sleep on, they said, as they sobbed together, saying a private goodbye to their old friend. She would only be in the way of such adult matters.  And besides, they added, displaying an alarming lack of empathy towards the very young, children didn’t have the same deep feelings as grown-ups.  All that was needed was a new toy or dress or day out and she would soon be over the loss.

*****

Frost had laced the window with cobwebby fingers and misted the view.  Dora set down the wooden horses, breathed hard on the pane and rubbed the cuff of her nightgown over the patch though it made little difference to the blurry Christmas card scene outside.  She pressed her forehead against the cold glass.  Thousands of snowflakes were swirling wildly about as if unsure where to go, until they gave up searching and fell defeatedly into the pure white carpet covering the land.  Usually at around nine o’clock the servants would be starting work, chattering and laughing, shouting to each other, clanging ladders and buckets. But it was oddly quiet and not a single footprint marked the snow.  It was almost as if nobody had ever lived there and nobody ever would.  Dora frowned.  Where was everybody?  Curiously, her parents weren’t the first people she thought of asking.  It was Jimmy.

Jimmy would know what had happened.  If she headed towards his cottage, she would pass the dining room on the way and know whether he was already at breakfast or not although she thought it very unlikely he would start without her.  Her clothes had, as always, been laid out by a maid the night before, but Dora ignored the pretty dress and chose jeans and an embroidered top.  Her outdoor clothes were kept in a downstairs wardrobe room and she was in a hurry and didn’t want to be waylaid by one of the servants, who might stop her from going outdoors.  So she tugged on two woollen sweaters and, with sudden inspiration, draped a cardigan over her head, tying its sleeves under her chin.  Two pairs of socks to compensate for the fact her indoor shoes would be poor protection in ice and snow; another pair of socks on her hands in lieu of gloves and she was done. 

She had spent so much time with the House employees that she knew every entrance and every exit of Saxe Coburg Mansion.  Not a soul was about as she slipped down the back stairs and into the “secret passage” (this was actually a connecting corridor that Lord and Lady Maddocks had added in the late 1940s to shelter kitchen staff when carrying dishes to and fro, but the little girl preferred a more romantic explanation).  Dora needed to leave before she reached the kitchen quarters however.  She stopped halfway down the corridor, pushed open a “secret” door and stepped out into the snow…

[Marie]

Off to relatives for Xmas soon  just a quick update before I go. 

***chapter 45***

***Matthew***

If it hadn’t been for the horse, Mrs Doyle might have passed by.  The sky was heavy as her heart and the weather that November day in 1962 not conducive to a gentle stroll.  A cruel chill pinched the air and a windswept rain lashed the pavements as furiously as if it had lately lost an argument with the world.  Drenched and cold, determined to hold on to bags, brollies and hats that were equally as determined to be blown away, folk were hurrying about their business when a sudden clip-clop of hooves caught their attention. 

Solitary in the relentless stream of traffic, a lone splash of colour amid belching fumes and roaring engines, a ragman, wearing flat cap and an old-fashioned Victorian greatcoat, led a horse and cart.  Now whether it was this ancient and much-stained greatcoat, or the powerful carthorse with its shining coat, or the cart itself, covered as it was by a home-made canopy and offering an intriguing glimpse inside of jumbled old rags and the balloons, children’s windmills and tin whistles that could be swapped for them, we will never know, but many a passer-by paused to watch.  As did Miss Lydia Cunningham, despite her worries.  As did Mrs Carmel Doyle, despite her own.  And it was the catching of each other’s eye, the sharing of smiles, that inspired confidences. 

They were neighbours, but had hitherto exchanged little more than polite hellos.  Carmel had sometimes seen a tall, sandy-haired young man, occasionally wearing chauffeur’s uniform, call at No 54 and assumed he was Lydia’s intended, and Lydia had sometimes seen a surly-looking teenager go in and out of No 7, and assumed he was Carmel’s son, but this, and the fact Miss Cunnigham left for work at 8.15, and Mrs Doyle every Sunday visited the church at the bottom of the street, was all that they knew about the other.

The ladies met quite by chance outside the supermarket, under the glass roof that once covered a tram station, and which now jutted out over a long row of shops and businesses. It was the mixture of old and new that kick-started the conversation.   How the ragman with the horse and cart was a disappearing breed and how supermarkets had replaced the homely little shops, which Carmel remembered fondly from when she first married, and Lydia remembered vaguely from childhood.  A common ground and a mutual trust lit the spark of friendship.  Lydia found herself telling the older woman she was worried she might be pregnant and Carmel found herself telling the young girl she was worried her son might end up in jail.  She had fretted it might happen ever since she took things further with her fiancé and now she had missed though normally she was regular as clockwork, Lydia blushingly confided in the widow.  She’d set her heart on Matthew being a priest, but he’d gone off the rails while still at school, Carmel told her young neighbour; he’d been up twice before the courts for theft and vandalism, and now he had a police record he couldn’t get a job.  It would mean prison if Matthew didn’t settle down, Carmel said.  It would mean the baby being born illegitimate if Jack didn’t marry her, Lydia said. 

Tell your young man, Mrs Doyle advised as they parted, the wind growing too icy now for them to stay chatting.  If he loves you, he’ll stand by you.  But Lydia thought she would wait until a pregnancy was confirmed and told Jack about Mrs Doyle’s problem before telling him of her own.  Jack happened to mention it to Jimmy, who suggested to the Maddocks that they hire the youngster for a trial period, reminding them how Davey might have turned out without a helping hand.  Arthur and Prudence sighed patiently.  They didn’t need or particularly want any extra staff at the moment, but if the boy came for an interview, they’d consider it, they conceded, expecting, from what they’d heard of his background, that the young Mr Doyle would not appear. 

To their great surprise, however, the young Mr Doyle did although it was not quite the formal interview Lord and Lady Maddocks had envisaged.  Half an hour late, and just when they were packing up the paperwork, a sneering, casually dressed youth barged into the drawing room, leaving poor Millie the maid with her fist still poised in mid-air ready to knock.  Having made a grand entrance, Matt further impressed by carrying a pouffe across the room, then sinking into an easy chair with feet up and hands clasped behind his head, and announced he’d only come because he was curious to see how snobs with too much money lived, and did they know there were poor and starving people in the world?

Prudence was so scandalized that she rubbed her hated nose in dumbstruck horror, but Arthur, though initially shocked, was secretly amused.  Matthew reminded him of himself when he was young.  He, too, had been a free spirit and angry at the assumption of his parents that their four sons, despite their expensive educations, should choose “easy” careers paths while leading idle lives of leisure “as the wealthy were born to do”.  The desire to change things for the better was the very reason he had rebelled and chosen politics.  He decided not to embarrass the boy by pointing out he and his wife were already very much involved in projects to help the poor and starving of the world, quickly ending the interview with a brief  “Well, it was…ah…most interesting to meet you, Matthew” when Prudence looked about to do so, and finding it even more amusing when Matt didn’t return the proffered handshake.  He had often done exactly the same to his father when Nathaniel Maddocks had thought they should shake on an “agreement” that Arthur didn’t agree with at all. From the information he had gleaned from Jack via Lydia it seemed to Arthur that the teenager’s waywardness stemmed from parental pressure too.
   
Nobody was more astonished than Matthew when a letter plopped on the mat to say his application for employment at Saxe Coburg Mansion had been successful.  Behind the scenes, Prudence had angrily told her husband he could be wholly responsible for the “most uncouth youth she was ever likely to have the misfortune to meet”, but Arthur was convinced that if Matt  escaped his mother’s apron strings and smothering love, a much more likeable teenager would emerge.  He was also quite certain that Matt was intelligent enough to see that for himself and accept the job offer.  Lord Maddocks’ gamble proved correct.  A less rebellious and somewhat sheepish Matt soon took up the post of General Help.

And, for Dora’s sake, it was just as well he did.

[Marie]

This chapter had reached 2,000+ words so I decided I would make it two chapters instead and concentrate on writing the next half over the next week or so.  I’m moving to a new section in work on Monday so suspect I might be a bit too tired to do much writing in the evenings so it will help to already have some written.  Sorry there are no Follyfoot people in it (how’d that happen?!! ) and hope it doesn’t bore you or put you off reading because of that.  Dora, Arthur and Prudence will reappear in the next chapter.   

***chapter 46***

***Matthew’s Story***

After only a few mouthfuls, Matt set down his knife and fork.  He still couldn’t make up his mind about whether or not he thought ghosts actually existed, but at the present time was inclining towards the latter.  And what if, queried his superstitious alter ego, the late Jimmy Turner took great exception to the newest and youngest employee of Saxe Coburg Mansion tucking into a large English breakfast so soon after his demise and decided this sufficient reason to haunt him? 

He stared down at the grilled bacon, poached egg, sausage, beans, tomatoes and button mushrooms.  Margaret Geraghty, dabbing her eyes both at the bereavement and the fact young Matthew had been at the death scene, hence his late breakfast alone, had piled even more food than usual on his dish, calling him a “poor little lamb” and ruffling his hair -  all to Matthew’s great embarrassment, for no self-respecting sixteen-year-old boy likes to be treated as though he were ten years younger. 

He took a gulp of tea and concluded it was probably safer to eat nothing at all.  But he was a growing lad and his stomach soon rumbled a loud objection and so he compromised with some thick buttered toast, which, he hoped, the deceased wouldn’t find quite so inconsiderate.  Lord Maddocks had said everyone should have a full breakfast in their belly.  Mam had always said the same.  She’d been wrong about so many things, especially the crazy notion he was ever going to become a priest, but she’d been spot on about a few others, he conceded.  Like how sometimes you wished you had your Mam to talk to when you were feeling down. 

Mrs Geraghty, sobbing quietly and not her usual talkative self, had finished unloading a mountain of cleaned dinner plates from the steaming dishwasher and disappeared into the large pantry.  Matt could hear her clattering pots and pans in search of something and, aware she would insist he ate up (like many people, Margaret Geraghty equated food with being loved) he seized his chance.  Quickly emptying the half-eaten breakfast into the bin for pig swill, he retrieved his work jacket, scarf and gloves, and slipped quietly as a shadow out through the back kitchen door.

The world glittered and twinkled like an enchanted fairyland, the snow whirling furiously in the bitter wind, its silence as it fell making it seem as though he was all alone in the world.  He pulled his fleece tightly around himself as he headed for his small but cosy room in the servants’ quarters. The staff had their own lounge and even an adjoining TV room but, though Matt had the day off, he wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat or watching TV.  His eyes suddenly moistened and he tried to tell himself it was only the wind to blame for his stinging tears and only the wild idea of ghosts and haunting that had stolen away his hearty appetite. 

But deep down he knew neither were to blame. 

*****

The day everything changed, summer had recently broken through weeks of cool, dismal weather and temperatures soared.  And, at first, it seemed nothing had changed at all. 

The Beano that Matt had fallen asleep reading under cover of a cotton sheet (the increasingly warmer nights dispensing with the need for blankets) lay crumpled beneath him and the torch he’d been using to read it by had rolled down the bed and was digging in his waist.  He flipped over on to his back only to feel biscuit crumbs in his pyjamas, the remains of the two Chocolate Digestives he’d smuggled upstairs with him last night. 

With a sigh, the little boy sat up in bed and began fishing the crumbs out with his fingernails, flicking them idly to the floor, watching the curtains flutter in the gentle breeze from the open window, half listening to an aeroplane drone that faded away at the same time as his mother came upstairs singing some old Irish tune.  He held his breath, not wanting Mam to know he was awake.  Dan Doyle rose at 5.30 for work Monday to Saturday, and on Sundays, his lie-in-bed day, his wife always took him a mug of tea before she left for early morning Mass at eight o’clock.  If Matt was awake, she would usually suggest he came with her “to give his Dad a rest” and church was the last place the six-year-old wanted to be. 

He gazed round at his bedroom, which looked, as his father often commented “as though a train just ran through without time to stop” and, as his mother, when exasperated with the constant tidying up, would often describe it :  “Matthew, I think your room’s been burgled again!”

Two rubber suction darts were stuck to the ceiling and toys were everywhere but in the toy box; a dirty plastic beaker stood on the bedside locker alongside sticky rings of blackcurrant juice; the curtains were crooked and a dresser drawer was left open with some of its contents spilling out; coloured pencils were scattered randomly and not one book had been put back neatly on the book-shelf, but instead each was pulled slightly out of kilter as if puzzled as to why Matt’s toy bus should be parked on its side nearby and peering out to see the phenomenon for themselves; the socks he’d worn yesterday had been thrown untidily under the bed and, for reasons unknown, his slippers were placed neatly together in the centre of the room.

But it was the toys which Matthew studied in breath-held silence.  He planned to go into his parents’ bedroom the moment his mother left, and he needed to consider which should accompany him.  Mam always told him not to disturb his father on his day off, but Mr Doyle doted on his only son and it was a regular Sunday morning routine.  And normally the room wouldn’t be quite so untidy as it was on Sunday mornings, but on Saturday nights he was allowed to stay up late and he and Dad always played a game or two before he got into bed.

Matt was still trying to decide between the football (but he’d heard Dad telling Mam he felt poorly last night; would he be okay for a kickabout in the park?) or the kite (but would it be windy enough today on Denton Hill?) when his whole world shattered as loudly as the mug that crashed to the floor.  His mother’s screams sent shivers of terror running down his spine… 

[Marie]

***chapter 47***

***A Friend in Need***

He tried to get up but terror rooted him to the spot.

After that his memory became a blur.  Much later, he learnt that two passers-by had run in to help when they heard screaming, through the front door that had been thrown wide open to air the house and bring in the glorious sunshine of the beautiful summer’s day.  Except it was no longer beautiful.  In the short space of time that Carmel Doyle had opened downstairs doors and windows, cleaned the cooker top and boiled a kettle, her husband had suffered a fatal heart attack.

They were never the same afterwards, neither Matt nor his mother. 

Mrs Doyle went to church every day to pray for her husband’s soul and, in the absence of a babysitter, took her small son with her.  And Matt, being  brought up in the Catholic faith, guilt-tripped himself. Why hadn’t he heard anything?  Had his Dad called out and Matthew been too busy listening to the aeroplane?  Why had he been more interested in toys than his Dad?  He prayed and prayed to God that he wouldn’t go to the Flames of Hell for letting his father die.  And Carmel, seeing the little boy with his eyes tight shut, praying in silent earnest, genuinely thought he was going to enter the priesthood, as she’d always dreamed he would.

Being just a child and, like all children seeking approval from grown-ups, Matt was keen to impress his mother, and over the years everybody, including himself, assumed it was his vocation.  Studying religion, altar boy, helping out at the church or with the Christian charities, he never had time for anything else.

When he was fifteen however, the youngster, had had enough of missing out on normal teenage pursuits, hated religion with a vengeance and rebelled.  Getting drunk on two bottles of communion wine with Shirley Hines and sharing a snack of communion wafers for elevenses with two of his classmates was just the start.  Asked, to his secret delight, to leave his “prestigious” (according to Father Thomas) role of altar boy, Matt determined to make up for lost time.  But always being having to be “good” had left its mark.  Suddenly freed from its restraints, he was too wild for his peers, who found his behaviour at first amusing and then immature, and soon he became involved with different friends, petty crime and a seeming course to self-destruction.  The invitation, via Lydia and Jack, to meet with Lord and Lady Maddocks had been a bolt from the blue and, recognising their names from the newspapers as high-ranking politicians, he’d gone along for no other reason than he was bored and wanted to stir things up.  Except things hadn’t gone according to plan.  Fortunately.  Now he had a job, a new start, and being older and wiser, away from his old life, realised that Mam hadn’t really meant any harm, but her mind had been unhinged by the death of her husband.  Lady Maddocks’ snobbery aside, he enjoyed working at Saxe Coburg Mansion.  The wages were good, Mam was proud of him for all the right reasons and, like everyone, he was extremely fond of the funny little kid with the toffee-nosed accent.  As did all the House staff, Matt thought of Dora as one of their own and not one of the gentry.  But with Matt there was something more.  Being the youngest by several years of all the employees, and closest in age to Dora, he’d begun to regard her almost as a kid sister.

He brushed away his tears, angry and impatient with himself.  Okay, it upset him to remember Dad’s death, but it was ten years ago.  It would be a thousand times worse for Dora right now.  She’d looked on that old bloke as a Granddad and her emotions would still be raw.  At least she would have her parents to help her through and…Matt frowned. 

He wasn’t entirely sure Lord and Lady Maddocks would be as sympathetic as they ought.  They weren’t exactly cruel to their daughter but they weren’t exactly a doting mother and father either.  The Maddocks never made any secret of the fact that they didn’t like children.  There were even rumours that back when they’d lived someplace called Follyfoot Farm a stern official notice had hung on the gates warning “Strictly No Children Allowed” and servants would be fired immediately if they brought offspring on the premises.  It was true no children ever came to play with Dora at Saxe Coburg.  Not that she knew any.  Being schooled at home by tutors, her only friends were the House staff. 

And the horses Jimmy had taken her to see. 

Dora’s face lit up whenever she talked of horses and the two wooden horses that always stood in her bedroom window obviously meant a great deal to her.  Once Matt had seen her with her nose pressed to the glass, a wistful look on her face as she gazed somewhere in the distance.  It cut him to the quick, reminding him of his own lonely childhood, and he’d waved.  She’d picked up both wooden horses to wave back in delight.  He had the feeling she would have taken them everywhere with her if only she could, but he could also picture Prudence’s snooty expression at the very idea.  It was a shame her parents refused to let her take riding lessons like she dreamed of.  Maybe though he could get something horsey to cheer her up.  A poster of a horse or a horse jigsaw or a pencil case with a horse pattern or something, he’d browse round the shops next time he was in town.  Deep in thought, the child in him fascinated by his footprints magically forming as his boots scrunched in the pristine white snow, the teenager was suddenly jolted out of his reverie.  Was it his imagination or out of the corner of his eye had he just glimpsed, through the swirling white mist and winter-ravaged trees, a small being moving slowly along the snow-buried driveway?

Baffled and curious (and not a little alarmed; a man had just died therefore ghosts were still a distinct possibility) he changed his route, quickening his pace as fast as the snow would allow.  At last he made out the strange creature to be a tangle-haired waif in a most peculiar state of dress.  This appeared to consist of jeans, several cashmere jumpers, one or two, perhaps even three (for the child looked suspiciously padded) of which were worn normally, and another wrapped around her waist; a thick cardigan, worn on her head like a hat, with its long sleeves knotted under her chin;  a giant pair of mittens (or quite possibly two pairs of thick socks) on each hand and several pairs of socks worn over her shoes. 

Dora, for Dora indeed it was, was making her way with great determination (and, alas, being so small and being so weighed down by sweaters, great difficulty too) towards the old cottage.  On she marched like a tiny soldier, raising her knees almost to her chin, arms outstretched to keep her balance, trudging through the snow as though she led an invisible army into battle...

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[Marie]

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Chapter 47
A Friend in Need

The snow was receding now, becoming no more than soft, feathery flakes falling over the world in a gentle hush.  Wilson (Jack had still not returned) was holding an umbrella over Lord and Lady Maddocks, who were about to climb into the Rolls.  They must have espied Dora at the same time as Matthew did, for their heads jerked suddenly upwards.  And something in their manner, some sixth sense, warned the boy to step quickly behind the little wall that surrounded the old Victorian flower garden and hid him from view. 

He wasn’t close enough to listen to their conversation, but he could actually “hear” every word.  Some good had come of all the years of “training” to be a priest.  In his early teens, he had spent some time being out and about with Father Thomas when he worked with disabled students.  In particular, deaf students.  Not only did Matt know sign language, but he was also extremely proficient at lip reading…

*****

“Prudence, look!”  Lady Maddocks hissed urgently in his wife’s ear. 

She turned to see what he wished to draw to her attention.  And, seeing what Arthur saw, she shuddered.

“Oh, good Lord!  Whatever IS wrong with our child?”   

But Arthur could only shake his head sadly in answer.  They had long suspected that their young daughter suffered from some unnamed mental malady (although they were reluctant to have doctors assess her psychological state for fear of the embarrassment it might cause) and now Dora confirmed it.  It just couldn’t be normal to be born into luxury and wealth and yet behave like a common pauper.

Wilson looked equally startled.  As well he might.  The small girl cut a forlorn figure, frozen and shivering, hair tangled and matted, sock-covered feet filthy and soaking wet, the drenched sleeves of a cardigan draped over her head dripping off snow as they worked themselves undone.

“I…I  n-need to see J-J-Jimmy,” she announced through chattering teeth

“For goodness sake, Dora!  We hadn’t had time to tell you yet.  Jimmy has passed away.”  Prudence delivered the statement matter-of-factly, unaware of how heartless it was.  “We are both very distressed by his death and could do without your adding to it by attempting to catch pneumonia.”

“Get into the car at once, you silly little girl!”  Arthur chided.  “Wilson, fetch her a blanket and ensure the heating is as high as it can be.  Dora, what on earth were you thinking of?  It’s not a time for playing games.  A great friend of ours has just died and we have extremely important matters to attend to.”

Dora’s lower lip trembled and large tears splashed down her cheeks, but her parents barely noticed.  Heart scalded, Matt watched, tempted to run out of his hiding place and yell angrily at them to put their arms around their little daughter, but all too aware it might only make things worse.  And he thought he could surely be no colder than he already was on such a bitter, bitter day in a winter they claimed was the coldest for over two hundred years. 

But what Prudence said next chilled him to the bone.

“Boarding school, Arthur,” she mouthed to her husband over her daughter’s head.  “It’s the only solution…”

[Marie]

Author's Note:  Hmm, I think Matthew must have been dyslexic!      And I only just discovered, in the course of my research for a 1962 song (I like to sound important  ) that the Loco-Motion is hyphenated! 

***chapter 48***

***Letters from Home***

Dear Daz (Matthew always thought it more homely to use her nickname)

Ignore bad spellin and grammer like all ways.  Hope school still ok.  Still take fresh flowers to Jimmy grave every week for you like you asked me and no your not to pay me back I got loads of dosh with this job and not much to spend it on so I want to spend sum dosh on my kid sis.  They say tulips and chrisanthersmum is best for snow and frost last longer so what we get.  Feel daft carrying flowers thug so did I tell you I go in dis guise wear Big Joes coat and hat or borrow one of your Dads top hats he do’nt know and footy scarf over me mouth.  Girl I told you about Jacky who works there sez Ime mad laughs till she crys and the coat comes down to my ankels all most but hay need it with this snow soon be March and still here.  Jacky has green eyes and long hare color like them toffy slabs and fab smile and likes the Beatles and has a cat called Penny youd like her.

Ada baked big mounten of scones yesterday and was all jolly when all of a sudden she sat down on a chair, buryed her face in her hands and bowled like a baby.  We thought she took sick then Mrs Geratty went to see what was to do to cheer her up next thing Mrs Geratty pulls up a chair and was bowling to.  Ada sez Dora loves scones with jam and cream would’nt be none left if you was here and every body bowled at that then we eat them.

Jack Stanford got Lydia up the spout so they left for Scotland.  (Dora, being too young to understand the expression, innocently imagined that Jack and Lydia, for reasons best known to themselves, had climbed a drainpipe to the roof somewhere in the North, espied Scotland in the distance and decided it a good place to re-locate.)  Got a new man Bingham to drive nearly as quit as the Quit Man but not quit just surley bugger.

Daz sorry got to tell you sum very bad news.  The wood horses got threw out.  The Quit Man put them in the rubbish not his fault your Ma sez to.  I yelled when found out and he got scarred Jesus Ida made a grate priest I do’nt think good thing I did’nt but felt bad after wards took him for few pints down the Red Lion they think Ime 18 there.  Sorry Daz old Pruneface may be your Ma but bleedin mean trick.  Well mate got to go help clear drive way all hands on deck in this snow they say worse winter since 1740 jesus christ no wonder were froze.  You take car now were all thinking of you.

Luv xxx your big bro Matt

ps Going to ask Jacky on date next time wish me luck kidda

Dora swallowed the lump that rose in her throat.  Long ago, when Jimmy had given her the sculptures, he had told her the story of how loved the two beautiful black Follyfoot horses had been, and how Davey had carved them in memory of Beauty and Magic for his children.  And, oh, she knew it was silly, she knew she was too old to believe in such things, but she had always imagined them real, and, as with Jimmy’s death, now they were gone, a little part of Dora died with them.  But Prudence and Arthur would surely have been proud of their little daughter at that moment, when she took a deep, shuddering breath and sternly told herself she must brush away her quiet tears. 

For she was learning to be on her own. 

There were other pupils like herself at Green Willows.  Girls from similar wealthy backgrounds, a few with parents like her own, as distant in love as they were distanced by geography.  And there were the horses.  The horses that would nicker in greeting and listen intently when she told them about the stables at Hepplethwaite’s and her life at Saxe Coburg Mansion, gazing at her with warm brown eyes that seemed to understand. 

With surprisingly little protest, she had agreed with her mother and father when they suggested that going away to school would be an excellent idea, partly because she knew they would send her anyway, but mostly because they finally relented and said they would allow her to take riding lessons.  At Green Willows, she had friends her own age and the horses and she needed nothing and no one else. 

Although she often longed for the old days, of going for a drive out with Jimmy to his church, wearing her pretend chauffeur hat and pretend chauffeur badge; or tucking into a thick slice of bread and jam in the kitchens, kicking her legs happily on the three-legged stool, enjoying the chatter and laughter and being fussed over; or Millie showing her how to dance the twist and Simon and Jeanette and one or two others joining in, faster and faster, till they were all dizzy and giggling and breathless; or Matthew teaching her the words to The Loco-Motion and the two of them singing an out-of-tune duet and dancing badly in the staff lounge to a thunder of applause and a stomping of feet that threatened to bring the roof down.

Her parents’ letters were stilted, written out of duty.  Matthew’s letters painted pictures and lightened the loneliness of her banishment.  Mummy and Daddy didn’t miss her, but the servants did and she missed them too, so much, much more than she did Mummy and Daddy.  She’d been taken away from those she loved, but she could and she would be strong. 

Because she had to be now she was all alone in the world. 

Planning to reply to Matthew later that day, Dora threw the envelope into the dormitory’s waste-paper bin, then carefully folded the pages that had been torn from a notebook and covered in Matthew’s large, spidery handwriting, and placed them inside the book Ponies in Colour that her friend Cleo had lent her to read, little dreaming of the chain of events that would follow the letter being found there…
 

[Marie]

***Chapter 49***

***Old Friends and New Friends***

“It’s all to go, Bob!”

Lord Arthur Maddocks waved his hand imperiously around the almost empty bedroom.  The task shouldn’t take the man very long.  Clothes had already been cleared out of wardrobes and dressers; bed linen and curtains had been stripped away, and only a few knick-knacks remained.  All that was required of the odd-job man was to throw those knick-knacks into a sack and deposit them with the household rubbish, due for collection later that morning.  When Dora returned home for the summer holidays (her parents felt it would be more beneficial to her development if, like some boarders did, she remained at school during the Easter break) she would find her new bedroom, a much larger en-suite across the way, tastefully decorated and fitted out in a manner suited to a young lady of eight and not an eight-year-old child.

“All but the furniture,” Arthur added gently.  The poor fellow was simple-minded and misunderstandings had occasionally occurred when instructions hadn’t been made crystal clear.  “The furniture will be attended to later.  Do you follow, old chap?” 
 
Bob Fletcher, aka The Quiet Man, nodded enthusiastically, and several times, in acquiescence.  Pointing at the two battered old wooden horse sculptures that stood either side of the window-sill, he tried to query “Horses?” but, frustratingly, only a vague guttural sound emitted from his throat.  For some reason, he couldn’t remember why, he thought they might be important to the child and he knew that she had done no packing of her own.  But it was so difficult to explain anything when a fog shrouded his confused mind and words rarely came or, when and if they did, like a slow-moving train, they arrived long, long after the passengers had left the station. 

A picture flashed into his memory.  The old man sat on the door-step of his cottage in the bright afternoon sunshine, dipping a brush into a nearby pot to paint over the scratches of one of the wood horses; the little girl knelt nearby on a garden mat, frowning in concentration as she carefully trowelled over a small vegetable patch.  But how to tell Lord Maddocks what he meant?

Prudence peeked round the door. 

“Ah, there you are, my sweet!  I’ve taken it upon myself to cancel dinner, heart’s dearest. We are invited to dine with Daphne and Richard tonight.” 

Whether anyone found it embarrassing or not, Lord and Lady Maddocks thought nothing of using terms of endearment for each other in front of their staff, and Prudence’s lightened heart danced with happiness.  Daphne had been only too glad to relinquish responsibility as Dora’s “Nanny”.  Her divorce settlement from the Duke of Hunterwood was finalized now and there was a new man in her life.  As she’d told her over the telephone, Prudence simply couldn’t wait to catch up on her great friend’s gossip. 

Boarding school!  It had been such a perfectly, perfectly splendid answer!  Something they should perhaps have arranged long ago, but Jimmy had always looked after Dora and tutors taken care of her education, so not only had the question never arisen, but, even though neither Prudence nor Arthur liked children, a rather annoying child remained in their midst.  Now, however, it was as though a breath of fresh air had finally blown through Saxe Coburg Mansion, clearing the debris and dust of despair in its wake!

Although it was January and the school year began in September, it was no problem enrolling young Miss Maddocks in Green Willows mid-term.  Its hitherto bored-sounding secretary turned almost breathless with awe as soon as she heard the names Lord and Lady Maddocks.  As did Dr Alicia Knight, the school’s illustrious headmistress.  Although, as an acclaimed author and expert on Victorian literature, she was a minor celebrity in her own right, and all her “gaaals” hailed from vastly wealthy backgrounds, Alicia would have jumped through hoops of fire to have this child a pupil.  Green Willows’ fees did not come cheap, but neither did the running of a public school, and its greatest rival, Tantigern House, counted the twin daughters of a global superstar among its latest intake.  It would be a tremendous coup, to accept as a student, a child whose parents hobnobbed with prime ministers and presidents from all around the world. 

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[Marie]

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(chapter 49/OldFriends and New Friends)/i]

As for Dora herself, she had been bribed with surprising ease. Only one subject seemed to capture her attention upon being presented with the school’s prospectus, in the hope pictures of magnificent halls and young ladies learning the art of dance or to play piano would sway her in its favour.  They had riding lessons at Green Willows; please, please, please could she? 

So keen were they to encourage separation, and had Green Willows offered such a facility, her parents might well have agreed to lessons in lion taming on Mars.  Remembering how Magic had thrown Prudence many years ago, however, they were still concerned about the possibility of accidents, but, happily, Green Willows’ health and safety record proved second to none.  One more important factor had influenced their choice of educational establishment:  its strongly enforced policy of never allowing members of the public, and in particular journalists, within a ten-mile radius.  A TV helicopter crew,that had taken aerial photographs of a European princess, had had such a massive lawsuit slammed against them that the station was forced to close down.  As a result, the media licked its wounds, bandaged its badly burnt fingers and kept its distance.

Over time, Lord and Lady Maddocks had come to realise that Dora, who preferred the company of servants (and even horses! ) to her own class was never going to slot naturally into her role as heiress-to-be, as they’d fondly imagined when first they’d banned her from such a “dangerous” pursuit as horse-riding.  But it would matter not not one iota, they agreed, if their odd little daughter spent the next few years getting soaked to the skin out riding in the foulest of weathers or pottering about in stables, with hair scraped back in riding hat and wearing the most unflattering of jodhpurs, if, like Grace Poole, she were hidden away from view. 

With the promise of a reward so dear to her heart, Dora had passed, and with flying colours, the hastily-arranged and necessary entrance examination - or, at least, most of it; she barely limped home in Mathematics, and then only after intense coaching from her maths tutor.  And, perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, but it was a long time ago and Green Willows would scorn such practices nowadays, but a little tweaking of the test papers here and there did no harm.

Prudence arrived just in time to “hear” Bob Fletcher’s “question” and glanced indifferently at the hired help, who stood waiting patiently for an answer, large sack in his hands.  His slowness often irritated her. 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Bob!  Those beastly ornaments are of no consequence! Is that not so, darling?”  She slipped her arm into her husband’s.

“Of no consequence at all, my turtle dove,” Arthur agreed, although how he knew this without once turning around, being far too busy gazing into his wife’s eyes, must remain a mystery.

But surely, if the child kept them and the old man looked after them, they were of consequence?  Still, what did he, with his feeble brain, know?  Puzzled by the complicated ways of the world, The Quiet Man shrugged and threw the mementos of Beauty and Magic, so lovingly created by Davey and so treasured by Dora, into the rubbish, to be burnt to ashes.

Prudence gave a small sigh of happiness.  Everything had fallen wonderfully into place.  They need concern themselves no more with such tedious matters as enduring evening meals with their daughter or being embarrassed in company by her working class behaviour.  Being with her own kind would ensure she soon forgot all this silly nonsense of wanting to be with commoners.

*****

The Honourable Miss Dora Maddocks closed the door to the room she shared with her friends, Cleo and Arabella, put a letter from her father to one side and keenly ripped open the latest communication from Matthew.  Mummy’s and Daddy’s letters were as pretentious as their telephone calls, and reminded her of how little they truly cared about her.  Mathew’s were full of fun and reminded her of how much she was loved by more simple folk.

She always would belong with those of a so-called lower social status, she thought, never dreaming how, in just a handful of weeks, everything was to change…

[Marie]

***chapter 50***

***Green Willows***

Mrs Mary Leatherbarrow took great pride in the fact she cleaned at a world-famous public school and longed to brag about the moneyed people she met in the course of her work.  But Green Willows had a very strict rule: school matters were NEVER discussed outside school gates.  Dr Alicia Knight, on welcoming four newly appointed Mrs Mops a decade or so earlier, when Britain was still in the throes of after-war jingoism, had dramatically declared, “Ladies, the fate of our gaaals and the future of our glorious country lies in our hands.  Be careless with whom and about whom you speak and we topple, topple, topple like a house of cards.” 

The headmistress fluttered her fingers like a kindergarten teacher teaching Incy-Wincy Spider. 

Three Mrs Mops looked ever so slightly startled.  The fourth felt her patriotically stirring heart thud-thud-thud with excitement.  A decade on, and now Head Domestic, Mrs Leatherbarrow was well known, both in the tiny village of Willows where she lived and in the town of Great Willows, where she and her husband Howie bussed to do their weekly shop.  As per Dr Knight’s wishes, Mary was, and had always been, the soul of discretion and, although she yearned to boast, stayed tight-lipped about the famous and the fortuned.  But she had found a compromise.  Nobody had said she couldn’t name-drop words!  

And so she would pepper her conversation with “spiffing” or “old chap” or “one is inclined to…” startling strangers and greatly amusing those who knew her, for she lost g’s, sprinkled aitches like sugar when they shouldn’t have been there and mislaid them when they should, made shocking grammatical errors, and added, rightly or wrongly, a touch of French or Italian or Russian (whatever might be the nationality of a newly-enrolled Green Willower).  Howie, who was addicted to TV westerns, was unable to “figure wommin and their wommin ways” as he told his mates, and so he simply puffed on his pipe, carried the shopping bags without a murmur and looked forward to his weekly visit to the Farmers Arms.

But, “word-dropping” aside, Mrs Leatherbarrow took her job seriously.  Very seriously indeed.  A place for everything and everything in its place, was her favourite motto and one that she instilled in her staff and had printed on posters pasted up in the main broom cupboard of every floor.  Which was why, upon checking the junior gaaal’s rooms had been left spick and span by her army of domestics, she tut-tutted to discover a book on one of the young ladies’ beds. 

Ponies in Colour by Josephine Pullein-Thomspon, was the offending item.  Such a grand name but all authors were no doubt grand people.  Mary smiled nostalgically as she plumped up two flattened pillows (she really would have to speak to young Brenda about her room-cleaning standards).  When her daughter Joan was five, she had begged her parents to buy her a pony.  Too poor to even consider it, they had instead bought her a second-hand toy from a jumble sale, a pony on wheels, which Joan adored and, using her feet to propel herself, would ride for hours on end. 

Family allowance was not yet in existence and, what with three children and only Howie’s farm labourer wages, they barely made ends meet.  But how happy they’d all been, she reflected, and how empty was a home and a mother’s heart when her children fled the nest.  Despite their vast riches, Mary didn’t envy the Green Willows pupils.  She was quite sure, even had she been born a queen, she never would have sent any of her brood off to boarding school.  Poor little Miss Dora now, who shared this room with stunningly pretty Miss Cleo and alarmingly snobbish Miss Arabella, and who, being well known for her love of horses, was almost certainly the owner of the pony book, always looked so wistful. 

Mary had a very soft spot for Miss Dora.  Unlike most of the gaaals, she refused to adhere to Green Willows’ unwritten rule that young ladies treat serving staff with disdain, and never failed to greet them with a smile. The cleaning lady had glimpsed from afar the illustrious Lord and Lady Maddocks on the day they brought their daughter to the school.  Her initial awe had been quickly replaced by overwhelming pity however when she saw how little notice these grand people took of the poor mite, being all too consumed by their own greatness.  It just wasn’t fair on the child, she thought sadly; her three went without many things but they’d never gone without love.

A bell rang through the halls, announcing a change of lesson, snapping Mary Jane Leatherbarrow out of her reverie.  Dear me, this wouldn’t buy the baby a new bonnet!  She shook the pillows one final time, then picked up the book to put it where she would tell Brenda it should have been in the first place:  laid neatly on the locker.  A thin sheet of paper, covered in large, spidery handwriting, chose that very moment to fall out and float leisurely down to the carpet, where it lay with one corner trembling in a draught, as if eager to be off on some great adventure.  Imagining it to be nothing more than childish ramblings or notes on schoolwork, Mary stooped to retrieve the document. 

But then she gasped and reeled back in horror, needing to fortify herself with a deep breath before she blinked and dared look again.

No, she was not mistaken.  Mary had always baulked at the idea of reading anyone’s personal mail, but our eyes, whether we wish them to or not, will read whatever they see, be it a large, colourful advertisement demanding our attention or a list of ingredients on the back of a cornflakes packet.  And certain words jumped involuntarily into her line of vision:  Jack Stanford got Lydia up the spout; surley bugger; bleedin mean trick…

It was obviously a letter, but it was most certainly not the type of letter any Green Willower was accustomed to receiving.  And, much as Mrs Leatherbarrow hated to “sneak”, as the gaaals would have said, being a responsible adult, she couldn’t possibly ignore it. 

Face grim, clutching the paper tightly, as though it might try to escape at any moment, albeit at arm’s length (it felt so very wrong to have it in her possession) and, almost weeping at the conflict of doing wrong and doing right, Mary hurried to the principal’s office. 

The clock ticked towards ten o’clock as Dr Knight, turning whiter with each passing tick-tock, read the correspondence in stunned silence.

“Thank you, Mrs Leatherbarrow,” she said, at last regaining her composure.  “I appreciate your bringing this matter to my attention and ask that it is, for the time being, kept between ourselves.  I will speak with Lord and Lady Maddocks.  It is for they alone to decide what should be done.”

Miss Dora!  Mary, who had not read the address, thinking it bad enough that she read any of the letter at all, had hoped, with an odd kind of logic, that it might prove to belong to someone who had nothing whatsoever to do with Green Willows, some anonymous person who, for reasons unknown, happened by and slipped the communication inside the book.  But Miss Dora!  The very last gaaal in the school she would have wanted in trouble.  The tears that had threatened spilled over then, and she dabbed her eyes with a cotton handkerchief she pulled from her apron pocket, as an urgent telephone call was made and an urgent courier arranged. 

By 3.30pm Matthew’s letter was in Lord Maddocks’ hands.

[Marie]

***chapter 51***

***Closure***

“Matthew, there are so many things that trouble me about this correspondence that I am seriously at a loss where to begin.”

Arthur, who sat behind a mahogany desk, with said letter laid out before him on a large blotting pad, gave a heartfelt sigh, thankful he had been the one to take the telephone call from the principal of Green Willows, and not his wife.  They had few secrets from each other, but on this matter he knew he would always keep his counsel.  Prudence had disliked Matthew from the start, unimpressed with the youth’s behaviour at his job interview, and not seeing, as Arthur did, a confused and frightened young boy, who hid behind bravado because his life was spiralling out of control. 

If  he were so determined to employ such an “uncouth lout”, she told her husband, after he’d suggested they hire him for a trial period, then she wanted nothing to do with the whole sorry business and he could take sole responsibility for him.  And the family heirlooms that he would doubtless steal, she added, furiously crashing down a thick law book (Prudence was reading over a speech prepared for Parliament and wished to double-check some facts).  She glared stony-faced when Arthur countered in amusement of course they would call the police in that “unlikely event” but he was tremendously concerned about exactly how many of their hundreds of silver candlesticks Matthew could carry without incurring serious injury; should they perhaps plan ahead and arrange now for an articulated lorry?  She would be scandalized if she were ever to learn that a commoner had referred to their precious only child as his “kid sister”.

Blissfully unaware of his own inherent snobbery, Arthur acknowledged that Prudence could be rather a snob at times, but he was in total agreement when she said class was class and there had to be a clear divide.  They had been far too lax in allowing Dora to mix with servants and look at the result!  It was so dreadfully embarrassing when their daughter used working class slang at grand dinner parties and his poor wife required smelling salts to revive her the terrible day she saw Dora wiping her nose on her sleeve.  Friendships between the upper and lower classes should always be discouraged.  Admittedly, there were exceptions:  Jimmy, for instance, had been born into dire poverty yet had been a great friend to both Lord and Lady Maddocks, as well as Dora.  But Jimmy had always been reverential towards his betters, almost having to be begged to join them at Saturday breakfast because he felt it “wasn’t his place”.  Young Davey, for all his faults, never got ideas above his station.  Matthew, however, was of the modern world and the modern world was of a different ilk.  Instead of being content with their lot, the poor demanded the right to attend university, to have careers, to climb the social ladder.  It really was most disconcerting.

But in the end breeding showed.  Matthew’s barely literate letter was testimony to that indisputable fact.   

“Swearing, blasphemy, “up the spout” (though, fortunately, I’m quite sure Dora will be unaware of the connotations) boasting about drinking alcohol whilst being underage, using a name we specifically ordered our employees they were NOT to use for our child, a shocking lack of respect for Lady Maddocks…did my wife or I ever even give you permission to write to our daughter?

“No, but she’s a great kid…”  Matt’s voice trailed dejectedly away.  “Am I fired?” 

With contented clicks and sighs, radiators bathed the office in a comfortable warmth,  but Matt felt suddenly cold.  Thanks to his police record, there was very little chance of employment elsewhere.  He’d only been working at Saxe Coburg for a very short while, but he would miss the sense of belonging here.  Although it was a bleak early March day, there was even something oddly reassuring about the view of its grounds, where particles of snow clung stubbornly to barren tree branches and large patches of ice lay thick on withered grass.  It was barely six o’clock, but already the sky had darkened and shadows crept indoors like fallen dreams.  He hoped it wasn’t an omen. 

(continued on next page)

[Marie]

chapter 51/***Closure***
(continued from previous page)


“No, Matthew, you are not,” Arthur replied.  “Not quite. Or perhaps I should say not quit?  Whatever would Chris Anther’s Mum think?”

The humourous references to his mis-spellings, however, were lost on the teenager and he stared blankly at his employer, wondering if he’d lost his mind.  Arthur, for his part, decided against leading the conversation into suggesting the boy might benefit from a crash course in the English language.

“Long, long ago, we had in our employ, another young man of whom we despaired,” Lord Maddocks continued.  “We had washed our hands of Davey until a good friend of ours intervened and asked that we gave him another chance.  It proved to be the making of him.”  Arthur’s voice croaked a little.  Even after all these years, Davey’s untimely death in the War was a loss that neither he nor Prudence could speak of without emotion.  And, as we have seen, emotion was something that both Arthur and Prudence scorned.  Mentally admonishing himself, he cleared his throat. 

“I have no complaints about your work.  You have a kind heart and your contact with Dora was done with the very best of intentions.  Which is why earlier I spoke at length with my brother.  Henry owns a castle in mid-Wales and, if you so wish, he is willing to offer you a similarly-waged residential position there, which may, in time, lead to being part of his employee entourage when he attends to business abroad.  But you are to understand this is your very last chance.  There must be no more contact with Dora.  My daughter will be moving in much higher social circles and cannot afford to be held back.  She will no longer be allowed to associate with serving staff, whether at Saxe Coburg or anywhere else.  What say you, Matt?  It is an excellent opportunity.  Will you accept the post and a fresh start?” 

Arthur smiled confidently, expecting the youngster to bite his hand off with gratitude, and was so taken aback by the boy’s answer that he actually jumped.

“I’ll only take the job if you’ll agree to certain conditions, Lord Maddocks.”

“Matthew, you are hardly in a position to bargain,” his distinguished employer, who had dealt with prime ministers and monarchy without flinching, pointed out, recovering his unexpectedly shaken composure.  “But I will at least hear you out.  Go on.”

“I’ll take it if you’ll explain to Da…Dora that I didn’t want to break ties and why I had to.  That poor kid is cut up enough about losing her mates here as it is.  And if you’ll still take flowers to Jimmy’s grave every week like I promised Dora I would.  You’re a good bloke and I know if you give your word you’ll keep it.” 

“The flowers for Jimmy’s grave, consider it done, I had, in any case, intended to continue the tradition.”  Arthur shuddered at being referred to as a “good bloke” as though he were a common labourer, but let it pass.  “But you’re prepared to foolishly throw your only chance away should I refuse your request to explain matters to Dora?  It is a most reckless attitude.” 

“Dora’s more important.  The kid’s had enough letdowns and upsets.”  In for a penny, in for a pound.  Matt took a deep breath.  “If you don’t agree, sir, then I can’t take the job and I’ll try and find some way to stay in touch because she’ll always be like a kid sister to me.  It’s wrong to imagine she can only be mates with gentry.  One day Dora will make you realise it isn’t all about money and power.  Those are my terms, Lord Maddocks, what do you think?”

After a stunned silence, Arthur laughed suddenly, half in admiration, half at the absurdity of the situation, that his newest and youngest employee, instead of being immediately dismissed, as Dr Knight of Green Willows expected, was dictating terms and conditions, and picturing Prudence’s shocked face at the very idea. 

“I think with your fighting spirit you will do very well, my boy! And I agree to them.” 

Matthew did indeed “do very well” but as our tale is of how Follyfoot came to be I will only mention briefly that, after working for Henry Maddocks for a number of years, he made his career ensuring the welfare of children all around the world.

Lord Maddocks kept his promise and explained to Dora it had not been Matt’s choice to end their friendship.  She never did mix with the household at Saxe Coburg again nor was she permitted to acknowledge any of the domestics at Green Willows.  She must be kept away from her inferiors, for greater things, said Lord and Lady Maddocks, awaited their daughter.  Ah, so they did, so they did, but they would not be the “greater things” that they envisaged.  No, at a certain picturesque farm deep in the heart of Yorkshire, they would be far greater! 

But all this was a long way in the future and the wings of years were yet to fly by.  And as they take flight, they will carry us to another time, another place, another person who would come to share the Follyfoot story…

END OF PART ONE

[Marie]

...And, as usual, I only have a vague idea of where this is going...  Don't worry too much about the ponies, this is just an intro chapter.  Dora and Slugger had the monopoly in part one of this story so I want to write about Ron's background now and to go much more in depth with Steve's childhood.  Also, I still have the colonel's lost love, Elizabeth, in the back of my mind.  They're all just vague ideas at the moment tho...   

***when the snow falls***
(part two)

If tha’s cold, move closer t’fire (Slugger homily)

***Chapter One***

***The Lost and the Lonely***

(prelude)

There were times even now, all these years later, when Steve would retreat into his own world.  When Dora mentioned something about her wealthy background or Ron, who thought it would be a “blast”, wound him up so far he became a tight little knot of unleashed fury; when Slugger, in his blunt way, waded in with boots heavy as those that in Army days trudged through mud and blood; when the colonel found some small fault with his work or a beaten, emancipated horse was brought to the Farm; when a news story broke about a cruelly-treated child or his mother sent yet another cold, emotionless letter, as though to a stranger, begging him to send more money…oh, there might be a thousand reasons. 

Or there might be none. 

All that we knew, those of us who followed the Follyfoot story, is that these were times when his dark eyes flashed with a terrible anger and, fists clenched tightly, he would storm away, to sit alone under the lightning tree, staring into a past only he saw. 

The Tuesday in July, the day the floods began, was one of those times.  The weeks leading up to the peak holiday season had basked in sunshine and tourists flocked to caravans and cottages, to homely B&Bs and haughty hotels, keen to enjoy Yorkshire’s breathtaking countryside.  Ah, but roses have thorns and if we will have our scenery then we must have our rain.  At noon a shrill wind whistled eerily down from the Yorkshire moors, always a harbinger of some great weather change, and in the late afternoon the first torrential downpour arrived.  Soaked and shivering, many a holidaymaker took refuge in cafés and pubs, in castles and stately homes, or stayed cooped up indoors to sigh gloomily out at leaden skies.

Now, over the years, and unlike the more experienced hikers, youth hostellers or hardy dog-walkers, amateur ramblers would occasionally wander off the safe, arrow-marked paths, stopping by in curiosity when they saw the sign for Follyfoot Farm.  Some left donations and others left litter; some wept at the sad stories they heard and others were indifferent; once an obnoxious pair of brothers tried to purchase a couple of horses to perform tricks in their circus, upping their offer by thousands in the belief anything and anyone could be bought and sold, and, upon being firmly told no still meant no, went on to launch a malicious smear campaign to try and have the Farm closed down; once a wealthy New York couple were so taken by the idea of a home for unwanted horses (and, having a great deal of empathy, astute enough to realise this philosophy extended to people) that, back on American soil, they abandoned their luxurious lifestyle to fund a small dwelling set in acres of land and began a Follyfoot of their own.  In short, the visitors were a motley bunch.

The family who strolled casually into the farm in the sunny, dusty heat of mid-morning were typical “walk-ins” as the Follyfoot people nicknamed their uninvited guests.  They consisted of two little girls, a small boy in a pushchair, a tall, skinny man and a smaller, plumper woman.  Packing only sunscreen and a picnic of sausage rolls, crisps, sandwiches and two large bottles of lemonade, all crammed into the storage space under the buggy, Marty and Debbie Cragge had set off for, as they optimistically told their brood, “a long walk across the Moors”. Perhaps fortunately, they never did reach their intended destination.

Instead they chanced upon Follyfoot Farm, where, seeing stables and a couple of ponies grazing in a field, the parents immediately encouraged their excited children to run wild and free. 

It was as they followed their brood that Marty and Debbie realised their mistake.  The only animals here being horses and the lack of fellow tourists strongly suggested Follyfoot wasn’t the children’s petting farm they’d originally thought.  Still, they were agreed, it had been a very lucky break to find something new with which to entertain their demanding offspring and they both deserved a breather.  Marty pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and struck a match.  Debbie, her throat parched, pulled a bottle of lemonade from under the buggy and twisted open the top.  The two incidents combined like a powder keg.  The lemonade fizzed up and exploded with a loud bang, startling Marty into dropping a lighted match on to the arid grass…the red spark quickly becoming a wavering orange flame that snaked towards the stables…

Tammy and Tilly, the two timid new ponies, whinnied uneasily as they sniffed smoke on the air.  The lock that normally secured the entrance to the smaller paddock, recently constructed on the edge of the Farm, near the field that bordered Buckets Lane, which, in turn, eventually led to a slip road and the motorway, had still not been fixed by a certain Mr Stryker.  The gate had been easy enough for three little kiddies under the age of eight to undo.  And to leave wide open behind them…