By his side, frequently departing from it in order to direct the servants, stood his wife. Mrs McCosh had been a great beauty in her youth, and was to retain her comeliness into old age. She was seven years senior to her husband, and had married late owing to a long previous engagement to a milord who subsequently turned out to have had a wife already, locked up in an asylum in New York. It had taken her many years to recover from the mortification of the scandal having become public and being written up in the press, and she had virtually gone into seclusion until the gallant and impervious Hamilton McCosh had hauled her out of it. She had caused much gossip by playing tennis vigorously when pregnant, and was notorious for her outspoken belief that women should vote equally with men. She had become a warrior in what was being called ‘the Sex War’. However, her husband would explain that this was because she wanted the right to vote Conservative. She had recently taken up cycling and was still somewhat bruised about the thighs after losing a wheel during a tour of Hayling Island.
Mrs McCosh’s great weakness was for the royal family. She followed their doings avidly, and subscribed to The Times only to peruse the Court Circular. The coronation party was her idea, even though most of the nation had already feasted a month before, when the King had donated £30,000 to the poor of London, and 456,000 people had eaten and drunk at his expense. The King himself, recovering in bed from an operation, had sent his regrets to each Lord Mayor, and the Prince and Princess of Wales had made up for his absence by visiting twenty of the dinner parties in succession. It had all felt like a wonderful new start.
Mrs McCosh was looking forward to the coronation party, but also wondered if she could bear to see it through, because she was still in deep mourning for the Queen, and had only this very day given up wearing black. She was not at all sure that she approved of the new King, who kept racehorses and had dismissed many of the old Queen’s retainers.
‘I do hope that His Majesty is fully recovered,’ she said to her husband, somewhat insincerely.
‘What was it again?’ he asked.
‘Peritiphylitis.’
‘Sounds dreadful. What on earth is it?’
‘Darling, I’ve told you so many times. It’s an infection of something that the appendix hangs from. Anyway, they say he’s recovered, but won’t be carrying the Sword of State to the altar. I do hope he doesn’t collapse.’
‘Kings of Scotland dinna collapse,’ replied Mr McCosh. ‘They die heroically in battle or get stabbed in their sleep.’
‘My dear, I hope you are not suggesting that our dear present Queen Alexandra may be something of a Lady Macbeth? She is Danish after all.’
‘Danish monarchs kill their brothers and nephews, if we are to believe the Bard. And women are strange, unscrupulous creatures. And queens are women. And the Danish Queen married her husband’s brother, who killed him. A sorry lot, Danish queens.’
‘You must stop being provocative, my dear. It’s fortunate that I’m so used to your humour. If that is what one should call it. Hamlet is undoubtedly fiction, as you well know. I do wish one could have been there…at the coronation, I mean. I should have loved to see Lord Kitchener all done up in plumes, and Sir Alfred Gaselee. And the new Prime Minister, of course.’
‘Well, my dear, we are exceedingly lucky with the weather. We couldn’t have asked for a nicer day. And we have the Eltham aristocracy to entertain. Talking of which, have we set up the table for the tradesmen and artisans?’
‘Of course. They’ll be down there at the orchard end.’
‘Ah, far below the salt.’
Affecting not to understand his humour, which is how the British love to spoil a joke, Mrs McCosh replied, ‘Every table will have its own salt cellar and pepper pot. I’m just going to see that Nurse has got the children ready.’
‘Ah, here is Mme Pitt and her little boys,’ said Mr McCosh. ‘I shall go and greet them, and you can chivvy up the girls, my dear.’
For a reason long forgotten, there was a blue door in the wall that divided the garden of The Grampians from that of its neighbour on the left. The door was old and a little rotten at top and bottom. Its hinges were creaky and rusty, but it still worked, and it was kept unseized because of its frequent use by the children of the two families.
On the other side of the blue door dwelt the Pendennis family, recently arrived from Baltimore, complete with three young sons, Sidney, Albert and Ashbridge, all born a year apart, and each of the younger exactly six inches shorter than his immediate elder, so that they reminded some people of a set of library steps. Every morning these boys shook their father’s hand when they came down to breakfast, and addressed him as ‘sir’.
The McCosh family had four daughters, blue-eyed Rosie, with her long rich chestnut hair, and fair skin peppered with freckles; then Christabel, an English rose in the making, tall and athletic. Then there was Ottilie, who was clearly going to be of the traditional English pear shape, with a pale round face and lovely dark round eyes set beneath a sweet dark fringe. Lastly there was Sophie, little, thin and ungainly, with uncontrollable frizzy hair, whose humour and manner of speech were already becoming quirky. Her father liked to say that she had a lopsided view of the world, and that it would stand her in good stead. Whilst it would be true to say that these girls deeply loved their difficult mother, it would also be true to say that they adored their easy-going father.
On the opposing garden wall there was no blue door, so the two boys who played in the garden beyond it would arrive simply by climbing over and leaping down. They had worn a hard, flat patch in the rose bed. The wall was seven foot high, and it was already clear that Archie Pitt and his younger brother Daniel were going to grow up into a pair of daredevils and adventurers.
On this day, just as everybody was settling down on their rugs and chairs with their plates of tongue and their cup, Archie, aged fourteen, appeared on the top of the wall in his best clothes, and stood on it, arms akimbo, with all the confidence of a Himalayan goat.
‘Archie, what on earth are you doing up there?’ demanded Mrs McCosh.
‘We have created a spectacle,’ announced the boy, ‘in honour of the King.’
‘In honour of the King?’ repeated Mrs McCosh, somewhat placated. ‘Well, that’s very fine of you, I’m sure.’
‘Can we put some of the cushions just down there, the other side of the path?’ asked Archie. He had a tone of command unusual in an adolescent, and those immediately below him vacated their rugs and arranged cushions as directed, their indulgent assumption being that Archie wanted a soft spot on which to land.
‘Really, one shouldn’t tolerate such things in a child,’ said Mrs McCosh.
‘Aren’t you intrigued?’ replied her husband. ‘I must say, I do admire such confidence in a boy, don’t you? And anyway, I know what’s going to happen, and I’ve already given the boys permission. We are going to start off with a feat.’
Archie’s parents were as sanguine. They stood below, arm in arm, grinning proudly. Archie’s mother, resolutely French, but Protestant nonetheless, like a sort of belated Huguenot, was always known as Mme Pitt, on her own insistence, and was twirling a parasol with her free hand. Captain Pitt, formerly of the Royal Yacht Victoria and Albert, was dressed in naval uniform for the great day, the gold braid glittering in the sunlight against the dark blue. Mme Pitt said, ‘Chou-chou, I hope this is not going to end in tears.’
‘Maman, we’ve been practising like billy-o. Daniel’s done it heaps of times. And it was your idea.’
‘The worst that can happen is a broken neck,’ said the Captain.
‘Oh, chéri, tais-toi. You shouldn’t say such things. It tempts the Devil.’
‘Let’s hope to settle for a sprained ankle, then.’
‘Chéri! Arrêtes!’
‘Is everybody ready?’ called Archie. ‘Come on, everybody, look!’
Gradually, a hush fell, and even the servants ceased bustling. Mr McCosh stepped forward.
‘My friends and,
indeed, one or two mortal enemies, welcome to The Grampians. We are here to celebrate the beginning of a new age, perhaps. His Majesty is…how shall I put it?…somewhat older than his dear mother was when she came to the throne…but by God’s grace he may yet have a long life and remain our monarch for many a good year to come. We have lived well, progressively more well with each passing year under the late Queen, who has given her name to what seems in retrospect an entire age; but now a new term has been coined, and we are already describing ourselves as Edwardians, are we not? When was the nation previously so happy? I would suggest it was at the Restoration. We had in King Charles the Second a merry monarch, and now we have another monarch at least as merry as he was. May he long remain so! And may we be merry too. Our hope, the hope of any race, is in its youth, is it not? We are to begin our celebrations today with a wonderful piece of audacity by our two young neighbours, Archie and Daniel Pitt. They have been practising for days! Pray silence and attention for Archie and Daniel Pitt!’
There was a small burst of applause, Archie atop the wall took a low bow, and his mother grasped the Captain’s arm more tightly in her own. ‘It’ll be wonderful,’ he reassured her proudly. ‘The boys are completely fearless.’
A silence ensued, and Archie bent his knees in readiness. He raised his left hand, and let it drop, and a few seconds later a small flying boy appeared beside and above him, clutching the top of a vaulting pole. The boy released the pole as he soared above the wall, and at the same moment Archie ducked down and leapt up, circling his shins with his forearms. He somersaulted neatly down to the cushions, landing on his feet as his even more aerial brother landed beside him. Archie put his arm around his little brother’s neck and they bowed together, grinning broadly.
There was a collective gasp and then a stunned hush as the partygoers took in the virtuosity and courage of this extraordinary display. In truth, most of them were quite horrified by it. But as Archie and Daniel were so gloriously pleased with themselves, it was impossible not to share in their triumph. The guests converged on them to shake their hands and pat their heads, and the Captain pressed a sovereign into each of their hands, saying, ‘Well done, boys! Well done! A train set each, I think! A train set each!’
‘Such a pair of acrobats!’ said Mrs McCosh to Mme Pitt. ‘But I declare I can’t imagine how you could have let them do it.’
‘I saw them in the garden doing things like this,’ replied Mme Pitt. ‘It was my idea, the whole thing. And the Captain, he said, “Be it on your head, chérie,” but now it’s all très bien, and after all I have nothing on my head but this bonnet. But I think perhaps I won’t let them do it again. It is too much for the heart.’
‘And how are your other two boys? Are they still in South Africa?’
‘Still in South Africa. I have heard nothing for weeks. I pray. I pray, that’s all. Que Dieu les sauve.’
The children were having their own party in parallel to that of the adults. Daniel and Archie were the heroes of the hour, and so they affected a nonchalant swagger. ‘I think that was marvellously brave,’ said Ottilie to Archie.
But Archie was hoping that Rosie might have been impressed. He watched her carefully for any sign, but saw forlornly that she was only interested in one of the new American boys from the other side of the blue door. This boy was Ashbridge Pendennis, a year older than Rosie, and already showing signs of the stocky and powerful athlete that he was to become. His hair was very fair, and his eyes were the same shade as the Channel on a winter’s day. ‘That was mighty fine,’ he said to Daniel, who was also hoping for a little admiration from Rosie. ‘I couldn’t do that, I really don’t think.’ Ashbridge pronounced the word ‘mighdy’, and Rosie thought this very charming.
‘But you’re so strong,’ said Rosie. ‘You can even lift Bouncer.’
‘Where is Bouncer?’ asked Daniel. Daniel was slim, with shining black hair and blue eyes that were particularly disconcerting in bright sunlight. It was clear that one day he would be a tall man.
‘We shut him in,’ said Rosie. ‘He makes such a fuss when there’s bags of people.’
Rosie hoped that the others would all go away, because she wanted to be left alone with Ashbridge, but Archie and Daniel kept hovering near her, and Ottilie just hovered by Archie.
‘Why don’t you ask Mama and Papa if you can let him out for bit?’she suggested to Daniel, and shortly found her wish granted. Ashbridge put his hand into the pocket of his shorts and brought something out. ‘Here,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
He pressed it into her hand, saying, ‘Don’t let anyone see.’
She glanced down. It was small and made of brass. ‘A curtain ring!’ said Rosie.
Ashbridge blushed. ‘I’ll get you a proper one when we’re older. I’ve only got half a crown. If you keep it, it means we’re engaged.’
‘But I’m only twelve,’ she said.
‘Well, one day you sure won’t be. It’s gotta be me who gets there first. Will you keep it?’
Rosie looked into his earnest eyes, which seemed to flicker with anxiety and the fear of rejection. She saw that his courage had been very great, and was touched. Ashbridge said, ‘Since I came over…from the States…I didn’t like it too much here…at first…but you made it all fine, Rosie, you really did.’
‘I’ll keep it,’ she said.
‘Can I kiss you on the cheek?’
‘Not now.’
‘Later?’
Rosie nodded gravely. ‘Later. Only on the cheek.’
Ashbridge looked at her gratefully, and said, ‘Do you want to see me do a cartwheel? I can do five in a row without stopping.’
‘I’m engaged,’ thought Rosie to herself. ‘I’m engaged.’ How wonderful to be engaged already, at the age of ten, to Ashbridge. ‘I’ve seen you do lots of cartwheels,’ she said, adding, ‘But I don’t mind if you want to do some more.’
For the adults the party was a great success. Towards seven o’clock, as the food and drink began to run out, it was time for the blessing. To what would such an occasion amount without a blessing from the rector?
Mr McCosh went to release this clergyman from amid the gaggle of spinsters and widows that always surrounded him, and led him up the steps to the door of the conservatory so that he might overlook the lawns. He smiled with all the modesty of a man who feels himself lavishly and rightfully endowed with humility, spiritual grace and local celebrity. He raised his right hand in the classic gesture of blessing and recited:
‘O Lord our heavenly Father, high and mighty, King of kings, Lord of lords, the only Ruler of princes, who dost from Thy throne behold all the dwellers upon earth. Most heartily we beseech thee with thy favour to behold our most gracious Sovereign Lord, King Edward, and so replenish him with with all the grace of Thy Holy Spirit, that he may always incline to Thy will, and walk in Thy way. Endue him plenteously with heavenly gifts; grant him in health and wealth long to live; strengthen him that he may vanquish and overcome all his enemies; and finally, after this life, he may attain everlasting joy and felicity; through Jesus Christ our Lord.’
No sooner had the collective ‘Amen’ been reverently murmured, than havoc broke loose.
Daniel had sneaked indoors and located Bouncer from the whines and barks coming from behind the dining-room door. No sooner had he opened it than the dog had hurtled out and bolted for the party that was going on in the garden.
Bouncer was a large, heavily built brown dog, approximately the size of a Labrador. He was one and a half years old, shiny and muscled, and very aptly named. Out on the lawn he bounced, it seemed, vertically, wagging his backside furiously as he attempted to lick anyone whose face he could reach. In vain did Mr McCosh pursue him and attempt to pin him down. The ladies shrieked as his paws raked their breasts and their delicate white dresses, and the gentlemen vainly headed him off with their canes as he hurtled from one beloved human to another.
Mrs McCosh rolled her parasol and whacked him shar
ply across the nose, exclaiming, ‘Down, boy!’ but it had no effect whatsoever. Finally, Captain Pitt managed to seize the dog, and one of the servants was despatched to fetch a lead from the hall. Bouncer was dragged, bouncing and singing tirelessly all the while, back into the house.
It was a good note to end on, and the guests, faces reddened from a glorious afternoon in the sunshine, began to make their farewells. There was much to talk about and to remember. Archie, Daniel and Ash and the dog had made it a memorable day.
In the palace the King put his feet up and smoked a cigar. It had all gone terribly well, apart from the poor old Archbishop having to retire to St Edward’s Chapel, and then being unable to get to his feet after pledging allegiance. The King began to think of who the first truly Edwardian Archbishop might be.
He felt downcast. He had lived a charmed life as Prince of Wales, a long round of house parties, shooting expeditions, theatres, horse races, actresses, mistresses. Now it was all over, and the responsibility lowered on him like thunderclouds at the end of August. He had been privately convinced for some time that the monarchy was doomed, but he knew his duty; he would keep his melancholy to himself.
2
Edwardians
Twelve years passed, years that would forever be remembered as golden by those who had taken part in Mr and Mrs McCosh’s coronation garden party. One summer succeeded another, each, it seemed, hotter and more glorious than the one before. The roses thrived in the clay of the beds, the apples grew juicy and generous, and wasp traps made of jam and beer were set up in the boughs. In Court Road each summer evening could be heard the thud of tennis balls and the hollow clonking of croquet mallets. Out in the street the ragamuffin children of the poor came up from Mottingham and played games of hide-and-seek, knuckle bones, grandmother’s footsteps and kick the can. Sometimes they knocked on the doors of kitchens and asked for drinks of water, soon learning which maids were generous with sherbet and gingerbread men. Gardeners went out armed with buckets, and fetched in the horse droppings for the roses. Gypsy women stopped ladies in the street and offered lucky white heather, with the clear implication that bad luck would ensue from refusal. Almost every day there came by the muffin man, the costermonger, the rag-and-bone man, the milkman, the cats’ meat man, the fish carts drawn by enormous rangy dogs. Each tradesman had his own cry. Policemen strolled in pairs on their predictable circuits, armed only with whistles and coshes. In winter the smoke from the fires, the factories and the bonfires of leaves created yellow fog that choked the asthmatic and rolled inexorably down the street like vast waves. Once enveloped, one could see no further than the end of one’s hand. People groped their way to the nearest door, knocked, and were given refuge. At eventide and dawn the gaslighter came, and when it snowed the gaslight on the pavements sparkled and danced.