A Vicarage Family: A Biography of Myself

  That night when they were going to bed Isobel said, ‘I’ve been thinking. Mummy’s not the sort of mother who talks to her children, but I think she’d be glad if we tried to help ourselves. I’m going to ask her if, now I’m fourteen, I could read her library books.’

  ‘I don’t see how that’s going to help me,’ Victoria objected. ‘Besides, if it’s going to make me hate kings in the way John does, I don’t want to.’

  ‘John doesn’t hate kings, he didn’t mean that. I just think he thinks we are rather ignorant, and I don’t mean to be that. So I am going to read grown-up books and, if I get a chance, Daddy’s newspaper – and if you’ve any sense, so will you.’

  13

  Christmas

  As a result of that discussion it was, in Victoria’s opinion, a more knowledgeable girl who met John when three months later he came home for Christmas. Isobel and Victoria had planned to hold a carefully rehearsed conversation as they walked him home from the station.

  ‘We’ll show him,’ Victoria had said, ‘he’s not the only one who knows anything.’

  ‘How shall we start?’ Isobel had asked.

  Victoria was full of ideas.

  ‘First you’ll say, as if it was the sort of thing we always talked about: “Oh, by the way, Vicky, did you read that speech Mr Asquith made yesterday?”’

  ‘How do we know he said anything yesterday?’ Isobel objected. ‘I haven’t been able to get hold of The Morning Post for days.’

  At that time even sober papers such as The Times and The Morning Post were seldom read by the women of a household such as the Strangeways, for nothing in a national paper was supposed to interest them. So the morning paper left the dining room under their father’s arm and presently came to rest in his study, from which it could only be borrowed if it was known he was out and how long he would be away. But not having seen a paper did not bother Victoria.

  ‘Prime Ministers make speeches every day, so he’s sure to have said something.’

  Isobel had giggled.

  ‘John’s going to think we’ve changed a lot if you and I are supposed to talk about Prime Minister’s speeches.’

  ‘Well, we have changed a lot. Then I’ll say something about Lloyd George.’

  ‘Why him?’ Isobel had asked. ‘We don’t know much about him.’

  ‘Annie does. She calls him “that liar from Wales”.’

  ‘I tell you what would be good to talk about,’ Isobel had suggested. ‘Suffragettes. After all, we do know about them.’

  Actually, except that the name of Mrs Pankhurst was on everyone’s lips, the girls had the sketchiest idea of what the suffrage movement was about. They did know that their father was strongly opposed to it, for a parishioner had stopped the children one day on their way back from school and had asked Louise if she would like to wear a white frock and a purple and a green sash to present a bouquet to a very important lady. Louise was, of course, charmed and burst into the house calling out her news. Her father, who was in the hall, had said:

  ‘What coloured sash did you say?’

  ‘Green and purple,’ Louise announced proudly. ‘And a white frock.’

  Their father spoke quite angrily.

  ‘Listen, girls, those are the colours worn by women who defy the rules by which all good women live. They want to behave like men and vote for members of Parliament – which would mean blue murder – the ruin of the country.’

  But the political conversation planned for John could not take place when he did arrive for Isobel had asthma, but Victoria intended to manage alone.

  ‘I’ll even let him know that we know now how babies come,’ she promised Isobel.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Isobel advised. ‘For we aren’t absolutely sure yet what makes people have them. I’d wait to tell him that until we know for certain.’

  John as usual put his luggage in the station fly, which still functioned though taxis were taking the place of horses, and walked home with the family, which now had a new addition – a fox terrier puppy called Spot. Presently the children’s mother, Louise, Dick and Spot were left behind and John and Victoria were striding ahead, John full of questions about the subject which had been uppermost in Victoria’s letters – the Boxing Night play. But Victoria stopped him.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about that but now I think we have more important things to discuss.’

  ‘What?’

  Victoria took a deep breath.

  ‘What do you feel about suffragettes?’

  John stopped walking to stare at Victoria.

  ‘What do I what?’

  Victoria faltered. Hadn’t she got the question right?

  ‘Do you approve of suffragettes?’

  John had temporarily forgotten the conversation of St Margaret’s Bay.

  ‘What is this? Have you been taking a general knowledge exam?’

  Victoria lifted her chin into the air.

  ‘Did you think you were the only person who read about things?’

  John wanted to laugh, and would have, except that Victoria looked so serious. Certainly it was true he had never thought his cousins read anything, but then girls didn’t.

  ‘What is this? Is it a game?’

  Victoria was furious. Here were she and Isobel struggling with boring grown-up books and trying to read that horrible Morning Post and John had forgotten it was he who had told them to.

  ‘I think you’re hateful. Don’t you remember anything you say?’

  ‘Say? What about?’

  ‘I suppose you never said people disapproved of Edward the Seventh because he loved other ladies, and that Isobel and I ought to read more so we’d know that sort of thing.’

  Then John remembered.

  ‘My dearest Vicky, you shouldn’t take me so seriously. What have you been reading?’

  ‘When I can get it, Daddy’s Morning Post, and sometimes The Church Times – but not often, for it’s terribly boring. Isobel reads Mummy’s library books and I read bits of them too.’

  John felt a new warmth of affection for Victoria. He could see her sneaking into the study for The Morning Post, hoping to please him with her knowledge.

  ‘I wouldn’t bother with The Morning Post if I were you; after all, you won’t be twelve until Christmas Eve. I read papers at school so I’ll pass on to you important things you ought to know, but I could suggest books you might tackle, and some poetry.’

  ‘Poetry! That’s a school thing.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, it’s the stuff dreams are made on. How about this?’ And all the way home he recited Kubla Khan.

  It was not like the Christmases at St Leonard’s-on-Sea when, for days beforehand, the bell never stopped ringing as gifts of all kinds were delivered – but especially useful, helpful presents from the parishioners. In those days the tradespeople with whom you dealt sent presents: a turkey from the butcher; a box of crystallized fruits or chocolates from the grocer; fruit from the greengrocer. Even the local undertaker sent a present of wine. Tradespeople’s presents still turned up, but at Eastbourne there were fewer presents from the parishioners, though the children’s father received enough and from such unexpected sources to make him feel quite overcome.

  ‘How kind they are, dear people,’ he said as he received for his wife yet another pot plant or, for the children, chocolates or something for himself. ‘I really expected nothing, my first Christmas here.’

  Then off the children’s father would dash, his arms full of little books on Christian subjects which he had signed for his friends, for it was a strict rule in the family that for a present received one was sent. Even when they were tiny the children were taught this and would work laboriously at home-made gifts. Granny, who even when the children were small was not much good at getting about, still cherished a book-marker made by Victoria just before her sixth birthday. Its text, in cross stitch, said Hop on hop ever. Even now, though they had less time, the girls made many Christmas presents, some of which were put away
as emergency gifts to send to the unexpected giver: simple presents such as lavender bags; emery cushions for rusty needles; penwipers and needlebooks; but, no doubt being home-made, they pleased.

  There were some things that were new about the Eastbourne Christmas. Always the family had been used to carol singers who came into the hall to sing and afterwards were given ginger wine and mince pies. But this year, as well as carol singers, hand-bell ringers arrived. They stood in a circle pealing out the old favourites while the family sat on the stairs to listen.

  ‘There is something about bells,’ Isobel said after the bell-ringers had gone. ‘As they rang I sort of felt Christmas come into the house.’

  Victoria’s birthday passed, as usual, with one long scurry to get everything done in time.

  ‘It’s a shame,’ said Annie, who had witnessed the glory of the other birthdays at St Margaret’s Bay. ‘Proper cheated you’ve been, with only Irish stew for your dinner and your cake to be the Christmas cake tomorrow. But Annie’s not lettin’ you down.’

  ‘I know, angel Annie,’ said Victoria, looking at the hideous pink vase Annie had given her. ‘It’s a gorgeous present.’

  ‘I’m not talkin’ about the present. It’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat. You wait and see, and if anyone’s sarky about it that’s up to them.’

  Annie’s secret came out at lunch time for, the Irish stew cleared away, Hester with a flourish put a dish of meringues bursting with cream in front of the children’s mother.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked. Then she turned to Miss Herbert. ‘I asked you to tell Annie we’d have baked apples.’

  Miss Herbert flushed.

  ‘And so I did. Is it likely I would order rich food like that on Christmas Eve?’

  The children’s father beamed at Victoria.

  ‘I expect it’s Vicky’s birthday treat. Even if it is Christmas Eve no doubt you can manage a meringue, can’t you, Vicky?’

  But the children’s mother was still annoyed. Brought up during the rest of the year on plain food her family were all too often, if not ill, cross after Christmas and Victoria, who suffered from what were then called bilious attacks, had been known to be ill for days. Grudgingly she put a meringue on each plate.

  ‘Tell Annie I’ll see her after lunch.’

  The feeling of disapproval made the meringues slip down less easily than usual and it was hard to find conversation to go with them, so it was quite a relief when the dining room door was flung open and Annie, very dignified, looking all of her five-foot-two, stalked in.

  ‘You was wanting me, ma’am?’

  The last thing the children’s mother wanted was to interview Annie in front of the family.

  ‘Yes. I ordered baked apples.’

  Up shot Annie’s chin.

  ‘So you did. But I like to see justice done. I made meringues for Miss Louise’s birthday and chocolate éclairs for Miss Isobel’s. What’s Miss Vicky done to be palmed off with baked apples?’

  The children’s mother felt quite intimidated.

  ‘But it’s not your place to decide what is eaten. And where did you get the materials?’

  ‘It’s everybody’s place to see fair’s fair. I ordered the meringue cases and the cream same as I did at St Margaret’s Bay for Miss Louise’s birthday.’

  There was really nothing more the children’s mother could say unless she gave Annie notice, and she had no intention of doing that. Then the children’s father took a hand.

  ‘All right, Annie, you meant well. But next year ask before you choose what pudding we have for Miss Vicky’s birthday luncheon.’

  Annie, head up, totally unbowed, strutted to the door. There she turned and winked at Victoria.

  ‘Someone has to stick up for you, don’t they, ducks? I reckon it’s lucky you’ve got Annie.’

  When Annie had gone back to the kitchen and the kitchen door was shut the children’s father’s face crinkled, then his shoulders began to shake.

  ‘Dear Annie!’ he said. ‘She is a character. Please, Vicky, try hard not to let her down by being sick on Boxing Day.’

  ‘How could I be?’ said Victoria. ‘Isn’t it the day of the play?’

  Another feature of that Christmas was the curate. Curates came and curates went and, except on special occasions, the children seldom saw them to talk to because their father kept his curates’ noses to the grindstone. But the curates usually came to Christmas lunch and, unless they had anywhere better to go, stayed on for tea and the Christmas tree – and dull and shy the children found them.

  That year the curate – a man called Plimsol, known to the children as Mr Cassock because he seldom seemed to wear anything else – came to lunch. Right away he set a new standard for curates by arriving with five boxes of Fuller’s chocolates. A box of chocolates of their own was highly thought of by the children, for most of the boxes received were family boxes and were stored in a cupboard to be passed round before bed, when each child was allowed one. So individual boxes from which the children were allowed, with permission, to help themselves were much valued. But that was not all; when the crackers were pulled Mr Plimsol found a blue sun bonnet in his and not only put it on but sang: ‘Oh, what have you got for dinner, Mrs Bond?’ in a delightfully silly way.

  ‘Bags I you for my team for charades this evening,’ said John.

  Always for Christmas tea and the tree afterwards the vicarage doors were thrown open to those who were lonely or had nowhere else to go. Annie, on hearing the Christmas arrangements, made a remark which became a family quotation: ‘As at Sandringham.’

  Either because of the success of Mr Plimsol in the charades or because some special quality surrounded that Christmas, it stayed in the children’s memory.

  Their mother always decorated the tree and they were never allowed to see it until the candles were lit. That year the tree stood in the small annexe to the drawing room – a perfect place, because there were curtains which could be drawn back when the tree was to be seen in all its glory. That year there were about fifteen waifs and strays, mostly women, all rather shy and sad while they drank tea and ate Victoria’s birthday – now the Christmas – cake.

  When the tea was cleared, Annie and Hester joined the party, and soon everyone was circling the tree singing The First Nowell and then Good King Wenceslaus, with John singing the king’s verses and Victoria the page’s. Then came the time to strip the tree. The majority of the parcels were for the family of course, but no one was allowed to feel left out, so there were plenty of little gifts for the guests. Annie and Hester (Miss Herbert went to a brother for Christmas) had presents from every member of the family and, as well as proper presents from the children’s parents, each received an afternoon apron. Annie said when she opened her parcel:

  ‘Thank you, madam. It will save you buying me one for when you want me to bring in tea on Hester’s day out.’

  The present-giving over and the wrappings swept up, the charades started and, as had been hoped, Mr Plimsol proved a natural comic. It was lovely to see the lonely, rather sad people who had arrived, mopping the tears of laughter off their cheeks.

  Then there was more carol singing and then the guests were in the hall putting on their wraps, and another Christmas Day was over.

  Usually Boxing Day was thank-you-letter day, with a little rehearsing for the Boxing evening show, but that Boxing Day there could be no letter writing for everyone was busy with the evening play. Victoria had taken John’s advice for, though there were no elves, there was scarcely a moment when a chorus of sorts was not entering, so that as many children as possible might be used.

  There was a simple story running through the play of a bewitched princess lost in a wood who was rescued by a gallant prince. But to the audience the high spots were when their offspring appeared as toadstools, clouds, flowers or fairies, all of which lived in the wood.

  The talent was probably nil and Victoria’s abili
ty to arrange dances was non-existent, but it was all very cheerful and fast-moving, and Louise was excellent thumping away on the piano. But there were two high spots: Isobel’s dresses and John’s lighting. Isobel had let herself go, and many of the clothes she had designed were really charming. Few had any money for luxuries, but there was butter-muslin and there was dye. So her clouds danced in grey frocks with rose pink petticoats and rose pink stockings, and her flowers, however awkwardly they moved, almost looked like the real thing.

  To add to Isobel’s dresses John, with Dick as assistant, with lamps and coloured papers produced what was generally considered stupendous effects. Certainly the audience were more than pleased. ‘Proper professional,’ they said. ‘Better than the panto at the theatre, shouldn’t wonder.’

  Victoria took a curtain as author, Louise as pianist, the boys for their lighting and Isobel for her designs and they were all cheered. But the best moment was talking it over afterwards over cups of cocoa. The children’s father said:

  ‘Bless you all, that play will work wonders, it was just what the parish needed.’

  14

  Broken Resolutions

  Victoria was sitting on Isobel’s bed. It was New Year’s Eve and the girls were waiting to hear the bells ring in 1911. Isobel put the alarm clock she had been given as a Christmas present back on the bedside pedestal – something found in every bedroom in those days.

  ‘Lucky I had this or we’d never have been awake. Next year I shan’t be here, for I suppose I’ll go with Mummy to the midnight service, as I’ll be confirmed by then.’

  ‘Passing from the old year to the new upon your knees,’ Victoria agreed, quoting what yearly her father said in church. ‘Isn’t it awful how old you are getting? I hate to think of you being confirmed, it means you won’t be there for stockings on Christmas Day. You’ll come in from church as if you were a grown-up.’

  ‘Well, I will be fifteen in August. That’s almost old enough to be married. Mummy married Daddy when she was seventeen.’