Hello everyone. I can't believe we we nearly at the end of May and hopefully looking forward to the next phase of our lockdown coming into force during June.
We have been managing to keep ourselves busy, drawing, writing, videoing and editing and of course exploring the lovely nature reserve at the end of the road. We have had one outing in Hygge driving a short distance to a local beauty spot to walk and admire the view. Then we had a lovely picnic in the van in the car park! Can't tell you how much we enjoyed it. Garry has put on a video on Youtube to share the wonderful views. It is so frustrating not being able to go away in Hygge and explore, but we remain grateful for our good health and that of our family.
I wanted to share another short story with you, I have enjoyed writing over these past few weeks, it has certainly kept my brain active and kept me occupied - Garry's quite pleased about that I can't think why! Again I have based it on an old family photograph. This one is a little more tongue-in-cheek and humorous. I hope you enjoy it.
Marigold was, by all accounts, a quite remarkable woman.
In the small Haberdashers on the High Street, owned and exquisitely managed by sisters Miss Emmeline and Miss Evangeline Primm, among the calico, straw hats, ribbon and lace, Marigold’s peccadillos were a popular topic for discussion. The Misses Primms’ discerning clientele could find many a reason to pop in on a weekly basis; a missing button (for a blouse that was just that little bit too tight), some unusual colour thread for a torn hem, some ribbon for a Sunday hat (they hadn’t actually worn for some years now), for they knew the transaction would inevitably finish on a ‘Marigold update’. When in hushed tones and with furtive sideways glances her latest malefaction would be revealed, and it wouldn’t be the brisk walk home that caused the flushed cheeks and quickened breath of the Misses Primm’s clientele.
Marigold, on the other hand, remained completely unfettered by the surreptitious glances and hushed whisperings her appearance aroused in the ‘genteel folk’, whom she considered, had taken total possession of her village. Her birthplace and home for 35 years, she had been born in the same cottage as her Mother and her Mother before her and possibly her Mother before that for all Marigold knew. For Marigold was not a woman who dwelt on the past. Marigold looked optimistically to the future, well as far as tomorrow anyway. She grasped life with a passion, allowing it to fill her heart, clutching it to her ample bosom (in more ways than one) and lived each day as if it were her last.
Perhaps I should set the scene so if you ever chance upon this small village in Shropshire, let’s call it More Twitchen, you should recognise it immediately.
You would discover a pretty enough collection of black and white cottages surrounding Home Farm, which in its heyday had provided a good day’s work for many of the men in the village. Nowadays the farm had become mechanised, most of the labourers had left and a more genteel folk had claimed More Twitchen as their own. These incomers adorned their cottages with roses and clematis, their gardens a delight to the passer-by, when, during the flowering season, they were an array of colour and scent of every possible variety, preened and pruned to within an inch of their life.
The short straight High Street had its fair share of suitable trades befitting this desirable outpost. A Post Office diligently run by Mr and Mrs Arthur Smate. The delightful and popular Fotheringales Tea Rooms – ‘House blended Tea our speciality’, in gold lettering naturally. Next door the grand stone building of The Manor House Hotel awarded 2 AA stars (for it deserves no better) and still proudly announcing its Royalist support. The Misses Primm Haberdashers Emporium as previously mentioned. Percy Edwards – Greengrocers and Arthur Crump - Master Butcher, deliveries within 3 miles at no extra charge, to name but a few.
The 12th century All Saints Church stands proud and central, surrounded by its manicured and well-tended churchyard. Next door is the Board School and Headmasters House and at the far end of the high street you find the rambling building of The Kings Head Public House - publican Horace Grope, 4th generation and proud of his family’s 150 years of service to the village.
I haven’t quite finished yet and you will have to look closely should you miss it. Set back a little from the road past the village pump and pond, behind an unkempt hedge, through a rickety gate bearing the name BUNNY COT AGE, (the second T long since worn away) you will find Marigold’s ancestral home. If you should venture through the gate and Marigold wouldn’t mind if you did (for who knew what delights a stranger might bring) you would find a riot of nature and children. Marigold’s fecundity was in no doubt. So, it may come as a surprise for you to hear that each little reminder is still a topic for conversation with the ladies of the village, who within the confines of their own homes, are secretly quite titillated by the whole Marigold ‘to-do’.
Life for the genteel folk residing in this backwater, moves at a sedate pace and follows a regular daily pattern. Scolding the Maid in the morning for not cleaning the silver properly, leaving dust behind the mantlepiece clock or the many other imagined infringements that clutter their idle minds. Then after a small luncheon befitting their delicate digestion, they dress in their finery and take to the air. Promenading along the High Street, not quite as far as the Kings Head, turning they enjoy the village pond and its white ducks. A return length of the High Street and then depending on their day of preference, afternoon tea at Fotheringales or The Manor House Hotel.
Saturday and Sunday are the only days to offer variation of sorts. Saturday when trips to various markets throughout the Shire prove popular. It is the custom on market day for Mr. Sprocket to roll out his immaculate charabanc and charging his customers a mere 3d return he transports them to the relevant town for that week’s market.
Sunday naturally one attends All Saints Church, where the Reverend Archibald Puce gives a fine sermon (randomly chosen from his pre-prepared works) but more often than not on the topic of Greed and Wantonness, because in his rush he often forgets to place the current day’s missive at the bottom of his pile. After the service and seeing off his final parishioner, his corpulent and often flatulent figure will be seen and heard making for the back of the churchyard. Taking a shortcut through the privet into the rectory garden he is enticed no doubt by the delicious aroma of his dinner wafting from the kitchen. Through the window you will catch a glimpse of cook bustling around, preparing His Reverence’s Sunday roast, with all the trimmings. Inevitably and because Reverend Puce enjoys routine, the meat dish will be followed by an Aromatic Shropshire Pudding, a large port and a slice of Shrewsbury Simnel Cake. Then fully sated and confident he has performed his ecclesiastical duties more than adequately, Reverend Puce will settle in his study chair for a well-deserved nap.
The Sunday Church Service is something Marigold and her ever growing family look forward to with relish. God is not someone Marigold thinks about often, if at all, but she does enjoy dressing her family in their Sunday best and proudly leading them crocodile fashion to church. Marigold is unencumbered by any of the social demands made of the ‘genteel folk’ with their corseted finery, frilly sunshades and dainty satin feet, buttoned and laced to the neck for church, clutching their precious gold lettered prayer books. Not for Marigold these unnecessary constraints, her voluptuous form is permitted to freely roam beneath her late Mother’s ‘Sunday Best’ dress. Which naturally only adds to the aroused distress of the female congregation.
You will notice that the men of More Twitchen are remarkable for their absence in this tale. This is because they play no leading role in Marigold’s life. Her antics however don’t go unnoticed, suffice it to say that their discussions and thoughts on her are limited to their visits to The Kings Head, the brief moments of solitude permitted when at home with their wives and her arrival at church in that dress.
As a child Marigold received a limited formal education provided by the village Board School’s Headmaster Peregrine Theophile Smith (his father being rather ambitious for his son and named him accordingly.) She preferred to live life according to the dictates of nature and the seasons and had, particularly during the warmer months, missed more days schooling than she attended. The apparent ease at which she grasped reading and writing surprised Headmaster Smith, who consequently harboured great plans for his brightest pupil. Only to be disappointed by her obvious lack of enthusiasm and repeated absences.
This is not to say Marigold was not well-read far from it. Indeed, Lord and Lady Cornelius Albert George Sherringham-Smythe Ffoukes (with two f’s) currently residing in the ‘Big House’ had taken pity on the only child of their late Cook. Loud and proud of their charitable benevolence said Lord and Lady decided the girl required reading matter to improve her lot in life. Although it did not occur to them to check if said child could in fact read. Three times a year (Birthdays, Christmas and Easter) a suitable tome was delivered by Edward one of the footmen. Edward had in fact been christened ‘Fred’ 28 years previously, in memory of his late grandfather, however ‘Fred’ was quickly renamed by his new Master, Lord Sherringham-Smythe Ffoukes who found Edward to be a more befitting epithet for a footman of his household. Edward (or Fred as you please) carrying a silver platter on which said volume lay, walked the full length of the High Street thus enabling the villagers to witness the magnitude of their Lord and Lady’s benevolence, before delivering his precious cargo to the door of Bunny Cot age. Over the years Marigold’s library had grown considerably as you can imagine and Marigold had indeed read or had a cursory glance through every volume depending on her interests at the time.
Saturday evening is a busy evening in Marigold’s household, it being bath night and a shared experience. This includes the bath water. Washed in strict order of cleanliness, cleanest child first, this more often than not resulted in Samson being last, that and the fact it is quite often difficult to find him. At 6 years of age with hair pointing to all corners of the compass, Samson was want to enjoy the garden and surrounding countryside to its fullest, with ponds, streams, mud, bush and wildlife to investigate, Samson had thus far spent much of his life covered in a layer of grime, even on a Sunday. He appeared none the worse for it.
Daisy the eldest at 18 (now too old to share the bath water and in charge of soap and sponge on bath nights), had inherited her Mother’s large boned and amply proportioned body, met at the neck by an angular face with a slightly bulbous nose. It is true you would not think her a natural beauty but as her Mother her true nature was powerfully apparent in her soft cornflower blue eyes and her obvious maternal affection for her younger siblings.
Buttercup (Tup for short) is 16, down to earth, matter of fact and takes no messing from anyone. Auburn haired and fiery eyed, the ladies of More Twitchen had many a time been on the receiving end of Tup’s tongue when their twittering became too tiresome.
Caster and Pollux, identical twins (Marigold had been deep into a book on Roman Mythology during their confinement) come as a package and are often described by infuriated villagers as ‘double trouble’. As it was almost impossible to tell them apart, they use this to their advantage particularly when receiving lessons from Headmaster Peregrine Theophile Smith or any time they happen upon Reverend Archibald Puce, which can be surprisingly often. Their practical jokes are relatively harmless but often result in total calamity for the recipient and much mirth for the onlookers.
Noah a quiet and reflective boy enjoys school as much as the twins abhor it. Like his Mother he quickly picked up the skill of reading and is working his way through Bunny Cot age’s library. He will often be found sitting on his favourite log by the pond reading and keeping half a watchful eye on his younger more adventurous siblings.
Noah was quickly followed by Elijah, there being only 10 months between them. It was during this time (and the only time) Marigold took a fancy to reading the bible. She got as far as Kings 2 before giving birth. She never bothered to read any further.
The arrival of Alaw was a surprise, Marigold would be the first to admit this. At 5 years of age Alaw was a beautiful child. A mop of blond curly hair surrounds her round cornflower blue eyes with which she watches everyone and misses nothing. A quiet child you never-the-less get the feeling you are being appraised when in her company. And last but not least recently arrived and newest member baby Fleur. Of which I can currently write little. All babies looking and behaving the same you understand.
As an only child Marigold had charted her course early in life. Envious of friends with brothers and sisters for company she decided she wanted to fill her house with chatter and laughter. It cannot be denied Marigold loved all of her children equally and with the same passion she lived her life. In return her children adored her.
Not too long ago a stranger happened through the gate of Bunny Cot age. Lured by the sound of voices from the other side of the hedge and requiring drinking water, Horace Binkle, was halfway through his annual walking holiday, when he wandered quite by chance into Marigold’s life. It seems only fair to describe this man who was about to enter the remarkable world that is Bunny Cot age.
Horace is a man of routine. His employment in the clerk’s office of Taylor, Taylor and Brown Accountants has been quite unremarkable. Ambition at Taylor, Taylor and Brown was not encouraged and 20 years previously Horace had taken the position of Post Boy and had through no fault of his own, reached the heights of Office Clerk. This was, as far as Horace was concerned, an admirable achievement and as such he was a contented man. Still living with his parents, the youngest of two, born to Mr and Mrs Horace Binkle Senior, Horace junior’s income ensures that in their retirement his parents can maintain the standard of living to which they have become accustomed. Horace thus sure in his status as dutiful son.
Horace’s life follows a strict timetable. His daily routine ticking along like clockwork (Horace prefers predictability.) Some might call it monotony. Rising at 7am on the dot, he washes, dresses and eats a light breakfast of Kippers on toast and tea - two sugars - before packing his pre-prepared lunch. Cheese sandwich and apple – Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Egg sandwich, and orange - Tuesday and Thursday. He leaves home at 8am precisely and walking briskly to the end of his road catches the 8:07 trolley bus into town, where a three-and-a-half-minute walk takes him to the door of Taylor, Taylor and Brown for 8.45 precisely. On Saturday work finishes at 1pm and Horace walks the four minutes required to partake of lunch at the Lyons Cornerhouse, where the Nippy’s appeal to his particular fondness for promptness and prices are tolerable.
He takes an annual holiday the first full week in June (Horace is not keen on untidiness with dates) and the only unknown is in which County he will be perambulating. This decision is made in January having analysed, read and thoroughly explored the appropriate literature beforehand. Accommodation is booked in March and train tickets purchased at the beginning of May. The only material things that accompany Horace on his annual rambling vacation is a backpack containing one change of under garments, one shirt, toiletries and towel and a copy of the relevant Ward and Locke Travel Guide, which he follows religiously.
This meticulous man with his thoughts on nothing more taxing than slating his thirst unlatched the gate with the missing T and innocently entered the wonderful world that is Marigold.
Neither of them could possibly have foreseen that on this ordinary day, during the first full week of June, their lives would change forever.
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