BROUGHTON REVISITED 

By Richard Banks 

It is not often that one receives a printed invitation to a funeral, usually, it’s just a telephone call, perhaps two, but then Great Aunt Beatrice was not a usual sort of person. She was, however, a card sort of person. Whatever the occasion, she had one specially printed and dispatched by first class post. There were her regular cards received at Christmas and Easter, her big O birthday cards – she never bothered with anything in between - and her January card announcing her departure to Biarritz where she would remain until another card proclaimed her return to Broughton Hall. Her ‘irregulars’ announced the births, deaths and marriages of persons we knew nothing off apart from one we identified as a second cousin, once removed.

         Being only on the fringe of her social circle there were probably many other types of card to which we were not privy, although occasionally we would receive one by mistake inviting my father, or rather someone with his surname but different initials, to a soiree or shooting party. These he returned to his aunt with apologies for inadvertently opening a communication evidently intended for someone who was not himself. On these rare occasions, yet another printed card would follow bearing Great Aunt Beatrice’s apologies.

         Although my father wasted little time in dispatching her cards into the waste paper bin my mother would retrieve each one and consign them to a shoebox in a cupboard that was otherwise full of her things. Safe from my father’s desire to be rid of them they accumulated in number until a second shoebox was needed. They were, she said, too good to throw away, and she was not alone in thinking so. Each one was a work of art, a thick white paper card bearing the delicate weave of linen on which the message of the day was inscribed in gold lettering of an almost luminous lustre. On the front cover, the family crest appeared like a signature of authenticity above the family motto in Latin. One signature they never contained was that of Great Aunt Beatrice whose name at the foot of each was printed in slightly larger lettering than that preceding it. This particularly irked my father and speeded each card’s journey into the bin. “Too grand to sign her name,” he snorted. “Paupers, that’s what we are to her.” While this may have been only too true my mother took particular pride in the cards and would at her own soirees ‘let it slip’ that we were related to landed aristocrats of ancient descent. At this point, she would take down the latest card from the mantelpiece that she had placed there once my father was safely out of the way and allow the visiting ladies to read the message within. Whether this raised our standing in the neighbourhood I am unable to say although my mother was invited to join the Conservative Ladies Sewing Club which she claimed to be an exclusive gathering second only to the Rotary Club, to which we were not invited.

         And so the years rolled by until one day we received a card that was about Great Aunt Beatrice but not from her, the sad tidings of her death and impending funeral in the family chapel. For the first time the name at the bottom of the card was not hers but that of the family solicitor, and, also for the first time, our attendance was requested. Needless to say, this invoked a howl of disapproval from father followed by another howl when mother insisted that we should go. It would be unchristian, she argued, not to, and how else were we to see the inside of Broughton Hall. Father stated his objections of which there were many but mother once roused was seldom deflected from any course of action she considered necessary or desirable. After a stand-off that lasted the best part of a week and nearly cost us our Sunday roast father yielded to the inevitable and signed the letter of acceptance that mother had drafted. Had he known that the cost of this expedition would be compounded by mother’s insistence that we attend in full mourning dress he might well have stuck to his original resolution, but having purchased the rail tickets for the four of us there was now no going back.

         The following day my father’s bank account was further depleted by the acquisition of two mourning dresses. It was money well spent claimed my mother; Ann, my sister, might catch the eye of a nice, young man with good prospects, possibly the heir to an estate, who knows, the next Lord of Broughton Hall. Father, making a Herculean effort not to combust, replied through gritted teeth that no one would be able to see her behind a veil that hid not only her face but everything else down to her knees. Mother agreed that it was, indeed, a very long veil but that she had been assured by Mrs Atkins at the dress shop that it was in the neoclassical style and much in demand for society interments. Whether these were Mrs Atkins’ words or my mother’s liberal interpretation of them I am unable to say but Ann was duly kitted out in the ‘favoured’ fashion as was mother.

         My own visit to the tailor, under father’s supervision, was predictably less fashionable and less expensive. After less than an hour in store we emerged from Bernies Buy and Hire with two dark suits we were required to return the following Monday. It was the first time I had worn long trousers and although they terminated just above the ankles my pride in wearing them more than made up for my misgivings about an event that seemed poor fare for a Saturday afternoon.

         Come the day, in the gathering heat of a hot summer’s day we set off for the station like four black clouds aboard a bus full of lightly clad shoppers bound for the local street market. The train that took us on to Kings Cross was, thankfully, less crowded and the train thereafter to Broughton almost empty. Having arrived at an unattended platform we ascended a steep flight of stone steps to an unattended ticket office. With tickets in hand but no one to collect them, we ventured outside to find the town consisting of a single street of neglected dwellings of which one was a newsagent.     My father who had planned our journey with almost military precision informed us that the final stage of our journey would take place on a Green Line bus, number 9, that stopped every half hour outside the station. While we were not expecting the immediate arrival of said bus the absence of a bus stop or any other evidence of buses eventually persuaded father. to make enquiries at the newsagents from whence he returned with the news that we had missed the bus by six months. The route had been replaced by a 9A that missed out Broughton in favour of a new housing estate. The rather better news, according to father, was that Broughton Hall was little more than two miles away and that a brisk walk would see us there in time for the funeral.

         We set off in single file down a narrow country lane that soon passed from daylight into the deep shadow of a forest. Rendered almost invisible to the cars that frequently roared past us we were on several occasions compelled to throw ourselves into the hedgerow that separated us from the forest. At last, we arrived at the entrance to Broughton Hall thankful to have reached our destination safely but soaked through with perspiration and covered in ‘bits’ from the hedgerow, some of which was moving. With ten minutes to go before the off, we dusted each other down and hurried along a very long driveway towards the chapel where a Rolls Royce was dropping off the last mourners apart from ourselves. As the coffin emerged from the house borne by six men of military appearance we sprinted forward and, narrowly beating them to the door, squeezed into the back pew where we made our funeral faces.

         The service that followed, though not as entertaining as the cricket match I had been hoping to watch that afternoon, was, even to a twelve-year-old boy such as myself, an impressive spectacle that I’m sure would have been very much to Great Aunt’s approval. Indeed I later learned that her will contained detailed instructions for its regulation; the choir that sung had been borrowed from the cathedral as was the Bishop who presided over a cast of extras that included two Earls and a Vice Admiral. Her only error was to stipulate that her last remaining cousin should deliver the eulogy. While this may once have been a wise choice recent years had evidently taken their toll on Great Uncle Bert who having dropped his script launched into a vitriolic tirade against the Germans with whom he thought we were still at war.  Fortunately, his address was brought to a halt by a ferocious piece of organ playing during which he was dragged from the lectern.

         Peace restored by the singing of ‘Lead, Kindly Light’ the Bishop then had his say in which peace and light was very much the order of the day and Great Aunt Beatrice was benevolently looking down on us from heaven. As proof of this, he pointed to a stained glass window through which a shaft of sunlight was bouncing off the bald head of a mourner and onto the coffin. Quite how he would have explained the thunderstorm that erupted later that afternoon I do not know but if Great Aunt Beatrice was continuing to look down on us she was evidently not in a good mood.

         However, that was later and unknowing of the soaking, we were later to get we were pleasantly immersed in a grandeur that we were never again to see beyond a TV screen. At the conclusion of the service the coffin was carried out for interment in the family vault which was for immediate family only. For the rest of us, the more enjoyable part of the day had arrived and we were escorted by a flunky in knee-breeches to the Great Hall where black aproned waitresses awaited us with trays of sherry.

         It was one of those awkward stand-up events at which you wished you had three hands, one for the sherry, another for the sandwiches that subsequently arrived and a third to raise said sandwiches from plate to mouth. That we managed all this without troubling the deep pile of the very expensive carpet on which we stood was a feat of ingenuity that we unexpectedly proved equal to. Indeed we were quite disapproving, in an eyebrow-raising sort of way, of those less successful than ourselves. The sandwiches were followed by cake and the sherry by tea, and still, nothing detracted from our flawless performance which could only have been the envy of those about us.

         Relieved of crockery and cutlery the assembled company were now free to circulate and those more practised at this than ourselves broke ranks and sought out those they thought worth speaking to. Our first visitor was an elderly man with a walrus moustache and a dark tan that could only have been acquired in the tropics. His first words directed to my mother and sister were memorable for being in a language that was definitely not English. Receiving no response he tried again at which point my mother nervously replied that she didn’t speak English. Although this was the precise opposite of what she meant to say, the old chap immediately responded with some English words of his own that unlike ours had evidently been well-honed at public school.

         It turned out that he had mistaken their dresses for burkhas, or at least a version of that garment worn by princesses and the like at mourning events in the Middle East. Although being mistaken for princesses was most gratifying to my mother and sister, the revelation that they had been no further east than Boulogne was clearly a disappointment to their new acquaintance who soon deserted them for someone he addressed as Lady Barbara.

         Undeterred, and not wishing to confuse the assembled company as to who they really were, mother and Ann threw back their veils and for the first time since dressing saw the clear light of day as well as their fellow mourners who had an equally clear view of them. For a few seconds mother and Ann were the most closely observed persons in the room and the sideways glances of those about us were accompanied by a perceptible hush as conversations paused before restarting.

         Realising that they had been noticed mother quickly scanned the assembled company for a suitable young man for Ann. It was not long before she found one who it must be said seemed more than a little interested in my sister. Instructed by mother “to smile” and then to “smile at him, not the floor,” Ann responded with an embarrassed grimace which nevertheless had the desired effect. The young man edged nervously towards us and on reaching the little semi-circle in which we had arranged ourselves seemed oblivious to everyone but Ann. If love, at first sight, existed this was it and as he opened his mouth to speak we all knew that something memorable was about to happen.

         “Do you…” he said, apparently lost in admiration and unable to complete his sentence.

         “Do I?” encouraged Ann.

         “Do you know,” persisted the young man, “that you have a Polyommatus Bellargus on your head?”

         Ann did not know that she had such a thing, or indeed what kind of thing the thing was that without her knowing had acquired a Latin name. Her reply while brief was in the circumstances the only one possible: “no.”

         The young man assured her that she did have the thing he had mentioned and between thumb and first finger extracted a large caterpillar from the folds of her upturned veil that he gently transferred onto the palm of his hand. Having lovingly observed its green and yellow livery with an expression of joy not normally seen at funerals he departed our company for the kitchen in search of some leftover lettuce. His desertion was the last straw for my father who was for joining the trickle of persons beginning their homeward journeys.

         Mother, however, had other ideas and seeing a woman she thought she recognised from a WI meeting had broken ranks and was now busy getting reacquainted. She eventually returned to us with the news that the woman was not the woman she thought she was but that nevertheless, she was a very nice woman who was going to the reading of the will and wondered if we were also going. On mother expressing her doubts as to whether we were allowed the woman had apparently said, “nonsense,” that if we had an invitation to the funeral, of course, we could go. My father groaned but on being assured by mother that it wouldn’t take long and that it would be disrespectful not to attend we duly took our place among the hopeful and curious.

         The family solicitor who took centre stage was clearly enjoying his time centre stage and in no mood to hurry the reading of a very detailed document that began with a long list of runners up and their consolation prizes which included several old master paintings, a dog, a parrot and the vintage car in which she had been driven about the county. At long last, the next owner of Broughton Hall was confirmed and a rather sickly young man was congratulated by those about him. Father managed to stop mother from applauding and muttering darkly that we might still make the 6.32 train began to usher us towards the exit.

         There was, however, one last announcement and although it did not specifically mention us we were very definitely included. Lady Beatrice had decreed on her death bed that all her numerous correspondents should each receive a small memento by which they might remember her. Accordingly, a great many odds and ends had been assembled on the lawn outside and anyone who wanted to was invited to take a single item.

         If father had it in mind to forego this pleasure and make haste for the train station he had no time to inform mother of this before she raced off through the door at the head of a tidal wave of determined memento hunters. By the time the rest of us were outside mother had already bagged a statue that was nearly as tall as she was and, determined not to release her grip lest the statue be claimed by someone else, was attempting to drag it towards us. Despite my father’s protests it was, we all agreed a rather nice statue and by far the best thing on offer. After a brief and unwise period of reflection, we decided to carry it back to the station along the country lane on which we had previously risked life and limb. How we expected to get to the other end without mishap was as unlikely as us now catching the 6.32. That we made it as far as we did with the statue still intact was an achievement that paled to insignificance when we were apprehended by two policemen in a Panda car. By then our enthusiasm for our prize was already beginning to wane as a torrential downpour soaked us to the skin. The policeman at the steering wheel asked father if the statue he and I were carrying was a Greek nymph and, on receiving the reply that it might be, informed us that one just like it had been reported stolen.

         Our journey to the police office at least took us back towards the train station and after being questioned for over two hours we were eventually released without charge. The statue had not been among the trifles that Great Aunt Beatrice’s executors had decreed surplus to requirements but an architectural feature bordering the display area. It was, according to mother, a mistake anyone could have made and while father declared himself of the same opinion he had very little to say on the subject thereafter, at least not in my hearing. We returned home damp and bedraggled at half-past one in the morning, thankful not to be seen by anyone who knew us.

 

                                            *****

        

         What follows now is in the way of a postscript. Mother and father lived into their nineties during which time Broughton was seldom mentioned outside mother’s soirees where her recollections of that day were conveniently forgetful of stolen statues and torrential downpours.

         The new owner of Broughton Hall survived Great Aunt Beatrice by little more than a year leaving his successor with her death duties and those of his own. Today the hall and most of its grounds are owned by the National Trust, and the eighth Lord Broughton is billeted in a flat that occupies a single floor of the west wing. Anyone wishing to see the rest can do so at weekends and on Wednesdays. Unlike us, you will have to pay.

         Ann married and although her husband is not of noble blood it hasn’t stopped him from becoming the managing director of an events’ company that recently hosted a craft fair at Broughton Hall. More importantly, he’s a great guy and I’m not going to spare his blushes by omitting that information. They have two children and three grandchildren.

         I married Jean, a librarian. We have two children and a great many books. At their request (the children I mean) I have written this memoir of a family outing in 1963 that is wanted for a family archive they are compiling. In case it never sees the light of day I have also sent a copy to my local writing group. I hope it informs and entertains in equal measure.

         Needless to say, every word is true and while my account differs somewhat from what Ann remembers it must be borne in mind that her view of things was much obscured by the veil she was wearing which also affected her understanding of several conversations that she imagines being more favourable to herself than they actually were.

         No, believe me. What you have just read is definitely the truth, it’s my truth and nothing but my truth. Most of all it’s a darn good yarn and you’re welcome to it. 

 Copyright Richard Banks