REMEMBERING OUR WEDDING

Janine and I got married twenty years ago today. It was an incredibly rainy day, which people told us was lucky. We got married in the Old Municipal Buildings in the centre of Taunton, a wonderfully atmospheric place, part of which dates to 1480. It was originally a school, was battered about in the Civil War and then became the town hall before becoming a town hall and finally the Taunton Register Office.

It was only a short walk down the stairs from the place where we got married to the hall below where we had the wedding breakfast. Nevertheless, we had hired a 1920s Austin and we drove round town and drank champagne while the caterers sorted out our guests and the food.

Here’s Janine with her bouquet earlier in the morning.

And here’s where the room where the wedding took place.

And this is when we cut the cake.

We always thought we might be lucky enough to celebrate our silver wedding but it wasn’t to be.

Strangely enough, I finished my latest book this morning. Most of my books are dedicated to Janine but this one, Hinterland, feels even more a book for her than the others.

Here’s the first chapter. To my astonishment, I realised only this morning that it is set 100 years before we met.

NEWCOMERS

January 1872

Robin Japes picked a handful of snowdrops and placed them in the basket of forced rhubarb. He sniffed the fruit happily. A goodly haul. A rabbit hopped up to him and he bade it good morning.

He turned at the sound of hoofs as a Hackney Coach squeezed through the arch leading from St Andrew’s Street and slowed to a halt directly in front of him. The driver jumped down and opened the door. ‘Here we are sir,’ he said, ‘Choirmaster’s House, Vicars’ Close.’ He trudged up the path with their cases, one in each hand and another tucked under his arm.

A man with rather worn clothes climbed out and gazed at the house before turning to help his wife alight. He took her arm and beamed. ‘Our new home, Emily.’

She pointed at the path. ‘It’s like a forest track, Clarence. All those leaves will be slippery.’ She sighed, hitched up her skirt and opened the gate. ‘Come along children.’

‘They have a family,’ Robin murmured.

He’d no sooner said this than he heard a squeal of excitement from the coach. Four girls hopped from the carriage and scampered after their parents. They were as noisy as starlings, chattering with excitement at the sight of their new home.

‘Hush, girls,’ their father said, glancing round in case anyone was watching. ‘Don’t forget that your papa is the choirmaster of the cathedral. It’s a very important position and you must make a good impression.’

‘They’re excited, Clarence,’ his wife said. ‘It’s understandable.’

Clarence gave a sigh but caught himself doing so and beamed at his family. ‘Come on everyone,’ he cried, ‘let’s see what the house looks like.’

The house was larger than many in the close, with two windows to the right of the door and one to the left. All very normal but next to it was something rather more peculiar. It looked like half a house but had a bricked up door and windows. It looked like a face, blank yet at the same time watchful.

The girls ran up the path giggling with delight. Their younger brother Albert hurried after them but he was not confident on his feet and fell headfirst on the ground.

Clarence gave him a disappointed look, fearing that history would repeat itself. Like Albert he has been the youngest son in the family and had been thoroughly spoilt. As a man he had come to think such indulgence was a disaster, making him grow up idle and lacking in ambition. He was determined to make sure that the same didn’t happen to his son.

‘Get up boy,’ he told him.

Albert tried to obey but the leaves were too slippery and he held out his hands to his father for help. Clarence ignored him, walked past and headed to the door. After a moment Robin strolled over and silently helped the child to his feet.

‘Well done, Bertie,’ Emily said. ‘You got up without Papa’s help.’ She followed her husband to the door.

The youngest daughter looked at her mother in surprise. ‘Why didn’t you thank that nice man for helping Bertie up?’

‘Don’t be silly, darling, there was no man.’

But Gracie knew there was. She turned and gave Robin a wave.

Robin stared at the family thoughtfully,, particularly at Gracie. ‘Lots of children,’ he said to the rabbit. ‘I’d best go and tell Hazel.’

Clarence opened the door to the house and the family followed him in. A long dark corridor led to the staircase; a tall grandfather clock struck the hour. To its left was an open door.

‘The sitting room,’ Emily said, gesturing the children in. It was dark and gloomy, crammed with oak furniture of a decidedly clerical appearance.

‘Excellent quality,’ Clarence said, running his hands across the back of a chair. ‘Good strong English oak.’

Emily touched it and pulled her hand back. It felt soft, almost as if it were made of treacle. She felt alarmed by this, more so when she glanced at her fingers and saw no trace of anything on them.

‘I think it’s a sad room,’ Victoria, the eldest girl said. Her sisters agreed.

‘It will look better when there’s a nice fire,’ their mother said. ‘Come on, let’s explore the rest of the house.’

The next door led to a dining room with an oak table which could seat eight people. The wall was lined with bookcases and a large Welsh Dresser. A French Window led into the rear garden. Clarence tried to open it but it was stuck.

‘Probably a good thing,’ Emily said. ‘We don’t want the children to traipse mud in.’

They continued down the corridor to the kitchen. ‘The first kitchen I can call my own,’ Emily whispered to Clarence, happily. In the centre was a large table, with different sized chopping boards stacked upon it and four drawers below. There was a sink and a kitchen range which was large enough to cook meals for the whole family. Copper pans hung above it and an old black kettle sat resplendent on the top.

‘This must be the scullery,’ Victoria said, leading them to a room containing a copper to boil clothes, a large Belfast Sink and clothes horses. Hanging on the wall was a battered old tin bath.

‘Can we go in the garden, Mama?’ the girls chorused.

‘Yes. But don’t get muddy.’

It was a small garden, about twenty feet by thirty, laid to lawn and enclosed by high walls with neglected flower beds beneath an apple tree at the far end. A glass frame contained rhubarb although most of the plants had been dug up, presumably by the previous tenants.

‘Can we see the bedrooms?’ Victoria asked.

The girls squealed in delight and ran back in, racing up the stairs.

‘You must allocate the bedrooms,’ Clarence told his wife as they followed. ‘I think that Albert will need one of his own.’

There were four rooms and Emily speedily chose who would go where. The room overlooking the street faced north; this would be theirs. The other rooms were sunnier which she thought better for the children. Victoria and Elizabeth were to have the room next to their parents, then a smaller one for Clarabelle and Gracie and a tiny box room which would just fit in a bed for Bertie.

‘What’s this door for?’ Clarabelle asked.

‘We don’t know,’ Clarence said with a chuckle. ‘Why don’t you find out.’

She opened the door to find a short flight of stairs.

‘Perhaps it goes to heaven,’ Gracie said.

Her sisters tutted at her silliness. At the top they found a small attic room with timber beams criss-crossing the ceiling. There was a small bed, beside it a cabinet with a bible on the top and a small chest of drawers. The window was covered with a sprinkle of ice.

‘I’d like to sleep here,’ Victoria said, hugging herself with pleasure. ‘Can I Papa?’

He shook his head. ‘This will be the maid’s room.’

The girls gave a dubious look. ‘Must we have a maid?’ Elizabeth asked. They had spent all their lives in their grandparents’ large vicarage and they hadn’t liked the servants one little bit.

‘We need a maid, it’s expected of me with my new job,’ Clarence said. ‘We’ll make sure she’s a nice one.’

The children were a little mollified by this. Victoria gazed at the room, sad that it would not be hers. The maid would have to be very nice to make up for her not having it.

‘I need to go into town to buy some food,’ Emily said to Clarence.

‘We’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘ But first, I want to show you all the glories of the cathedral.’

‘Will it be like the church at home?’ Clarabelle asked. ‘With a crooked spire and everything.’

‘This is your home now,’ Clarence said. ‘Chesterfield is where your grandparents live. It’s parish church is unique in having such a comic spire but Wells Cathedral is far better, marvellous beyond compare. Come on, I’ll show you.’

The cathedral was magnificent. As big as a castle, a building of perfect dimensions with three large towers soaring to the heavens.

They walked towards the Green and halted in amazement. The West Front was a panoply of statues with myriad beautiful decorations carved for the joy of it. Some were so high only angels could see them. It was more beautiful than the mind could comprehend or the heart contain.

‘Is this where you’ll work, Papa?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘I’ll work most of the time in the music school. But the choir will sing here.’

Awestruck - they went inside. Emily felt tears fill her eyes, it was so wonderfully light and airy.

‘It looks like a fairy tale,’ Gracie said.

‘Like heaven,’ Clarence admonished. ‘There are no fairies.’

‘Yes there are, Papa, I’ve seen them.’

Clarence glanced at Emily who bent down and whispered in her ear. ‘Maybe you caught a glimpse of an angel. They’re real.’

Gracie stuck her bottom lip out. ‘How can you tell the difference?’

‘There are statues of angels outside,’ she said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you. And then we’ll go to the shops.’

Hazel Japes finished rolling the pastry, laid it carefully over the pie dish and popped it in the range. Mushroom and Leek pie was the family’s favourite and the scent soon filled the kitchen. She tidied up quickly and gave the old beech table a good scrub with carbolic. She began to hum Pop Goes the Weasel, and glanced out of the window.

‘More rain’s coming,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘I suppose we need it.’

‘Why do we need it?’ asked her eldest child Laurel, sulkily. She was getting to that difficult age.

‘So that the birds can drink,’ her younger sister Fern answered. ‘And the flowers.’

‘Not to mention the mushrooms and leeks,’ Hazel said, ‘which we’ll be eating shortly.’

‘I hate leeks,’ Laurel said.

‘They’re good for you. I’ll not have you picking them out of the mushrooms.’

‘Don’t blame me if I’m sick, then.’

Hazel ignored her. ‘Your father will be home in a minute so lay the table. Before you’re sick, of course.’

Laurel heaved a sigh but rummaged for the knives and forks.

‘Can we have the tablecloth, Mummy?’ Fern asked. ‘It’s pretty.’

Hazel brushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘Tablecloths are for Sunday, darling. But give the table a good wipe and put out a nice napkin to rest the pie on.’ She smiled fondly at her and Fern beamed back.

Hazel knew she should not favour one child over the other and tried her hardest not to show it. But she could not deny to herself that she loved Fern a little more than Laurel. She was six years old and into everything.

‘When will the pie be cooked?’ Fern asked, squatting down and staring at the range.

‘After you’ve stopped looking at it. Pies don’t like to be watched.’

Fern straightened up immediately and sat at the table. She tried her best not to look but her eyes continually strayed back to the range. Her mother raised her finger every time she did which made her giggle. Even Laurel laughed to see it, although she knew that laughing was not really ladylike.

The door opened and Robin stomped in.

‘Don’t wander over my clean floor,’ Hazel said. ‘You’ve got muck on your boots.’

‘That’s because I’ve been gardening,’ he said. ‘The ground is wet as a baby’s bottom.’

He pulled off his boots and placed them by the door.

‘Daddy,’ Fern laughed, ‘you’ve got a hole in your sock. I can see your big toe.’

‘That’s not my toe, that’s my nose. It’s just slipped down below for a snooze.’

‘Don’t be silly. I can see your nose on your face.’

He felt his nose carefully. ‘Bless me, it must have smelt the cooking and climbed back up for a better sniff.’

He placed the basket of rhubarb on the table.

‘Not there,’ Hazel said. ‘We’re going to be eating.’

Fern clapped her hand with delight at the sight of the fruit. Laurel pretended to look unimpressed although she adored rhubarb. When her mother bent to the oven and her father filled a basin, her hand shot out and she bit the end of the ripest stem.

‘I saw that,’ her father said.

‘Yuck,’ Laurel cried. ‘It tastes horrible.’

‘Serves you right for being greedy.’

‘But it looked so nice.’

He wiped his hands and kissed her on the head. ‘You look nice but you’re not being so at the moment.’

Hazel placed the pie on the table and began to serve.

‘Just the thing after a hard morning’s work,’ Robin said, blowing on his pie with a contented look.

‘Not such a hard morning if that rhubarb is all you have to show for it,’ Hazel said.

‘But I gathered more than just that, my lover. ‘I’ve got news. There are newcomers in the Close. A young family has just moved in. He’s the Cathedral choirmaster.’

‘And are there children? Hazel asked, her voice giving a strange twist.

‘Four girls.’

‘No boys?’

Robin smiled. ‘A little ‘un. About four years if I’m any judge of such youngsters.’

Hazel’s eyes brightened as did Laurel and Fern’s. The thought of a little boy living nearby was entrancing.

A heavy tread sounded on the stairs. An elderly man, a very angry one, glared at them from the bottom step. He was short and skinny although he sported a large and heavy head. His face was dark and pinched, lined with deep grooves from a lifetime of regarding the world sourly. Robin said he had got the face he deserved. He wore a patched and grubby smock and a night cap.

‘Dinner time! Why didn’t you call me?’

‘We did,’ Hazel said. ‘Many times. I assumed you weren’t hungry.’

‘If that’s possible,’ Robin muttered. The he forced a broad grin on his face. ‘Come on Gramfer, there’s plenty for you.’

The old man sat down and gave everyone a scowl.

‘Do take your nightcap off,’ Hazel said. ‘It’s not right for the dinner table.’

‘I don’t want to catch a chill,’ he said, pulling it lower on his head. He sniffed at the food. ‘I hope these mushrooms is fresh.’

‘Fresher than you, at any rate,’ Robin said.

The children giggled. The old men stared at them moodily for a moment but then a tiny, unplanned glimmer of a smile stole upon his mouth. ‘I suppose if the two princesses are risking it then I may as well join them.’

Robin nodded and poured him a beaker of cider.