This morning, I’m honored to have as my guest, Josephine Montgomery, author of Fitzgerald Hall and An Unexpected Adventure.These books are only 99 cents on Amazon.
Josephine has led and is leading a fascinating life. Some of her most intriguing stories, in my opinion, are those about her childhood in a small village in England. Today’s post is one of those stories. Thank you, Josephine, for introducing us to a lady who, although she is gone now, remains in your memory. The cover picture is not of Bagmere Hall, but it is an old English country house.
BAGMERE HALL
by Josephine Montgomery
I watched the chauffer driven car roll into our driveway. It always ruined my day. The tall, uniformed butler from Bagmere Hall stepped out, handed my mother an ornate invitation card, clicked his heels together, stepped back into the big old Bentley and was gone.
“I’m not going,” I shouted from the tree house my brothers and I were building. “It’s not fair. Why should I have to go and sit in that moldy old house with Lady Barlow? She’s hundreds of years old. I’m only ten. I’m not going.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” Mother called back. “Next Saturday afternoon and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
“I’d rather be fishing with my brothers,” I grumbled as Dad and I walked down the old coach road and across the bridge spanning the river.
“I know,” Dad replied patiently. “Lady Barlow’s ancestors, like ours, lived in this village for five hundred years. We are a connection to a way of life that is disappearing. It won’t hurt us to spend a couple of hours once a month at Bagmere Hall.”
I detested going to Bagmere Hall. Built in the 18th century, it was one of many aristocratic English homes disappearing in a tangle of overgrown gardens and neglected woodland. It crouched on a hillside overlooking the village, dark and forbidding even on the sunniest day. Glossy green ivy looped across windowpanes, creating strange dark shadows inside dusty rooms.
We walked towards a towering oak door at the main entrance. A rusting iron bell pull summoned a servant from within the Hall.
A maid appeared wearing a black dress, white pinafore and starched cap. Her name was Molly. She lived in the village and on her nights off she served pints to the locals in the 16th century village pub. Her demeanor, when anyone visited Bagmere Hall, was one of deference. Eyes lowered, no words spoken, a slight turn of the wrist gave permission to enter.
The mosaic floor in the entrance hall was spectacular. At first glance, it appeared to be a Persian carpet. Our footsteps echoed as we approached a spiral staircase. The wide stair steps were covered in deep blue carpet with long brass bars across each tread. I liked to pretend I was climbing a golden ladder to the sky. The maid, whom I thought must be as old as Bagmere Hall, pulled herself up onto each step by clinging to the banister. There were three landings on the winding stairway.
On the first landing stood a massive, dark green Chinese vase. A yellow dragon’s head, nostrils flaring, peered over the rim. It terrified me.
On the second landing, strange wooden fish with bulbous eyes and gaping mouths supported an enormous brass gong. A round leather ball, attached to a carved wooden handle, hung down one side. How my fingers itched to grab the handle, swing the leather ball and beat the gong until the sound resonated through every dark and dusty corner.
Landing number three was my favorite. While the maid recovered her breath from the steep climb, I admired dozens of beautiful silk fans arranged in a circle, a kaleidoscope of colors. Some glowed with iridescent blues and greens of a peacock’s tail feathers. Cream colored silk fans with Chinese ladies painted in bright red and black robes peeked down from cobwebbed walls.
The maid, having recovered her breath, tapped on an ornate carved door and announced our arrival. Lady Barlow, head and shoulders erect, sat on a red striped satin sofa, needlework lay on her lap. Heavy blue velvet curtains draped the windows, massive pieces of antique furniture made the room dark and crowded. I knew my cue. A nod of acknowledgement from her Ladyship and off I went to the window seat where I sank into a pile of cushions that smelled of mildew and dust. I pretended to read the book provided for me; instead, I listened to the conversation between Lady Barlow and my Dad. As always, it was the same–stories from the past. Lady Barlow spoke as though she still had a full household staff and gardeners at her beck and call. At four o’clock the maid brought in cream cakes and thin watercress sandwiches. I was invited to join Her Ladyship on the sofa where we sipped fragrant tea out of tiny china cups. Lady Barlow signaled tea time and the audience over by folding her linen napkin on her knee and placing both hands on it. The maid, waiting patiently in a corner, opened the door, Lady Barlow brushed my cheeks with her dry papery lips. We left the room and wound our way back down the blue carpeted spiral staircase.
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Lady Barlow liked to reminisce. Her family once owned hundreds of acres of land including the village where my family lived. Her estates had been sold to pay inheritance tax; she could no longer afford the upkeep of Bagmere Hall. Developers offered large sums of money for the Hall and remaining land, but
she refused to sell her home to make way for a supermarket. After her death the supermarket was built, the grand entrance hall now a repository for shopping carts. I thought of Lady Barlow and the kindness and empathy shown by my father in making time for an elderly lady clinging to the past. I wished I had been as gracious.
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