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How the Heather Looks Page 11


  One day we drove up on the Downs to Blewbury, a delightful little village. When Kenneth Grahame first moved there, he wrote to his American friend, Austin Purvis:

  Blewbury is perhaps the most beautiful of a string of very pretty and very primitive villages stretched along the northern edge of the Berkshire Downs. It is only about 54 miles from London, but 5400 years remote from it in every way. This is the heart of King Alfred’s country, “Alfred the Great” who beat the Danes close by here; about 860, and nothing has really happened since. True, a tiresome innovator called William the Conqueror came along some years later, and established a thing called the Curfew bell, which still rings here during the winter months, to the annoyance of the more conservative inhabitants, who say they used to get on very well before these new-fangled notions; but this is all that divides us from Saxon times.

  The present owners of Bohams (the Grahames’ house) were busy in the garden. They were pleasant enough but it was clear that they held little regard or sentiment concerning previous owners. Living in an old house where once had lived a Famous Author was an inconvenience to be borne, like bad drains. The Grahames, they said, had left the village after their son Alastair “committed suicide” down at Oxford and Mrs. Grahame had alienated her neighbors by giving his old clothes to the village jumble sale. Peter Green, in his biography, debates at great length whether or not the Grahames’ only child fell or jumped in front of a train, but at the time I had only read Chalmers, who gives no hint of sinister possibilities. For the first time I felt the chill of deeper currents beneath the surface.

  With the owners’ permission, we walked around the outside of the house. We wished we could see into the kitchen that Miss Parrott had hinted at as being Badger’s. Could this little dooryard be the entrance to Mole’s Dulce Domum? We quickly exhausted the possibilities of Bohams and wandered out into the village streets. The Wind in the Willows had been written before the Grahames moved to Blewbury, but the village could very well have been the one where the Animals, trudging through the snow, caught a glimpse of the canary in its cage and felt the temptations of domesticity. Almost every house was whitewashed, well kept, and surrounded by flowers. Blewbury was picturesque and prosperous.

  I have never seen such beautiful thatch as they had in that village. Most of it seemed to be new, a fact which struck me as worthy of investigation. One of the roofs was in the process of being thatched, although no one was working on it at the moment. We could see a cut-away section of the roof, almost like a diagram, which gave us a good idea of how the straws were tied into bundles, about a foot thick, then laid at an angle so that rain would run down the outside layer. I stopped to speak to the owner of the house who, like almost everyone else in Blewbury, was working in his garden. I saw by his gatepost that he was a retired Commander, R.N. He seemed grateful to be able to leave off carting stones for his rock garden and came and stood by me, gazing at his half-finished roof and mopping his face with a handkerchief. I wondered aloud about the roofs of Blewbury and asked him if there were any particular reason for their excellence. I assumed that thatching was a dying craft and suggested that perhaps the village harbored some old craftsman, perhaps the last of his kind, who would take the secret with him when he died. No, the ex-naval officer said, it was a young chap who had taken on the job. Curious thing, that. He worked in the atomic plant down near Oxford during the day, but in the evenings and on holidays he was a thatcher. It was a lucky thing for Blewbury, since his rates were not too dear. The commander went on to say that it took someone with muscle to do the job properly. The straw had to be compressed tightly with iron hooks in order to prevent it from burning – like the pages of a book, which burn individually but are difficult to ignite when the book is shut.

  I cannot help but muse on the paradox of a young man who works in an atomic plant by day, but who is willing to practice an ancient craft by night. Is he tired of pushing buttons? I like to think that thatching gives him some satisfaction beyond the extra money he earns. Since our trip to Blewbury I have read more about the intricacies and economics of the craft. Lawrence Fellows, in The New York Times (September 30, 1962), has written an especially interesting and comprehensive article, “Thatched Roofs Fading from English Scene.” Evidently there is no shortage of craftsmen (as I had at first supposed), but of material. With the development of improved agricultural techniques, good wheat straw is disappearing from the English economy. The new strains of wheat have a higher grain yield, but shorter stems. In addition, new fertilizers “burn” the stalks or they are bruised by machines in the harvesting. There is an alternative, but countrymen are slow to adapt to “foreign” ways. Wild reed is the traditional thatching material for the low-lying marsh country of eastern England, and the Rural Industries Board is trying to encourage its use in the rest of England. Its advantages are that it is available, it is easier to lay, and it lasts longer. An ordinary straw thatch lasts from ten to fifteen years; a reed thatch can last a century. But there are drawbacks. The color of reed thatch is slightly different (Englishmen are conservative), it takes several years to develop a good ron (or reed bed), and it is a nasty crop to harvest. The reeds must be harvested between November and March. “Not everyone,” according to Lawrence Fellows, “takes easily to this kind of seasonal work … standing up to the knees in icy water, with a northeast wind blowing off the sea, and backing at butts of reeds that are almost as unyielding as bamboo.”

  As we wandered about in Blewbury and up on the Downs behind it, we felt that something of Shepard’s illustrations clung to the scene, although we had no proof that he had made the same pilgrimage. The houses were all very old and charming. Under the heavy eyebrows of thatch the windows seemed to blink in the summer sun, and an air of somnolence hung over all. Far off we could hear the noise of the mowing machines, and near a huge barn we saw some men who were pitching hay from a massive wagon pulled by two patient Percherons. The men spoke rarely or in muted voices, rather than spend the effort on anything but hay and sun. It was as though the village slept under an enchantment. Driving out of the village we looked upward to where the Downs met the sky. The sky was clear and cool and hot and blue all at the same time. It made one dizzy to peer into it. Great white pillars of cloud-temples and towers and Taj Mahals floated there, as though the ancient hills and great outcroppings of rock were transmogrified by reflection in a pool. It reminded me of something, and when we pulled up beside a little inn I thought I knew what it was. We peered at the darkly painted surface of the inn sign. Dimly we could discern the coils of a great serpent, a knight in armor, an upraised sword. Perhaps it is safe to surmise that this was the sky and countryside depicted by Ernest Shepard in his illustration for Kenneth Grahame’s Reluctant Dragon.

  Another day we explored the village of Pangbourne. We wanted to see for ourselves the house where the Grahames had spent their last lonely years. We were standing near the gate, trying to peer into the garden, when a woman and a teenage girl came around the corner of the house. When we explained why we were interested in the house they seemed pleased and a little proud. They had just bought the house, they explained. Mrs. Grahame had left it in trust with Oxford University, as a memorial to her son, but the University had kept it only ten years as a rental property, then decided to sell it. “I don’t think that was quite fair, do you?” asked the new owner.

  She opened the gate and invited us to come in. The house was being renovated, but in the meantime she and her daughter were trying to keep the garden, at least, in a civilized state. Near the gate she pointed out a little toolshed and remarked that it had once been the village lockup. There was hardly enough room for one prisoner even if he stood up. Ian, of course, was fascinated.

  The garden was larger than one would have thought possible, and exceedingly private – an excellent retreat for the Grahames. A high bank and a thick growth of trees made an almost impenetrable fortress on two sides of it. It had been cut back into a hillside so that the ground was on varied lev
els. There were unexpected terraces and gardens hidden within gardens. The children ran about in the late evening sun, sniffing and exploring to their hearts’ content while we grownups exchanged what we knew about the Kenneth Grahames and their life in Pangbourne. Rather shyly the young girl said, “I found a toad yesterday when I was weeding. He was so big we thought he might be someone’s pet.” An idea struck her. “Oh, Mummy! Let’s call this place Toad Hall!” But her mother was not to be led astray by a girlish whim. Mapledurham could have that honor. The little house they had bought had been called Church Cottage for over three hundred years and it would be foolish to change it now.

  Our hostess asked if we would like to see the inside of the house and of course we were delighted. Church Cottage had once been two houses, placed back to back, but long ago the two houses became wings joined by corridors. This accounted for the difficulty of deciding whether the front door was the one facing the gate and street, or the one that went from the garden directly into a bay-windowed drawing room. The house was decidedly “cottagey” and the fireplace was set back in a curious cozy-nook. It looked rather like Shepard’s sketch of the Rat’s comfortable hearth. We picked our way through fallen plaster and around dismantled plumbing and came into the comparative haven of another drawing room. Our hostess ran her hand lovingly over the curved marble chimney piece. “We think this might be an Adam,” she said hopefully, and I, not knowing a thing about it, concurred willingly.

  We went upstairs, being careful not to let Lucy fall through the gaping holes where new flooring was to be installed, and discussed the pros and cons of putting a daughter here, and a son (away at school) there, and new closets somewhere else. I must say it was rather nice to talk shop with another housewife. Afterward we went downstairs and out into the garden again. There was a little ex tension or lean-to which, although attached to the house, could only be entered from the outdoors. This, our guide explained, had been Mr. Grahame’s study. It seems to me that we had to go down a few steps to enter it – at any rate it certainly gave one the feeling of having “gone to earth.” The room was damp and musty and smothered in spider webs. A tiny fireplace was set diagonally in one corner. The room was empty of desk, chairs, books, but I knew where I had seen it before. It was Mr. Badger’s study – the place where he could retire when he was “particular busy,” where he could put his feet up before the fire, a red cotton handkerchief over his face, and where he was on no account to be disturbed. Ernest Shepard must have sketched it during his visit.

  But Blewbury and Pangbourne were only side excursions. It was to the river that we returned again and again. Once we saw an abandoned boathouse, lonely, cavernous, swept from its foundations by old floods. It was scandalous the way it had been neglected. We decided that it must have belonged to Toad, during his boating craze. Another time we found his caravan, wheel-less, but painted gaily and made livable again by a cheerful young couple, enterprising and much in love. There was always something new, if only a pattern of ripples or a family of moor hens. We never found what we were seeking, but somehow the seeking became more important than the finding. We were content to agree with the Water Rat when he told the Mole that there is “nothing – absolutely nothing – half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats….”

  “In or out of ’em, it doesn’t matter. Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it. Whether you get away or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything particular; and when you’ve done it there’s always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you’d much better not….”

  Even on the last day, having checked out of the Red Lion bag and baggage, we drove a considerable distance out of our way to have a final picnic on the river bank at Pangbourne. We had bought veal and ham pie (jellied under the crust, with an egg in the center) and we decided that no food had ever tasted as good. Even the old boatman shared the spirit of a farewell party, and for the first time he unbent enough to talk to us. Yes, he had known Mr. Grahame. No, he had never read any of his books. He was amazed to discover that the old gentleman had once been Secretary of the Bank of England, though he did remember people saying that Queen Mary had written to Mrs. Grahame when her husband died. People said that Mrs. Grahame was a little odd. He suddenly waxed enthusiastic, “But Mr. Grahame was a foine old gentleman, a wonderful-looking chap. He used to go for a walk almost every day, rain or shine, walking along the bank in a big black cape. He loved the river….”

  “And messing about in boats,” said Ian, speaking around a mouthful of pie in his eagerness. “Simply messing about in boats….”

  The old man picked himself up abruptly and moved off, muttering to himself as he disappeared into the boathouse. I wondered if Ian had offended him, then he came out again with a paint brush and a pail of varnish. He started toward an upturned boat on the dock, seemed to change his mind, and came toward us again.

  “It’s a funny thing what the lad just said,” he told us. “That’s the very way he always put it. He’d come walking down that path and stand watching me when I was painting or caulking or getting the boats in the water. I was younger then, but I remember he always said exactly the same thing to me each time: ‘There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, like messing about in boats….’ I thought it was a joke, like. And now this little lad comes along and…. It fair gives me a turn!” He shook his head with the wonder of it, then wandered off again toward the river and the dock. Soon he was hunched beside the upturned hull, completely absorbed in his brushwork. He was still muttering to himself when we left.

  CHAPTER 7

  Johnny Crow’s Garden

  The day we drove up on the Downs to Blewbury, we decided to go farther on toward another little village with “literary” associations. This was Harwell, the place where L. Leslie Brooke lived during the years when he was illustrating the Johnny Crow books and The Golden Goose Book. I had written to Henry Brooke, the artist’s son, before we left for England and had received a friendly and helpful reply on most impressive stationery. The letter was stamped with the seal of the Minister of Housing and Local Government, complete with lion and unicorn fighting for the crown. Remembering the pictures of those two combatants in Ring o’ Roses (a collection of nursery rhymes illustrated by Leslie Brooke), it seemed fitting to meet them again in their official capacities. Since then we have followed Sir Henry’s career with an air of proprietorship. In 1962 we were happy to see him chosen for the Cabinet with the title of Home Secretary, but we must admit it a bit disconcerting when we see his familiar round face staring at us from the newspapers as he deplores the “Profumo Affair.” This same servant of the Crown once served as model for the gardener’s child in Tom Thumb and for “the little boy that lives in the lane” in “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” in Ring o’ Roses.

  Sir Henry informed us that his father had built a house five miles out of Oxford in 1923 and had lived there until 1934. Before that he had lived in London for many years, but from 1899 to 1908 (the years when he was working on the books in which we were most interested) he had lived at Pillar House, Harwell, near Didcot, Berkshire. A farm in Buckinghamshire, where the family stayed during holidays, is also recognizable in some of the drawings.

  The road to Harwell wound reassuringly broad over the Downs. Later, I was to recognize the same sweep of road when I saw a copy of Travels Round Our Village, an adult book written by Eleanor G. Hayden in 1901, and illustrated by L. Leslie Brooke. In a letter written to Anne Carroll Moore and quoted in the May 1941 issue of the Horn Book, he wrote:

  There are chapters in it that I think you might like. As to the drawings which were mostly done at the turn of the century – so long ago that I may speak of them – I think that they have caught something of the hard roughness of the surface of the Berkshire village life that is unconscious of its own underlying humanity. “The Village” was West Hu
ndred, but the book, both in text and illustrations, is an amalgam of three neighboring villages – West and East Hundred and Harwell (where we ourselves lived) and there are few figures in my share that were not drawn directly from, or from memory of, individual inhabitants, if not always from the same person that the author had in mind. Possibly had the illustrations been done with less respect for fact they might have been more amusing!

  This last may be true, but the discipline and insight gained before he set to work on the picture books must have been invaluable.

  I became aware of L. Leslie Brooke’s work and style in what I believe is a most unusual way. At the age of six or thereabouts I brought home from the library a copy of The Golden Goose Book. Poring over the pages, I was struck by something familiar in the illustrations. I remembered an old book belonging to my mother and went in search of it. The story of “Prince Toto” was illustrated by “L.L.B.,” the initials in a little box in the corner. But I did not need the initials to tell me that this was the same artist. It is as easy to recognize Brooke’s humor and style as it is his familiars – toads, geese, cockatoos, mice, grasshoppers, fairies, and so on. These were to populate Brooke’s later work, too. But even my innocent eye could note improvement. In the earlier illustrations every square inch of the page was covered, the borders crowded and fussy. The illustrations in The Golden Goose Book make wry comment by isolation of objects in an infinity of space. The drain pipe “laid on” to the Third Little Pig’s brick house bespeaks volumes about its owner.