From January 2008 - I do believe that I detect a very slight improvement in writing skill... but also notice several continuity mistakes yet to come. Never mind, in the raw as it was written! :)
Thus it was that, next morning, I found myself sat in the passenger seat of a vehicle driven by Mr. Glosse, who rapidly said to call him Winnie or Wancote. I chose Wancote (which is apparently pronounced ‘onecoat’…hmm!)
The vehicle requires some rapid description. The main impression was that it was SOLID; no rattling doors or odd vibrations here, which is perhaps a shame… the engine sounded throaty and powerful, but there was none of the accompanying ‘thrust’ or vibration. From outside it looked like a bright green cross between an estate car and a van (sorry, don’t know the American equivalents), and had all its bolts and seams proudly on show, as if to change a panel was a matter of easy consequence. The interior was cushionly comfortable but open and fairly austere – and stained with splashes of paint and varnish like a mobile sample card, which of course it was…
Wancote proudly told me that it was powered by the latest thing in ‘Directional Gravity Thrusting’ technology, which I found mildly disturbing for some reason. It seemed that there were two plates, one front and one rear, coupled to some arcane gizmo which could redirect any local gravity force in the direction required. This had the benefit of making the van, contents and passengers that much lighter as the vehicle was fooled into thinking that it was ‘running downhill’ all the time. Unfortunately it also had the effect of making my insides contemplate a rather similar problem, which was luckily unfulfilled as the journey progressed. The engine noises were partly produced by the backup hydrogen powered motor and partly by the ‘Health and Safety’ audio device demanded by the local powers that were. This information did not assist my assessment of what on wherever was going on – but I didn’t press the point.
Wancote asked if I minded stopping by his family homestead briefly during our journey and I was intrigued and happy to agree. This meant turning sharp left off the main track, up through the woods for at least a mile onto higher, scrubbier, more windswept ground where coarse, hillocky grass and russet and yellow scruffy bushes took over the landscape.
The ‘mean green painting machine’ swept round a more sheltered bend in the track. Just in front, nestled in the hillocks and lumps of tufty grass, were five or six brightly painted log cabins of similar design. Some were red, some bright blue or green. Paint supplies were obviously not a problem hereabouts! All were roofed with thatch, and had small windows set at unusually varying levels. Each sported a bright red brick chimney to one side, all gently smoking in the cold, still air. Not very ecologically sound, I thought, especially considering all the information I had been given so far!
Wancote parked in front of a particularly bright red example of the architecture and announced that we had arrived at the family seat.
‘Wancote, why don’t you stay at home when you’re visiting the area?’ I asked, adding ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being too nosey…’
‘Aaahh!’ he replied, ‘…long story Phil…let’s just say that I’m the “black sheep” of the family. I always call round, but if I stay too long there are arguments between me and my brother. So I stay at the Biscuit Inn and don’t tell them that I’m here. I just turn up, out of the blue so to speak. I hope you don’t mind, but I suppose that I’m using you as a bit of a shield against an argument even starting. You can stay in the car if you like…’
I’d had a pleasant chat with Wancote during our journey, and quite liked the man. His amusing resemblance to Clark Gable may have helped – who knows…Anyway, my stomach had more or less recovered from the churning caused by the van’s unusual propulsion system and I said that, of course, I would accompany him inside.
We ‘de-vanned’ into cold, dry air. Now, I know that many wonderful authors have described the enormous variations you can experience in types of rain and snow and drizzle, but I don’t think any of them has mentioned ‘snizzle’! Snizzle is that pinprick shower of cold, almost invisible somethings which hit your face and hands, but doesn’t get you wet. Well, it was snizzling, and I looked forward to entering what looked a very cosy dwelling.
*****
Wancote led me up the three steps onto the veranda style porch, wiped his feet on the coir doormat and tapped lightly on the varnished planking door. I noticed a coloured moth symbol on the mat, which had a cross scraped through it, possibly by years of judiciously aimed boot cleaning…Not waiting for a reply, my companion opened the door, coughed loudly and shouted ‘Hellooo! Only me! Erm, anybody home?’
A voice laden with sarcasm, obviously not meaning a word, came from within, ‘Father, its Winnie at the door, your long lost son. What a delight!’
Footsteps approached and the door swung wider, revealing a copy perfect reflection of Wancote, but without the small moustache. ‘What do you want? Oh, you have company…he has company, dad!’
‘Show them in, show them in.’ came a faint voice.
Wancote made the introductions. His brother, for such he was, was Lionel Glosse. He dressed, not in a business suit like Wancote, but in heavily woven, earth toned shirt and trousers and stout black boots. There was no sign of the father as we entered and I had a chance to look at the surprising interior of the timber dwelling.
The door opened directly onto a large room, open right up to the rafters, the eaves being about fourteen feet above the floor. From these were hung slender timber beams, which appeared to be on some kind of rope and pulley system for raising and lowering. The beams had metal hooks at intervals, holding sides of bacon, bunches of unknown herbs and various pots, pans and other paraphernalia of the kitchen or workshop. Brass and copper shone down on us, glinting in the cold light which cut through the high windows.
The left hand side of the room (looking inward) was dominated by a large, redbrick fireplace, not with an open fire, but with a large black cooking range, the blackness almost glowing with the comforting warmth it gave. A twenty cup and gently steaming, copper kettle stood on a heat plate. An enormous farmhouse table of well scrubbed wood claimed the space to one side, guarded by eight beautiful beechwood chairs of a design I did not know.
At the far end of the living space was a staircase up to an open balcony, about the depth of a room to the back wall. This was guarded by a carved wooden rail and banisters, through which could be seen the tailboards of two large beds. Two doors nestled under the balcony, presumably leading to the smaller rooms that you find in a homestead…a further bed and various pieces of furniture and carved wood occupied the rest of this space.
The star attractions of this strange dwelling, however, were the painted, wood panelled walls…
*****
Every square inch of the lower half of the walls opposite the cooking range was graced with colourful art painted directly onto the boards. The style was primitive but joyful to the eye and the medium used looked suspiciously like household gloss paint. The works were divided into panels about the size of a kitchen unit door and appeared to celebrate local life. There were carefully sign – written titles under every scene and I note below the most memorable examples. I must leave the accompanying artwork to the reader’s imagination…
1. The Mothborough Maurice dancers (with added maydens).
2. The Building of the Meeting House by Glosse Bros. (Carpenters, Joiners and Scrub Wranglers).
3. Midsummer Fayre at the Truth and Biscuit Inn. (The Dogg Ate All the Sossidges).
4. National Tree Hugging Tuesday (Miss Lucy Clutching Her Sweet Chestnut). It’s a perfectly clean title, thank you so much!
5. Lonely Smith Accidentally Caught Thinking (He Had to Lie Downe After).
6. View of the River Wyverne from the Banke. I should hope so! It would be a bit wet otherwise…
7. Mr. Verne, One of Our First Visiters (He Wrote a Lott).
8. The Small Red Brick Toilet Blocke in the Wood with the Thunderbolt Tree on the Right. Mentioned in an earlier blog – ‘Any Port in a Storm’.
9. Still Life (The Resulting Licker was Most Agreeable).
10. Brian Hopworthy with his Prize Winning Wolfhound Langley (He is a Greedy Dogg, Langley that is, not Brian).
11. That Ginger Haired Lad being Wrangled by some Scrub (He did not Whin).
12. Miss Milliner Beating Buster Tikkit in the Annual Fierce Staring Contest (He was No Match for the Hatte).
*****
I studied the paintings on the wall with a diligence and with a vengeance. No person has ever shown more interest in how a tree or a shoe was painted, the delicacy or otherwise of each brush stroke, or the particular curl on a sign written letter ‘S’. Why? I’m sure we’ve all been in this situation! The brothers Glosse, Lionel and Wancote, were attempting to argue under their various breaths in a nearby corner. Attempting, but failing. Now and again a louder snippet of conversation reached my ears. I really, really was not trying to hear…well, I’m inquisitive by nature…but no person in the room could have missed one or two phrases from each of them.
Lionel came up with: ‘Dad should have named you Turncoat, not Wancote’, ‘…and what’s wrong with being a Friendly?’, ‘…Miss Lucy really misses you…’ and ‘…of ALL the people to go and work for…where are your principles man?’
Betwixt and between, my new acquaintance Wancote came up with: ‘You have to be practical…’, ‘…and I don’t fit in with your lifestyle…’, ‘.Look, we’ve been through all this over and over again!’, ‘I’m rubbish at woodwork, you know that, and what’s more…’, ‘Leave Miss Lucy out of this, that is not your business’.
I coughed and moved to a picture further away from the two combatants. They noticed, immediately stopped the war of words, and came over to where I stood, by chance examining a landscape of ‘The Wyverne Valley, notte from the banke’, but from a hillside vantage point.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ asked Lionel.
I agreed and asked in return ‘Have you lived here long. I mean, I would guess that your family has lived around here for some time?’
‘That’s an understatement!’ he laughed but looked mildly annoyed. ‘The Glosse family are part founders of this community. The families in this village have been here for hundreds of years, my father helped build this meeting house when he was young and we’re very proud of our achievements. At least, most of us are…’ He glanced sideways at his brother who was turning an odd colour, his moustache twitching on one side.
Wancote looked as if he was going to come back with a very sharp reply, so I swept in with another question. ‘Meeting House? I thought this was where you lived? It’s a meeting house as well?’
‘A tradition of the’ Friendlies’, my friend. We have always used a homestead for meetings, but as we grew in numbers, it just wasn’t practical…this is a meeting hall, theatre, home and workshop, all rolled into one building. Dad and me are the caretakers. In return, the village pays for the upkeep and everyone mucks in anyway. That’s what we’re all about, you see. Well, most of us…’
Wancote now looked near exploding and I felt most uncomfortable.
*****
Luckily, at that moment, Glosse Senior appeared from one of the purpose-unknown doors at the back of the room. ‘Have you lads not offered our guest a drink yet? Come along, remember your manners! Put the kettle on Lionel.’
A grey haired copy of the brothers strode toward me, smiling and with hand held out in greeting. He was wearing a brown overall coat, covered in sawdust and wood shavings and carried the odour of pine resin and varnish with him. It was obvious from the hardened skin that I was shaking hands with an experienced tradesman. He announced that he preferred to be called by his nickname, Streaky (?) rather than the formal Mr. Glosse that I first proffered. I also noted that neither Lionel nor Streaky had known my name before introduction, unlike Wancote and the staff at the Truth and Biscuit Inn. Odd thing that, in many ways…and reinforced by Wancote telling his father that I was an ‘invited guest’ of the Friendly Group (of Companies).
Streaky pondered a moment, raised his eyebrows a little and gave a strange little half smile. ‘Well, Phil, I do hope you enjoy your stay. How long are you here for?’
‘I really haven’t thought about it,’ I replied, ‘it’s all a bit open ended. Things are secure at home, as long as they keep the trainee away from the paint pots…and the zebra…yes, we keep zebra, horses, donkeys, llamas, all sorts. Erm…please don’t think I’m rude. I’ve tried to find this out at the Inn, but no one was letting on. What IS the Friendly Group…are you ‘Friendlies’ part of it? It’s not a cult thing is it? I mean, the price for this trip was very low and I seem to be wandering through the experience in a bit of a dream…all my questions are politely… well… sidetracked in a way.’
‘Come and sit down and have a cup of tea,’ said Streaky. ‘A lack of surprise is quite normal for a visitor from the other side of the Bandstand. We don’t really know why…the change of air, perhaps? No, we’re not a cult of any kind whatsoever, (he grinned), we’re more what you would probably call a ‘commune’ or ‘friendly society’ perhaps. The Friendly Group is our commercial branch, so to speak. We have a very long history, hundreds of years. I could lend you a book if you like – just give it back to Winnie (Wancote’s family nickname, remember?) when you’ve read it. And it’s not a dream! We are all very real, I assure you.’
The conversation continued while Lionel brought over a huge ‘Brown Betty’ teapot and lowered a small box from the storage beams near the rafters, which contained what I would hazard was the best porcelain tea service, hand painted with orange and brown flowers, foliage and field mice, (for some reason), and with those delicately stupid ornate handles that you can’t grasp properly, but are much beloved of maiden aunts and grandmothers. I swear that one of the field mice winked at me! I found out later that this was perfectly possible, but at that moment, I simply thought myself imagining things.
Streaky and his sons were chatty, but noticeably reticent about why the Friendly Group ‘sponsored’ visitors. I suspected that I was perhaps expected to be an advocate for further visits by others in the future. At least the brothers had ceased hostilities while their father was there, though a certain moustache occasionally flickered a little when Lionel was talking.
FIL January 2008
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