Longbury, where she lived, was a tiny community on the Wenlock Edge, immortalized by Houseman’s verses. Even such a communal backwater was a microcosm of a divided Christendom, however, for there were Anglicans (of ‘high’ leaning), Methodists, Congregationalists, Baptists, Roman Catholics and even a few ‘Friends’ of austere persuasion, who met over the village shop.
My great aunt’s residence, “Rose Cottage,” was a rambling place that had belonged to her husband’s parents, who used to run the village school; and it was situated at the end of a little lane that led off the main street through the village. A singlestory wing had been added about a hundred years earlier and this was fitted out and used as the Baptist chapel. There was some mystique surrounding my great uncle, who had been custodian of the chapel and lay preacher as well, and I was told he had gone abroad in ‘The Lord’s Service.’ It was only later that I learned he had actually disappeared—at the same time as, and presumably in the company of, a buxom young farm girl who had attended the chapel and in whose spiritual welfare he had shown great interest. Needless to say it had been the scandal of the district for years, though I daresay any eloping couple need have gone no further than had my grandfather to escape local opinion. So far as Shropshire villagers of that period were concerned Hereford and the North Pole were equidistant!
My aunt had assumed the caretaker’s role and a minister used to bicycle over from Stokesay; there being no Sunday train service.
From the start of my visit I was afraid of the old lady, though she was kind enough to me in a gruff sort of way. She must have been in her sixties then, I suppose, dressed always in black material that had gone greenish with age, and which had been polished to a sheen from long use. She had rounded, vaguely benevolent features, belied both by a sharp pair of hazel eyes and a curiously sibilant voice that instilled respect far more than any stridency could have achieved. Her greeting was typicaclass="underline"
“Well, Harold,” she said, peering at me from top to toe, “I don’t suppose you want to be here any more than I want you, but I suppose we must make the best of it; blood is blood, after all. Mind your manners and keep out of my way, and we shall get along, I daresay.”
How well I remember that cottage! There were two downstairs rooms; the one—termed the ‘Scullery’—was dining and kitchen combined, dominated by a huge kitchen range which I had to ‘blacklead’ every day as one of my tasks, and with red enameled doors that had to be polished until I could see my face in them. The other downstairs room was next to the chapel, sharing a wall (though there was no door connection); cool and dark with chintzy furniture and pervaded by that unmistakable smell of the long-unlit coal fire. Occasionally if I entered on a Sunday, I could hear the chapel piano through the wall—played with more vigor than skill—and the discordant mumble of singing. There was a little alcove, curtained off, with scrubbed table, pair of scales, huge stoneware pestle and mortar and other impedimenta of the herbalist; for the old lady was much in demand locally as a ‘Healer’ or ‘Wise Woman’ and was clearly a thorn in the flesh of the local doctor. Indeed, she had a daily stream of visitors—some furtive, some defiant, some afraid, a few resigned; but all clearly in awe of the old curmudgeon. Since she was both astute and imperious, I imagine she must have accumulated more knowledge about local people and their affairs than was good for them. The path outside divided in two—one main sweep going from the front door (there was no back!) to the gate into the lane; the other went past the new wing, crossing the chapel path (worshippers came in by a different gate) and on to a long dark shed, called ‘The Wash House,’ with sagging rainwater barrel outside and mangles, stones, flatirons and sinks inside. A substantial hook and pulley system ran on a rusty wire the length of the shed, for easy handling of laundry baskets.
My aunt lived alone since her husband’s defection, and a ‘daily woman’ came in: a Mrs. Bardette, who was as taciturn as my aunt and a hard taskmistress. The reading matter available was unquestionably moral and wholesome for a young lad (Mary Webb herself could have grown up with my aunt), but the rewards of the excessively virtuous have never appealed to me as a theme. Missing the company of my Gloucester street chums, as I rubbed the graphite paste onto the range one day, I ventured to ask Mrs. Bardette who there was of my age for me to play with.
She gave a short bark of a laugh. “Playmates?” she cried. “You won’t get local lads coming here, my boy, and that’s a fact.” When I asked the obvious, she retorted, “Because Mistress won’t have them, that’s why. She’d take her stick to them… or something.” (This last being something of an afterthought). She looked sideways at me, a slightly malicious nuance coming into her voice. “Not to say you mightn’t get company sometimes; this was once a school you know,” and she cackled to herself as she deposited the washing she was doing on to the big rubbing board and ladled more hot water from the iron pot on the range into the sink. She jumped rather guiltily as my aunt spoke from the doorway; neither of us knew how long she had been standing there.
“Mrs. Bardette, why are you washing in here? The Wash House is the place for that as you know very well. There’s the copper ready for lighting and plenty of firewood.”
Mrs. Bardette shook the suds of Sunlight soap from her arms before folding them akimbo.
“You know why,” she almost shouted. At this juncture my aunt seemed to notice my ears flapping and sent me off to the shop on a pretext. She watched me go, and since the scullery window overlooked the entire path, I could not creep back to overhear more. As I left she was hissing, “Now, Mrs. Bardette, you know perfectly well…” And I heard the louder voice reply, “Oh yes, I know all right…”
Now, whatever Mrs. B. might feel about the Wash House, I soon discovered what she had meant about the school and company (I only mention this, gentlemen, to give some idea of the atmosphere of the place; so far as I know it has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the story). There was a wide staircase leading up to the bedroom and a bend in the stairs where a window looked across the slopes to Long Mynd. One afternoon, while all was quiet in the house I was running upstairs to my room, and I paused to look out of this window. To my amazement, childrens’ voices—like the far-off clamor of a school playground—were all around me in the air; confused and incoherent, coming from nowhere. I shook my head, but it continued; without rhyme or reason. Then it ceased as suddenly as it had begun. I was strangely frightened and ran back downstairs and into the garden where my aunt was gathering herbs. She was muttering to herself as usual, a wooden lath basket over her arm. It was a measure of my fright that I poured it all out to her. She rose to her feet and put out a hand as if to touch me; then withdrew it.
“Ah,” she said. “You have the gift of hearing… don’t worry, it runs in the family. Sometimes you hear things; sometimes you don’t; sometimes you see things…” and here she put her hand on my shoulder. I felt a strange sensation, that odd sweetness when a voice or timbre fascinates one; it vanished as she removed her hand… “Sometimes you don’t. It’s nothing to worry about. You’ll hear—yes, and see too—more than that in your life, Harold.”