The ending to Chapter One

(Day 3) Finally, the final part of Chapter One...

            “It is quite pleasant isn’t it?” Emily asks the group of all four siblings and her mother as they walk past the river and towards town. Their father rarely joins them on their shopping trips; he is always too busy with whatever it is he does in his study.

            “What is?” Beatrice replies confused.

            “The weather, the river, the sun. The entire day! I find it so pleasant!” Emily says whilst performing a quick spin so her dress swirls around her ankles.

            “Someone’s in a good mood,” Philippa laughs before her gleaming sister takes her hands and spins Philippa around.

            “There’s nothing like a nice walk into town,” their mother ejects. “I just hope the market has those lovely buns again,” she adds whilst licking her lips. For the rest of the journey, the family laugh and sing and pick flowers from the grass and all together have a very pleasant time.

            The market Town of Cliffe is a beautiful one, loud, but very beautiful. It consists of a nice selection of shops, from dress shops to book shops and even a furniture shop. There is also a large market selling fish, poultry, vegetables, fruit and more, which surround a dust ridden path covered with thousands of foot prints. Cliffe has a lovely, friendly feel to it, most likely because its residents are all known to each other, which makes the market a perfect ‘catch-up’ area for many gossip-like conversations to take place. Mrs Davery would never admit to it, but she is a fool for gossip and can’t help herself when in the face of exciting news. Thus, when her small feet reach the town, Mrs Davery almost instantly joins a nearby conversation between three other local mothers. The five children leave her to it and make their way to the various markets stalls, but not without picking up the odd statement from their distracted mother, “You don’t say,”  followed by “I knew it all along.”

            The five siblings split up into groups according to their desired stall. Emery, unfortunately is dragged off by his younger sister by two years, Charlotte. “Oh Emery, look at all these broaches!” Charlotte squeals once they arrive at the sparkling jewellery stall.

            “Do we have to look at broaches?” Emery moans.

            “Of course not! We can look at necklaces instead!” His sister laughs, leaving Emery releasing a very dramatic sigh.

            On the other side of the market, Philippa, Emily and Beatrice and admiring a collection of exotic spices. “Smell this one!” Emily instructs her elder sister as Beatrice tugs at her dress as to announce her boredom and is consequently ignored.

            “Mmm that’s lovely,” Philippa compliments.  “Only one Farthing for a bunch,” the plump entrepreneur declares.

            “Perhaps we may return with our mother then,” Emily replies and the seller nods in return.

           

“There you are Philippa!” Mrs Davery calls as she spots her daughter exiting the dress shop. “I’ve been searching all over for you, where have you been?” she enquires before carrying on, “Oh never mind. I just met the most handsome young man for you!” she squeaks. Mrs Davery has given herself the task of finding her eldest daughter a husband and after that she will concentrate on Emily and then each other daughter until she runs out of children.

“Oh mother, not again,” Philippa complains.

“I only want what’s best for my dearest children,” her mother says whilst pulling a very convincing ‘puppy-dog’ face.

“I know, I know,” Philippa gives in.

“I’m surprised you found such a man in the market,” Emily adds after silently observing the discussion. It would not be surprising at all to find a young man in the market, however, each Davery daughter will know that Mrs Davery does not search for just young men, but for handsome, sophisticated and wealthy young men, most of which you find at balls in large manor houses, not old, dusty markets.

“As am I!” the mother agrees and gestures for her two daughters to follow her to where the young man is situated.

“Oh my!” Emily laughs at the definitely wealthy but not particularly handsome man before her. Mrs Davery ignores this comment and instead introduces her daughters. Philippa on the other hand, lets out a small giggle which in turn, receives an evil glare from her mother.

            “This is Mr Cranly,” Mrs Davery directs to Philippa, rather than to Emily.

“Lovely to meet you,” the smartly dressed, already balding man says, whilst taking Philippa's hand to gently kiss it.

“As it is to meet you Mr Cranly,” Philippa replies.

“Mr Cranly tells me he is here on a trip,” Mrs Davery adds to test her match-making skills.

“Yes, I thought a nice change of scenery would be good,” Mr Cranly begins, “I’m from London you see, and as pleasant as it is there, I enjoy taking a brake from it sometimes.” He says whilst chuckling to himself. Whether he finds himself amusing or his story reminds him of a joke they will never know.

“It must be nice to take a break from London. I hear it’s a lovely place but awfully crowded I’m sure,” Emily interjects.

“Oh yes, very crowded indeed. In fact, I’m holding a ball at the Cranly Manor in two days time as to celebrate my return. You must come and please bring along the rest of the Davery’s.” Mr Cranly says not at all modestly.

“That would be an honour Mr Cranly,” Mrs Davery thanks him; “My husband will be thrilled.” And with that, the three women depart with a polite farewell to Mr Cranly.

“Quick, let us find your sisters and brother. We must buy new garments at once. The ball is only two days away and we cannot very well turn up in old clothes.” Mother Davery whispers to her daughters once Mr Cranley is out of ear shot. With that, Philippa and Emily share a look of desperation between themselves and then assist their over-dramatic mother to find their siblings.

The continuation of our journey back into time (Chapter One)

(Day 2) A continuation from the previous post, with still a lot more to come...

One may find it difficult to sleep past seven o’clock when living on a farm, especially a farm which houses more than one cockerel. Mrs Davery, a particularly short woman who has her fair share of wrinkles and whose face would be better described as a mother, rather than a lady has just woken from her slumber as an especially loud cockerel continues to waken her. Mr Davery, an old looking man, but old with wisdom rather then tiredness, unlike his wife, is awake particularly early this morning and had already consumed a private breakfast, sits solemnly in his personal study, caring for his many plants and reading his many books. Mr Davery has such a passion for horticulture that his study is positioned perfectly with the most windows, to lighten the plants, large enough, to house many of these beautiful specimens and allow them room to breathe and of course is supplied with more than enough shelves for all his pride and joy to be placed. Much research is needed for Mr Daverys hobby so a large bookcase filled with many books lies against a long wall, resting next to the closed door, for his door is more than always closed.

            Next to the wonderful study there is a kitchen. It is not a special kitchen; in fact it is slightly messy and not too big. It includes one large table for preparing many dinners, a perfectly sized fire place for cooking and some smaller surfaces around the edge of the room for placing junk apon. There are ribbons and smaller pieces of clothes hanging from the ceiling to dry and candles in various places to lighten the room at night. During the day however, there are three short windows to brighten the room. On the left hand side of the kitchen there is a wall with a large gap in the middle instead of a door. Through here and down three steps, there is a small room with a back door which is almost always open. This leads to the houses’ land. It is a fairly busy area with its stables and barns and building for the farmers. These are all placed on dirt ground due to various animals always trampling on it and men running around trying to catch the too common escaped chicken. Many hip-heighted, stone walls surround the buildings and a pebbled path surrounds the main house. At the front of the farm house is a dirt road with fields on either side and long rows of tall trees.

At the front of the house there is a porch, perfectly sized for two grown men, in here there is a wooden door with two pillars on either side. The front door enters into a hall way with a wooden staircase on the right. On the left is a room which consists of many chairs, a fireplace, a few small tables cluttered with books and a piano. This room can become unfortunately messy as it is where most time is spent on an especially wet day. Four large windows accompany this room which gives a perfect view of all the farmers hard at work on the fields and allows the residents to spy on any arriving guests. On the other side of the house is a matching sized room used for a dining room.  There is a long table in the center with many chairs to supply the family of seven and any extra guests who decide to stay. Apart from this and another four large windows the room seems surprisingly bare.

Runny around all of these rooms is the youngest Davery daughter, Beatrice. Having misplaced her favourite ribbons to tie around her long hazelnut hair, she has become quite flustered. “I cannot see them anywhere!” screeches Beatrice as her eldest sister, Phillippa, chases after her.

            “Have you looked in the basket?” Philippa questions calmly as to sooth her sister.

            “Yes,” Beatrice replies.

            “Hanging on the washing?” Philippa asks again.

            “Yes,” Beatrice repeats.

            “Well, what about in your clothes upstairs, or outside or –”

            “Yes, yes and yes!” Beatrice interrupts her sister as to tell her to be quiet. The eldest Davery sibling rolls her eyes and shrugs her shoulders as to give up and leaves the stubborn small girl to herself.

            “I do question myself sometimes when I try to help that girl!” Philippa informs her mother as Mrs Davery climbs down the stairs. “It seems completely pointless at most!”

            “Oh what bother has your sister got herself into this time?” Mrs Davery sighs, knowing fully well that it is Beatrice her eldest and only blonde daughter is referring to.

            “She’s lost her ribbons, again.” Moans Philippa. Her mother rolls her eyes and with that calls for her only son. “Emery!” Mother Davery waits an inpatient moment before calling again. “Emery! Oh where has that boy got to?” she turns to the thin, beautiful daughter in front of her to see her playing with her long, silky hair.

            “He must have gone to visit the moors again.” Philippa suggests, whilst attempting to plait her long locks.

            “Why must this house always be so chaotic in the mornings?” Mrs Davery thinks out loud.

            “Poor mother, it is always chaotic in his house, no matter what the time.” Her daughter laughs and with that makes her way to the kitchen.

Far from the house, through a few fields, lies some misty moors. Within them sits a dark brown haired, lanky boy, Emery. Emery, the middle child of the Davery flock at only fifteen years old, is most known for his early disappearances to visit the moors. He shares his father’s passion of horticulture, however Emery prefers to watch his wildlife, rather than to grow it and living near a lively moor leaves the muddy boy quite content.

            The sun in the sky and the shadows from a nearby rusting bridge, suggest that it be almost eight o’clock. As Emery emerges from the damp surroundings, a flash of disappointment crosses his face as he knows he must return to the house. Emery remembers from many experiences that if he returns too late, he shall be greeted with a thump across the scalp. With that in mind, the young boy rapidly increases his pace towards the farm house.

           

“Oh Emery, why do you always wonder off so?” Mrs Davery worries as her son rushes in the back door where his mother is collecting freshly dried ribbons from the ceiling.

            “Sorry Mother,” Emery pants, keeping his distance between his face and her hand.

            “Oh never mind,” she sighs, “why don’t you collect some eggs as you’re already filthy?” a hint of disapprovement sweeps across her face.

            “Yes mother, sorry” Emery says as he turns around slightly too quickly and almost falls over.

            “Oh Emery” his mother tuts, “and don’t be too long, we shall be heading for town soon.” Her son is already out the door and running for the chickens before she can finish her sentence. Shaking her head, Mrs Davery carries a basket full of colourful and sweet ribbons into the front room.

            “Ribbons are ready!” she calls whilst entering the wooden door to find three out of four of her daughters present. “Where has Emily got to? We shall be leaving for town shortly and she must look presentable.” All three remaining daughters shrug until Charlotte, the second youngest child beams “There she is!” and points behind her mother.

            “Where have you been Emily?” The stressed mother enquires. Just as the eighteen year old female – one year younger than the eldest Davery daughter – opens her mouth as to answer, her mother continues “Oh never mind, we have no time for that. We’re late as it is, I can’t have us in town past ten o'clock.”

            “Why not mother?” the freckled Charlotte with slightly longer than shoulder length brown hair questions.

            “Have you seen the state of this house? I cannot spend all day shopping when so much needs to be done.” Their mother replies. With that, all four daughters and their slowly greying mother, sit in each chair, some on the hard, wooden floor and begin to pick their ribbons as to tie into their hair.

The beginning of our journey back into time (Start of Chapter One)

Here lies the beginning to a exciting, wondrous tale I shall be telling. There is a lot more of this chapter to come and even more after that, but this is just an introduction of the journey we are about to take...

There is an old farm house onthe edge of Cliffe; a town not far from London,but closer to the sea. If you gaze out of the north facing windows, you canvaguely see the sea, from the east, fields, from the west, fields and from thesouth, more fields, accompanied by a dirt track road. One may call it desertedand lonely, I on the other hand, would call it peaceful and undisturbed.

            If you look closely at the house and perhaps even enterit, you may find it once lived a loud, colourful life. One could discover thisopinion from the many cracked walls and worn furniture it possesses. Forexample, a large bed in one of its many rooms. This bed would not be suitablefor sleeping in anymore, but the chipped, wooden frame would suggest it had mostdefinitely been used on more than one occasion.

            The large, family house also contains much land, presumablyonce used by many farmers and staff to tend to it. Its large barns also hinttowards the bustling noises of horses, cows, sheep, pigs, chickens, ducks, perhapsthe odd goose and any other farm animal you can conjure up. I’d imagine some ofthese residents were also used to trim the land and so lend a hand to thefarmers. These animals would also require tending to, so even more staff wouldbe needed on this farm. Add to this list the actual residents of the house, myguess a large family; husband, wife, five or six children and you will haveyourselves a house filled with a loud and colourful life, as I had already saidearlier.

            I find I have ignored a very important fact about thishouse, or rather the area it is in. If you look beyond the eastern lyingfields, you shall see a row of tall, green trees, behind these there is anarrow river, or a large stream, which ever description you prefer does notmatter, either way it contains the same water, ridden with perfect water liliesand wildlife. Past this, there is a small town, unfortunately due tomodernisation, the town has grown and become, how shall I say, ugly. But itonce was a bright town filled with shops and markets and horse drawn carriages.It once was the best town for fresh fish; well it could have been, due to theclose sea and even closer lakes. The household of the beautiful farm house wouldhave considered this their local shopping, entertaining and gossiping town,only a twenty minute walk away.

            I don’t know how far your gaze can reach, but on theother side of this typical country town and past a few more fields you will discovera frightfully, breathtaking manor house, so frightful, that to reach the largeoutstanding front door, one would have to climb an entire stair case. Thisstair case, you will see, is made of a pale stone, not quite white but notquite cream either. This stone also creates the rest of the manor, an extremelyexpensive building I’m sure. Now, unfortunately I can not see inside this grandarchitecture due to it still being privately owned, but as my imaginationwonders, a picture of large stair cases and enormous halls for dancing andfeasting and just as large chambers with four poster beds and rare goldfurniture make up this fantastic, picture-perfect mansion. If I sat here andthought about it any longer, I would see the most beautiful painted ceilings,swirled into patterns and pictures of clouds and the heavens beyond. However, Ido know that the manor is home to a beautiful variety of gardens, each one concealinga grand water fountain, or a pond or just lawns and lawns of practicallyperfect flowers and as green as possible grass.

            As happy as I am at this country side location forkeeping some of its historic beauty such as the manor and the many fields andof course the old farm house, I feel slightly sad as a specific thought dawnson me; that this town is no longer a special place, but just an ordinary homefor many modern folk who swarm it with their busy, rushing lives. This realisationmakes me wonder even more about the population who accommodated it before andabout the owners of the farm house and their lives. Did they visit the markettown often? Did they ever meet the owners of the local manor house? And beforeall that, who were they? All these questions I suspect will never be answeredand when a question goes unanswered, most cannot help but try to answer itthemselves and therefore come up with a perfectly legitimate but completelyfictional answer. And right now, as I sit beside the pebbled shore with thesandy water tickling between my toes, it is just that that I am doing. And as Isay so, a flood of colour sweeps across my white page, bringing with it scenesof grass and bricks and sounds of horses hooves clattering gently across theroads and blacksmiths banging their instruments together and the gibbering ofvoices in every background. And now faces shall appear of every character, fromthe shop workers in their sanctuaries to the farmers and the house maids andthen of course the farm houses’ owners. With no control from my dull,‘down-to-earth’, suburban world, a new world is formed. A world that once livedand ten times better than my world did it live. And I can’t even remember whereI sit as my mind is overtaken by this old but perfect haven I have created.