Sunday, August 28, 2016

Money, class, luck and boredom: Trollope's convincing world

The Small House at Allington (Chronicles of Barsetshire #5)The Small House at Allington by Anthony Trollope

The Small House at Allington is the fifth of Trollope’s Barsetshire Chronicles series, and is John Major’s favourite novel.

This is a long book: 845 pages in my OUP World’s Classics edition. But Trollope knows how to keep his readers guessing to the end. As in life, things don’t work out as neatly as in musicals.

Indeed, Trollope’s story draws the reader in with its realism. Good characters have their faults and bad ones their virtues. Only on the fringes of the story does Trollope allow himself to skip the nuances. So there are passing references to a Mr Optimist and a Mr Fiasco, minor civil servants. But only a step closer to the main narrative we meet, for instance, a minor character, an official called Mr Butterwell with a convincing hinterland: he “had walked his path in life discreetly. At the age of thirty-five he had married a lady with some little fortune, and now lived a pleasant, easy life in a villa in Putney.”

It is easy to imagine Trollope drawing inspiration from his Post Office colleagues for such details. Similarly, he must have drawn on his knowledge of London for the subtle gradations of status of its various districts. Young Crosbie picks a house for himself and his fiancĂ©e in (the fictional) Princess Royal Crescent, “a very fashionable row of buildings abutting upon the Bayswater Road,” which boasts a view of Hyde Park from one end. The house wasn’t ideal: “the street being unfinished had about it a strong smell of mortar …but nevertheless, it was acknowledged to be quite a correct locality.” And it could have been worse: “we know how vile is the sound of Baker Street, and how absolutely foul to the polite ear is the name of Fitzroy Square.” The bride’s family was paying, so the groom didn’t get his choice, which was Pimlico. That was rejected after the bride had a warning from a friend: “For heaven’s sake, my dear, don’t let him take you anywhere beyond Eccleston Square!”

Equally convincing is Trollope’s meticulous recording of the financial constraints which have such a powerful hold on his characters. Young John Eames starts work in London with a salary of 80 pounds a year plus an allowance of 20 from his mother. At the other end of the spectrum, Plantagenet Palliser receives seven thousand a year from his uncle. As a rough rule of thumb, it feels as though money can be multiplied by a hundred to bring it into today’s world – putting Eames on £10,000 a year and Palliser on £700,000.

The negotiating of jobs, houses and marriages determined people’s lives. If they got it right, they could look forward to decades of security and respectability. But as Trollope shows so vividly with young Lily Dale, a blameless girl of modest means, if you put a step wrong, or are unlucky enough to be treated badly, the consequences are devastating.

Even with apparently good luck, the road to respectability can be tough. A young married couple who hardly know each other are thrown together. If they haven’t the means to entertain or even be entertained (which means arriving and leaving a social event in an expensive carriage), life can be agonisingly dull. Crosbie and his wife, who can’t afford to honeymoon in Paris, discover that six weeks in a hotel in Folkestone, starting in the middle of February, can be quite a test. As Trollope comments drily: “all holiday-making is hard work, but holiday-making with nothing to do is the hardest work of all.”

After Folkestone, life off the Bayswater Road was even more boring for the Crosbies. There was no money to go riding in Hyde Park: “she would tell her husband that she never got out, and would declare, when he offered to walk with her, that she did not care for walking in the streets. ‘I don’t exactly see, then, where you are to walk,’ he once replied.”

Trollope’s virtuosity is not as self-conscious as Dickens’; his set pieces are vivid and engaging but our attention is seldom drawn from the story to the writer. It’s true that Trollope often addresses his reader with a companionable comment on his own work, but it’s never self-dramatising: “of whom else is it necessary that a word or two should be said before I allow the weary pen to fall from my hand?” If Trollope’s social range is a little less spectacular than Dickens’, the ground he covers is rendered with complete solidity. The Small House at Allington feels like a true story, perhaps a little polished in the telling, but true nonetheless. At the end of the book, it’s hard not to wonder how Squire Dale, Eames, Crosbie, Belle and Mrs Dale are doing.

John Major must surely have seen himself as Eames, the hardworking, brave, honourable young man who found himself moving in wealthier circles of higher social standing. Huntington sounds like Allington but it can't be that neat.

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Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Up and down the Wye

I have just discovered that the panorama function on my phone's camera can do up and down as well as left and right.

You don't really get the full benefit of it on a web page. But then the other way isn't much use either:

Of course, you can click on the photograph, which displays it bigger and improves the horizonal one, on a computer screen at least.

But probably, photos that fit the shape of the screen are always going to be more satisfactory...

Friday, July 22, 2016

A strange coincidence of family history

When we got married, my wife and I bought a terraced house in West London, in an area that estate agents like to call Chiswick but is really Acton. It's near Chiswick Park tube station but the neighbourhood had historically been called Acton Green - or, locally, Starch Green, because of the laundries that used to be there.

Acton Green is a small network of residential streets bordering on the much smarter Bedford Park. Bedford was my mother's maiden name. I'd never wondered if there was a connection between Bedford Park and 'my' Bedfords until I started looking into the history of our local area, in search of an ancestor who an old family tree told me had lived in Acton.

I had a idea that this just might be worth investigating when I noticed that there were two streets near us called Fairlawn Avenue and Fairlawn Grove. My mother had told me that Fairlawn was the house name the Bedfords had always used. She had been born in a Fairlawn in Northumberland, and there had been others, before and after.

After visiting the local history section of the Chiswick Library, I was put in contact with a genealogist called Lawrence Duttson, who had spent years looking into the history of Bedford Park, where he lived, and the Bedford family after whom it was named.

One day, before I'd even met him in person, Lawrence posted through our front door, a photocopy of a large Bedford family tree he'd been making. It came with a note, telling me that the tree would "save you years of work".

I unrolled it and discovered that among its most recent entries was my grandfather. Back from him stretched a line of Bedfords, including a John Bedford (1741-1805) who had indulged in some property speculation in the area, building three large houses in 1793, one of which he called Bedford House. When the new garden suburb estate was built around it, starting in 1875, the planners decided to call the neighbourhood Bedford Park.

As well as putting me in touch with Lawrence, the local librarian was able to explain the Fairlawn connection. Those roads were so called because they'd been built on the site of Fairlawn House, the home of John Bedford. The original Fairlawn was pulled down to make way for residential streets, but its name lived on.

By sheer chance, it seemed I'd bought a house within a quarter of a mile of where my ancestors had lived. But that wasn't quite the end of the story.

It turns out that after Fairlawn was pulled down, a new Fairlawn House was built a little to the North of the old one. This house was much closer to our new home.

Here's how the second Fairlawn House is shown in the 1893 Ordnance Survey map of South Acton and Gunnersbury:

Our road had yet to be built, but would appear in parallel with Kingswood, starting in the little gap in the row of houses in Rothschild Road. Here's how it appears on Google Maps today, with our house in red:

So were we living in my ancestor's back yard? Well, it's hard to know exactly what the surroundings of Fairlawn House consisted of, or who owned them. But I'd guess that the answer is, not necessarily, but certainly within a few yards at most.

If you superimpose the two images, with the apparent boundaries of Fairlawn House also in red, here's how close they are:

I don't know who lived in the new Fairlawn, but it seems reasonable to assume they were Bedfords, and that this was the start of the tradition of keeping the house name, even when the family moved house.

Looking at the map, I don't suppose my ancestor would be impressed to see how small my plot of land is compared to his. But I am only one of many of John Bedford's great great great great grandchildren. Collectively, we have probably expanded his empire.

A second edition of the late Lawrence Duttson's book 'Mainly About Bedford Park People' has been completed and published posthumously by his friends.