Lady B, and the communists

Now, here’s a memory. When the world was young Deed’s school sent the primary division to southern England to study and implement a radically new program for early elementary students. At the end of their study-program, when her colleagues were ready to go home, I arranged to meet Deed in Chichester and together explore the southern coast of England. 

I arrived at Heathrow a few days early and drove into the countryside to check out a few places that might be of interest. My first night was in a small, charming village in the Cotswold region staying in an old inn as charming as the village. Wandering the narrow streets after dinner I noticed on the village bulletin board a planned Rambling scheduled for tomorrow into the countryside starting from the church courtyard. The post said, “All are welcome”, and “We will start smartly at 10am for a 5-mile roundtrip ramble to Lloyd’s Mill.” 

The next morning, after my full-English breakfast, I met my fellow ramblers in the courtyard and smartly at 10 am headed across the fields of golden wheat and over and through countless stiles. 

 We were a group of 16 with our guide being a rather sprightly vicar booted in his “Wellies”, and a black umbrella used more as a pointer than as protection from the weather.  

It was not long before we had formed a marching line behind the vicar’s swift pace and each found a marching partner. 

I seemed to be the only new person in the group, and for some reason or other, a rather attractive older and stylishly dressed women became my rambling partner. She introduced herself as Gladys. 

We quickly fell into conversation the way two total strangers would talk about everything that is of little or no importance but with an effort to be congenial --- and of course, to be boringly polite. 

It was not long before Gladys knew I was a history teacher, that I love England, and that I was about to join my wife in Chichester. When I mentioned that this was our 15th trip to England she was pleasantlysurprised --- actually almost made speechless. It was a few minutes before she spoke again and when she did I detected a distinct change in her tone and attitude toward me.  She began to ask more pointed or probing questions particularly questions about “the war”. 

The ramblers stopped for lunch at the local pub near the mill and the talk was mostly about trees, rocks, and birds. After our hearty soup and an ale we again formed into our marching ranks for the return loop back to our village.  

On our return ramble Gadys opened up in a way that, to me, was most untypical of the English. She talked. I listened. 

Gladys’s spoke of the war years as the best years of her life and the best time in the history of England to be English. She acknowledged they were “terrible years filled with horrific tragedies unfolding day after day but in spite, or maybe because of the horrors of the war, the Brits were all united. She said there was no awareness of class, of rich or poor, but only togetherness. There was no racial divide. There was no ethnic divide. They all shared what little they had and they all helped each other. There was no bickering, no quarreling, and no “I” just “we”.  

Then she became quiet and we just settled into the pace of walking. 

As we approached the church courtyard we said our goodbyes. Then she stopped and came back to me and said, “Now we do nothing but bicker and find new ways to hate. England is gone.” 

Over dinner that night, a pub meat pie, a couple of the ramblers approached me and asked, “Do you know who you were with today?” 

“Yes”, I said, “That was Gladys.” 

They said, “That was Lady B-----? She lives in the manor house on the edge of town. She owns all the land and farms we rambled across today. She’s one of the richest women in the UK. 

Now for a change of pace. 

The next morning I packed my bag and said my goodbyes and turned the car south toward the English Channel. I wanted to avoid the typical seaside towns and more quaint villages that Deed and I normally seek out. It was time to find an adventure. 

Wandering and without guidance I found myself in Weymouth, a popular seaside town, that turned out to be too popular for my liking. So back in the car for the short drive to the Isle of Portland, which is not really an island, in search of a small fishing village. 

And a small fishing village I found. In fact, it was an unusually unattractive, poor, flowerless village that offered none of the charm associated with English villages. That was what I was looking for. 

I found a room in a local inn attached to an unassuming pub near the harbor front --- that again was what I was looking for. 

After a pub lunch I headed to the harbor to catch the breeze and think about Lady B. It was a working harbor with a scattering of men cleaning and doing odd repairs to tired small fishing boats. 

It’s always been a strange feeling, perhaps awkward is a better word, for me to watch other men work and those men, at first oblivious of me, seemed to me were laboring over tasks that they likely have done a thousand times and would do again thousands of more times. Their banter back and forth was lighthearted and good-natured and before long I was included and soon after that I tossed in a few remarks of my own. Well, one thing led to another and before you could say, “Fee-fie-fo-fom” I was painting the wheelhouse. 

It was certainly one of the best days I ever had in England. 

When we were all finished, and we were finished when the work was done, not when a clock said it was done, they took me arm and arm back to the pub. 

I think here I need to tell you a little more about myself. I am not a drinker. With milkshakes I can hold my own with any man living. My strongest drink is a malted, but whiskey and beer elude me. Even a glass of wine will have me behaving like a fool. So what exactly is my limit? That’s difficult to say, but my best guess is that I average about a beer every ten years, and wine, let’s say, a glass of white every 4-5 years. 

To my best recollection I have never knowingly had any whiskey. But put some milkshakes in my hand and let the good times roll. 

Now, back to the pub. My newfound workmates, and their wives and children settled in for fish dinners and pints all around. 

Now, on the Isle of Portland there is this custom, and perhaps it’s a universal custom, I’m not sure, but in that pub it was a custom taken very seriously --- almost with a religious fervor. It’s called “buying rounds.” 

You see where this is going. Not counting children, we were a group of ten. A group of ten means ten rounds. I need to pause and let you grab ahold of that number “ten.” 

It’s a mighty number. When the pub closed they convinced me that the night was still young and all the world’s problems had yet to be resolved. 

I believe, most assuredly, that we possess a self-preservation instinct and that if I was to survive the night I had to call up my ace-in-the-hole and so I unabashedly announced early in the evening that as a recovering alcoholic I would need their help. They showered me with sympathy and support and bought me ginger ales. 

Never had I met a group of men and women who were so honest, so aware of who they were and so certain of the world’s destiny. 

The next morning, before breakfast, I went back to the dock, but the boat was gone. I asked in the pub and to my surprise and great disappointment I was told that they had gone to sea and would not be backfor a week or more. My friends were gone. 

So was I. Driving away from Portland there was much to think about. Who were my friends? They were all working men.  They were poor. They were thoughtful. They were caring. They were devoted to their cause. They were communists.