The Lightning Thread
The Lodge was a Victorian shooting box of minimal architectural distinction, belonging perhaps to the psychiatric baronial school. Its heavy, irregular exterior was set off by monkey puzzle trees, a mossy lawn and an embattled garden. The household was run by Mr White. Neat, ubiquitous, kindly and redolent of Vitalis hair oil, he was a master of innuendo, immaculate, handsome and loyal, with an abiding fondness for the twin Grant brothers who owned the village store.
He had two friends — also both butlers and, like him, called George — who took their holidays to join him at the Lodge, so the hill picnics were always colourful. At the time, I did not quite appreciate what a period piece we made, but I rather suspected not every boy spent his summer like this.
On arrival, my first thrill was to unload the Vauxhall shooting brake
