Merrily to Swakeleys

By Robert Pearson

Having lived in Ickenham for for more than 30 years I felt that it was necessary just to say something about this interesting place. But what?

We don't go back as far as the beginnings of the Tower of London, but we don't do so badly either for a small village. We have a twelfth century church and a manor house started around the same time. But what about the interest? Not perhaps as nation shattering or momentous as the things going on in the Tower of London, but curiosity - yes. Plenty of excitement - Swakeleys House, St. Giles church and Gospel Oak. Indeed plenty of interest and mysteries too - the tea caddy to be found in the church, the disappearance of the plaster cast of the Earl of Essex from Swakeleys House, and why wasn't the black boy, talked about by diarist Samuel Pepys when he visited the House in 1665, in the cupboard under the stairs when they opened it in 1923?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 2, 2008
• ISBN: 9781466957565

Robert Pearson

Robert has had many amazing, special, incredible and terrible experiences. Happily married for five years to his best friend of 20 years, he has travelled to more than 50 countries. However he has also survived many astonishing and difficult medical concern, having nearly died numerous times over many years. Everything in life is precious. I want to pass along some of the perspective I've gained.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

London, Heathrow Airport, about 1990.

As the passengers from the flight BQ356 from Milan were entering the main hall after clearing customs, I was wondering what sort of person would bear the name Al Pease. He was an American, that I knew. The surname was very like to my own although somewhat truncated, but Al conjured up a cocktail of impressions concerning gangsters, film makers and a mother whose prime objective would be to keep up with the times.

Al Pease was not my friend but a friend of my friend Parmar Davidson. Now my friend Parmar was into Europe in a big way, so much so that he was never at home but always in Zurich, Stockholm or some other major European city when his friends dropped by to see him. Parmar explained that Al was over here from California doing some business in Milan but wanted to take in London (apparently Al’s exact words were to do England) on his way back to the States, and would I, please, meet him at Heathrow and make him welcome. Parmar said he, in return, would be eternally grateful.

I agreed to do this and I wasn’t in search of eternal gratitude of any sort. I suppose it was just being born with a soft heart and that was hardly my fault.

As I leaned on the barrier half-heartedly watching the passengers wheeling their heavy suitcases past me, it suddenly occurred to me that with the thirty six hours at my disposal we couldn’t really visit much of London anyway. His plane left for San Francisco tomorrow evening so we only had the rest of today and up to about five o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You could really plan something useful if you had a week, but thirty-six hours to do London!

If it’s history he is after then he could do no better than spend his precious time in Ickenham, the village where I live and where I had booked his hotel. We don’t go back as far as the beginnings of the Tower of London, but we don’t do so badly either for a small village. We have a twelfth century church and a manor house started around the same time. And what about the interest? Not perhaps as nation shattering or momentous as the things going on in the Tower, but plenty of curiosity-Swakeleys House, St Giles church and the Gospel Oak. And plenty of mysteries too-the tea caddy to be found in the church; the disappearance of the plaster cast of the Earl of Essex from Swakeleys; and why wasn’t the black boy in the cupboard when they opened it in 1923?…

CHAPTER 1

London, 1664.

The best ratio is four to one, said Robert Vyner with a considerable degree of authority. Four dogs is best. If you have five, the bear doesn’t stand a chance. If you have three or less then there is no contest. Four dogs is best.

Robert Vyner sat back in his chair, put his rather large nose into his rather large glass of port before taking a rather large mouthful, looked over the heads of his assembled audience, and pronounced again that four dogs were best.

Vyner looked somewhat out of place in this dingy, smoke filled annex to the Kings Head Tavern just off Hatton Garden, with a motley collection of associates. He was an eminent goldsmith and banker, was respectable in the City of London, and had just acquired a substantial mansion some ten miles out from London on the road going west.

He had lodgings in Lombard Street close to his offices, but his recent successful marriage (his wife came with a dowry of some £100,000) directed that something more substantial and prestigious was needed for entertaining his clients (and satisfying his wife and in-laws). However he had decided to hold on to his London accommodation and use it during the week, travelling to his country home on the Friday and staying there until Tuesday.

It was to alleviate somewhat the pressures of life in the

City that Vyner had got into the habit of championing dogs at this bearbaiting meet on a Thursday evening in this unlikely venue. The pressures were certainly less but the game, the city game, of loss and gain, of kill or be killed continued.

Vyner sat there rather smug. He could talk confidently. He had worked out that the good dogs, those that won through, were not the aggressive ones but those that held back a little, not sufficiently enough to be disqualified, but sufficient enough to stay out of trouble. To be always that inch short of the bear’s flailing claws. To allow the other dogs just to be that extra two inches in front. His was invariably the last dog standing, and this won him the pot of silver pieces.

Generally his winnings paid for his evening’s entertainment-the port and pipes. Occasionally some larger stakes were put in the pot and tonight was such a night. In addition there was an embarrassment in the air. Dr Henry Grimwig, a recently qualified medical man had matched his two newly acquired terriers against any two that Vyner could produce. Vyner’s dogs were still standing and merrily yapping just out of the striking range of the tethered bear while those of Dr Grimwig were lying bleeding, panting, whimpering and dying.

Vyner thought that a little pontificating would relieve the tension as Grimwig was trying to muster sufficient cash to satisfy his promises to the pot. Grimwig had in his service a small-framed black boy with an iron chain around his neck, the mark of a slave, whom he had dispatched to various addresses with messages. Each time the boy returned, breathless with his efforts, he was empty-handed. Each time the boy returned he received both verbal and physical abuse from his master for incompetence and was quickly sent out again with some positive assistance from Grimwig’s ivory cane to help him on his way.

Vyner was fairly sensitive and sympathetic towards his fellow men especially when they owed him money. It was no use insisting a man went to Newgate as the debt still remained, and it was even more unlikely to be settled once the debtor was incarcerated. Much better to agree and plan with the man how the debt would be settled. Goods or services no matter which, both were viable currency to Vyner.

Grimwig was getting anxious and Vyner judged that it was time to make his move.

It is difficult sometimes to have one’s assets available when they are needed, remarked Vyner, trying to appear very casual and not wanting to alarm. Vyner was happy that Grimwig took the remark in the right way. Grimacing at Vyner and mumbling about having the money but it wasn’t readily available at the moment.

I have an idea, Henry, suggested Vyner. I have just bought myself a little place in the country, and I am looking for some help. That black of yours seems a bit useful. Would you be interested in letting me have him? I need someone to do odd jobs about the place, and I think he would just fit the bill.

Well, he certainly is useful about the place, replied Grimwig. Very industrious and useful. Needs a bit of encouragement from time to time-if you know what I mean. He knows his place and I have trained him well.

Vyner had noted the way Grimwig treated the boy and, although Vyner believed that servants should be kept to their station, the treatment of the black was harsh. He felt a great deal of sympathy for the boy and so was determined to wrest him from Grimwig’s clutches. In addition it would be rather prestigious for him to have a black-trained in the right way of course.

If you let me have him, and I give you a sovereign as well, we can call it evens, encouraged Vyner.

Well maybe, responded Grimwig putting on the air of a first rate negotiator but not in the least able to deceive Vyner.

Vyner had the business and negotiating experience. Now was the time to make the concluding offer. I have here an angel coin, which as you know are getting scarce. Your debt and this angel for him.

Done, said Grimwig eagerly, more than happy with the arrangement, but added in order to save some face, I would like the opportunity to buy him back one day. Vyner nodded, the two men shook hands, and Vyner handed over the glittering gold coin.

What is his name, Henry? said Vyner.

Oh, I don’t call him anything special-just black and that seems to be enough.

At that moment the black boy reappeared, once more out of breath, once more with empty hands. He was thin, obviously undernourished and about eleven years old. His sparkling white teeth and permanent enigmatic smile contrasted markedly to his dirty shabby clothes and bare scarred feet.

Grimwig caught him by the arm and faced him full square. Listen, black. You have been sold. I have sold you to his gentleman over here. Only temporarily mind. Grimwig turned the boy so that he was facing Robert

Vyner. He is your master now, so you are to go with him and do as he says, do you understand?

The boy’s face became impassive. He nodded slowly but was obviously exceedingly apprehensive.

What is your name, boy? asked Vyner.

I don’t really know, sir, panted the boy. I never knew my parents to ask them what my name was. His voice was husky and sounded unhealthy. He swallowed hard.

Robert Vyner waved the boy to the back of the large room saying, Well, er, er, boy, wait over there until my man comes and he will make arrangements for you to go out to Swakeleys. The boy was obedient, and glad to rest his bony frame on the bare boards in the dark warm corner.

More pipes were smoked, more port was drunk, more dogs were destroyed.

About an hour later Mr Vyner’s man came. He stood discreetly near the door until Vyner called him across.

The coach is outside when you are ready, sir,.

Vyner nodded, finished off his port in one gulp, carefully positioned his pipe back into the corner of his mouth, rose, put on the cloak offered by his man, and started to the doorway. He stopped as he remembered the black boy and in looking up saw him asleep, curled up in the corner. Addressing his servant he said, I have just won that black boy over there. Bring him over here where it is light so that I can have a good look at him. The manservant quickly brought, almost dragged, the bleary eyed boy to Robert Vyner.

Vyner looked at the boy and was quite pleased with his acquisition. Scruffy, but transformable. He had never owned a slave before, and the boy was very pleasant to look at although perhaps somewhat undernourished. For a boy he was rather handsome, with large brown eyes, and an almost perpetual smile. It is not very often that you see a smile like that, pondered Vyner.

Putting his hand on the boy’s neck so that he faced the manservant Vyner said, Charles, I would like you to meet. For one rare time in his life Vyner was lost for the next word. Then inspiration came as he remembered the angel coin he gave Grimwig. And I would like you to meet. Angel. Angel. this is Mr Mathews who will look after you.

Vyner continued addressing Charles Mathews. Find somewhere for him to sleep tonight and see that he goes out with the others to Swakeleys tomorrow. Let Miss Skiffins take charge of him. He should be useful in the kitchens. Let us go, and with that Vyner strode to the door and out to the waiting coach.

As he sat in the coach on the way back to his lodgings, he felt even more satisfied with himself. He had not only acquired a black, which would increase his standing among his colleagues, but he had made Grimwig eat dirt. He never liked that man. There was just something about him that Vyner disliked, but he could never quite understand why. He had let Grimwig off lightly tonight, and Grimwig knew it. The debt wasn’t completely paid; the debt of gratitude still remained. Vyner was content to know that Grimwig was now in his debt. He puffed at his pipe with immense satisfaction, as his coach rumbled over the cobbled streets, knowing that at sometime in the future he could call in the debt.

CHAPTER 2

Angel found himself strapped firmly down with the cases and other luggage on the top of Mr Vyner’s coach on the rough road to Swakeleys. The coach was so heavily laden, not only with luggage but other people too, that no other room could be found for him. Charles Matthews didn’t want his employers newly won cargo to be damaged or go astray and thought that this was the only practical solution.

The leather straps were uncomfortable, roughed up the skin, and Angel had to work hard flexing his muscles to ensure adequate blood circulation. And the road, with such bumps and jolts! However, the summer was approaching, the sun was shining, and Angel was certain he noticed his new master actually smile in his direction at least once last night. Mr Vyner certainly could be no worse than Henry Grimwig.

It must have been two hours later when Angel heard the driver say, We must be very close now, and a few minutes later This must be it. The coach slowed down, stopped, and instantly started again turning sharply into a driveway that was heavily shaded with mature elms. They followed the earthy track for some 400 yards to where the trees ended.

Here there was open space with fields either side. On one side Angel saw cows and sheep idly grazing the grass in the warming sun. Small birds were standing near hardening cowpats, pecking around the circumference at juicy morsels. The umbrellas of dandelion seeds that were gently floating around were being neatly sidestepped by the many varieties of butterflies making their journeys from bush to bush. The honeybees too were there in abundance providing their unsolicited matchmaking service.

What a lovely House, the driver, Mr George Howlett, said to his fellow passenger sitting next to him. Angel, due to his position, was unable to see the immediate object of interest although he would have been happy to agree, had he been asked, that the countryside was the most splendid he had ever seen. Mr Vyner must be a real gentleman to own such a place, a real gentleman, added Mr Howlett.

He is on first name terms with the king you know, said the fellow passenger, so he probably needs a place like this for entertaining and the like.

The coach lurched over the stark muddy track towards the House, still with fields and scenic magnificence all around. It looks well built, said Mr Howlett as they got near, but not above 50 years old though, wouldn’t you think? The other man nodded, but then began to snigger.

Look at the shape at the top of the building. It looks rather of Dutch origin to me. What do you say?

I see what you mean chuckled the other man. With us almost on the verge of war with the Dutch I wouldn’t be surprised if that don’t get changed. Fancy a king’s man choosing a Dutch house to live in! And look at all those chimneys. Mr Vyner will have some chimney tax to pay!

They were now close to the House, standing majestically symmetric with the window surrounds of black marble contrasting superbly with the stone coloured brickwork of the main structure. The reflection on the west facing side of the House from the red of the dying sun only emphasised the contrast, and most particularly framed the main entrance.

They continued past the main entrance and the driver manoeuvred the coach and horses into the stabling area to the north of the House. It needed to be done with skill as the plane tree near to the entrance to the stables had not been pruned for many years and the branches hung low and scraped the boxes on top of the coach. A black cat upset the equilibrium of the horses as it scampered under their hooves, across the yard and disappeared into the House. The area was a large cobbled square closed on two sides by stables and almost closed on a third side by the back entrance to the House. Angel could see other horses stabled there but no other people.

When the coach stopped the occupants got out and this was really the first time that Angel had seen most of them. He knew Charles Matthews, the manservant, of course. However the matronly plump lady so obviously in charge of the two younger females particularly struck him. Could be the cook, thought Angel as it appeared to him as though she was made of flour with a generous helping of suet to hold her together. And that thought proved to be correct.

The young girls, both about 15 years old, giggled when they saw Angel, but they were brought suddenly to order by a piercing glance from the cook. Another red headed gentleman alighted from the other side and together with the driver the seven stood in an arc observing Angel.

Charles Matthews issued some orders; to Mr Howlett, the driver, You had better get the black down; to the cook, Mr Vyner has decided to call him Angel. He is all yours now; and to the red headed gentleman, Come Stratton, we have to meet the rest of the staff. With Stratton in tow he marched decisively off through the servant’s entrance.

What shall we do with you now? muttered the cook still observing Angel.

We can’t really untie him without a cage or something to put him in, coughed the driver, as he might escape. I’ve heard that you mustn’t allow these blacks too much rope. He spat into a nearby bush.

Mr Howlett!, shouted the cook with a piercing tone that matched her look.

I’m sorry, ma’am-the road was dusty, yer know.

Angel had heard the expression, if looks could kill, but hadn’t realised it’s full impact until now. He momentarily shuddered as he wondered how long it would be before he would experience the full impact of those penetrating eyes turned upon him. Not a pleasant thought.

I’m sorry, ma’am, but. A wave from the cook’s authoritative hand stopped Mr Howlett in his tracks.

The plump matronly figure swayed back and took a long circumspect look at Angel. You won’t get twenty paces if you try anything, bizooak, said the cook. We have dogs, and they are well trained. Turning to Howlett she said, He’ll be alright. If there is any trouble just send for me. Angel thought that he would prefer the dogs any time.

Unstrap him, and he can help to unload, ordered the cook. When he has finished bring him to me. He will need somewhere to sleep tonight. And turning to Angel sternly said, Did you understand that, bizooak. Angel nodded but was apprehensive on hearing that unfriendly greeting again. Maybe it was too much to hope that his new situation would be any better than his last. He was a slave after all.

The driver loosened the leather straps tying Angel down as the cook and the others disappeared into the servants’ entrance. It took only about half an hour to unload the coach. The driver was strong and could take two very large cases at a time. He seemed to Angel much more pleasant now. When you’ve bin built up a bit, you can do this in future by yerself, he reiterated every time he returned to the coach for another load. Angel, inquisitive by nature, wanted to ask many questions about the people that were in the coach, but when he was carrying something he found he was too out of breath to talk, and on