LEAVING SWANSDOWN

1. SWANSDOWN MANOR.
Picture this, if you can: an ancient (some say Medieval) manor house with so many additions to its original structure erected over the years that it no longer resembled its original structure and rambled in four directions. Never was there seen a more romantic setting for a tale of distrust and hatred and even the odd explosion of fisticuffs.
But that was to be in the future as Lord Damien Dyhungaul (pronounced Dingle) surveyed the extensive grounds, his wife Lady Dingle (spelled Dingle on account of her refusal to remember how to spell it properly) hanging on his every word and holding his hand like devoted wives sometimes do.
This was their Paradise. They had solved fiscal problems by letting three quarters of their ancestral home, and this had performed two very valuable functions: it had meant that Lord Dyhungaul could quite neglect financial problems when they emerged by increasing rents, and Lady Dingle had a great deal less vacuuming to do. On such simple things are worlds created, or at least the worlds that exist in such minds as the Dyhungauls possessed.
"It's a lovely day, darling," he said, meaning the sunshine and the immaculate green lawns, and yawned because yawning was his speciality.
She turned and looked at their massive oak front door and sighed. "It would have been lovelier if we lived in the whole of the Manor and not just the East wing," she said as if someone had stolen a foetus from her very stomach.
"Times are hard, darling," he said, flicking ash from his cigar onto the aforementioned well-tended grass. In truth, times weren't hard and in fact had never been easier. Early Lords of the Manor had been obliged to visit the City on a daily basis and sit at desks in officers, quills in hand. But Lord Dyhungaul had learned the meaning of, and respected, the word sinecure. The city and offices were still there, but he wasn't.
"But sharing your family home," she shuddered, "with foreigners!"
"The O'Leary chap's a hoot," Damien told her rather severely. "I've always found the Irish to be, what's the word, charming? And he can provide our little celebrations with the best Irish stout!"
"And his wife is really lovely," agreed Lady Dingle, "though why she has to spell Siobahn the way she does is beyond me!"
"The Irish can be rather precious when it comes to spelling their names," agreed Lord Damien Dyhungaul (pronounced Dingle). "I think it goes back to somewhen else."
"He's got pots of money, though," sighed her Ladyship, "Siobahn was telling me some of the things they own. And she showed me some! As you know, I've never been one for too much bling, but some of her rings are divine! And her coronet! Jewels the like of which we never dream of, not in our world and in such times as these."
"We're not on the breadline, darling," he said defensively, "if we were, God damn it, I'd have to go to work!"
"Then there's the South wing," said Lady Dingle, changing the subject because she dreaded the idea of her better half leaving her for the City, where he was listed (and paid) as an advisor to half a dozen financial institutions.
"Ah, Pierre Dupois and Francine, his gorgeous wife," sighed his Lordship, who had such a soft spot for Francine Dupois that he sometimes thought he might be melting. But it was understandable. She had a fine dress sense and knew how to make her already splendid natural curves look even curvier. Lady Dingle seeing the look on his face, reciprocated by getting moist palms every time she thought of the Frenchman Pierre and his charming Gallic ways. And he played up to her, especially when he wore a kilt. There was nothing Scottish about his heritage, but he liked his tartan kilt.
"They're really privileged to have the South Wing all to themselves," commented her Ladyship, "it's an awful lot of space for two people to rattle around in, all those gorgeous rooms."
"They pay for it, darling. And those monies keep the roof over our head from falling in."
"Pity we couldn't sort of pay for everything ourselves," mourned his good lady wife. "But we can't, and that's that."
"Death duties when daddy died. Rotten lefties in Government! But it's not just the ancient roof but there's the grounds. Don't forget the grounds. These old piles cost a lot to keep up, darling, and this modern age doesn't take that into account when it burdens us with taxes."
"Then it's a good job the Germans, Hans Mler and sweet little Gudrun wanted the West wing," sighed Lady Dingle, "and we couldn't hope for nicer neighbours, if that's what you want to call them. We've become quite a union of nations! And when the little people joined in everything became perfect. They get a good address and we've got their cash, and that address has has got to be worth diamonds to them!"
The little people consisted of a row of seven cottages that had been maintained for servants since time immemorial but which had been sold off when the servants, by then few in numbers, wanted better, and were bought by seven families who fancied the good life proffered by an address with the word Manor in it. The cottages, when compared to the four wings of the Manor House, were humble affairs, but as her Ladyship pointed out their address as being part of Swansdown Manor was worth, in her words, diamonds.
And there we have Swansdown Manor and its inhabitants. Divided into four still large dwellings, it houses four childless couples. And by a fluke of nature, or maybe the markets and the way money works, the four couples were from four different national backgrounds.
But they were more than a mix of nations. they had become a club with shared values and shared experiences. Each in his way contributed something fresh to the mix. They sometimes came together in parties in one or other of the separate wings of the huge Manor house and talked and drank and even sometimes danced into the early hours of the morning. It was then that French wine, German beer and Irish stout made their socialising complete.
Then, several years back, what were affectionately referred to as the little people found themselves joining the club. There hadn't been a moment when Lord Dyhungaul had said something like hey there, you little people, fancy a knees up? No it had been simpler and in essence less memorable than that. But become part of the set they slowly did, one by one, and gradually it had become accepted that when there was a birthday or any celebration (and little excuse was needed for one of those) the little people were to be included. They might have inhabited much more humble homes, but they were as Swansdown as the four wealthier families, and they contributed much to the fortunes of the whole as we shall see.
Peter Rogerson 28.01.19