***chapter 32***

***January 1955***

"London is so splendid by evening!" Lady Prudence Maddocks trilled happily to Lord Arthur Maddocks, her diamond necklace and ear-rings flashing a myriad of colours through the neon-lit night, as she sank in a flurry of expensive perfume and evening dress into the comfortable leather seating of the Rolls

She was feeling extremely pleased with herself. Two days earlier, they had attended a dinner party hosted by Viscountess Charlotte Fitzcharles-Webb, a second cousin twice removed of the new young Queen Elizabeth, who had frequently met, and even spoken with, Her Majesty. This wintry evening, with its swirling snowflakes and icy breaths of wind, they were off to the theatre to meet with same. Titles and Royalty greatly impressed Prudence. Nobody was anybody unless they had a title or connection.

"I can't think why we EVER once chose to live in a backwoods little village like Whistledown. Nothing but disgusting animal odours and country yokels in such dreadful places!" she added, shuddering and wrinkling her nose as though the "disgusting animal odours" were floating under it at that very moment, and either forgetting or ignoring the fact her chauffeur hailed from one such "dreadful place".

"Ah, we were young and foolish then, my dear," Arthur responded mildly, puffing contentedly on a long cigar. "Young and foolish."

Jimmy sighed inwardly as he walked around the car and in turn held the door open for Lord Maddocks, who, at least, acknowledged him with a brief thank you. Prudence had barely given him a second glance. Which was perhaps just as well because he couldn't help but grimace at the mink stole she wore over her shoulders. Had they stayed in Whistledown, he was sure, even Prudence's abhorrence of animals, particularly horses since the accident, could only have begun to diminish with the beautiful sights of fields full of new lambs and foals.

Unlike Prudence and Arthur, he privately thought Whistledown had almost been the making of them. Deep down, each owned a good heart that had however been stifled by a privileged upbringing. Like wayward children, under the quiet influence of the slow pace of village life, they were being moulded into better people. Now all the good work of Whistledown was coming undone as London appealed to their vanity and their snobbery over-rode everything else.

It could have been so very different.

As newlyweds in the 1930s, they had come to live in Whistledown on a whim. Arthur, second eldest brother, had inherited Follyfoot Farm on the death of his father, when eccentric eldest brother Geoffrey insisted he didn't want or need any fortune and so the fortune duly bypassed him. Sheer curiosity brought Arthur and his wife to view their newly-acquired property, but they had been unexpectedly smitten by the breathtaking beauty of Yorkshire and charmed by Follyfoot Farm with its unusual buildings of circular windows and spiral staircases. It would be "great fun" and a "super jape", they agreed, over a glass or two or six of vintage champagne from the bottles found in the manor house wine cellar, to mix with commoners for a short while.

They were not the first and they would not be the last to be so enchanted by the farm nestling at the bottom of Whistledown Hill. It had been built, or so it would appear to suggest by the Maddocks family crest and name above the manor house door, by Sir Richard Maddocks in 1668. The history books at Tockwith Library tell a different story.

Sir Richard, an eccentric Yorkshire bachelor who owned much of the county, fondly imagined himself to be an architect and engineer. After creating some puzzling structures (or "follies") on his estate, he moved to the villages where he hired men to build a dozen or more structures to his exact specifications. Ashtree, to its permanent embarrassment, still has two badly-built giant stone chairs in its town centre, while the infamous crooked Long Wall in Kettlefield only crumbled completely in the last century, and perhaps the least said about the tunnels that zig-zag randomly under the Yorkshire countryside the better. (To be fair, rumour has it, probably correctly, that these ventures were Sir Richard's misguided way of providing work for the poor.)

It's thought that the pleasant village of Follyfoot may have derived its name from the Norse meaning "place of the horse fight", but, according to legend, locals spoke of "Sir Richard's new folly at the foot of Whistledown Hill", which became shortened to, at first, "Richard's folly at the foot" and then simply "Follyfoot", from which the village took its name. If legend is true, they were left with egg on their faces, for the manor house, farmhouse and outbuildings proved to be well-made gems of architecture. This was due to Sir Richard, perhaps feeling out of his depth, deciding to travel abroad and hand his most ambitious project over to architect William Drumgold. Drumgold, who would later construct some of Yorkshire's finest buildings, wisely ignored the original blueprints in favour of his own. What Sir Richard thought about this is not recorded, but it is known that he returned to England with a wife and a year later an heir to his fortune was born.

Follyfoot Farm was to change hands many times over the years although it remained the property of the Maddocks family. From the very first, it had been blessed with a magical quality, but quite how this quaint little piece of Yorkshire, where the wind whistled keenly down from the moors, and could, when it had a mind to, chill right through to the bones even on the brightest day, managed unseen to snatch, bottle and preserve that magic forever nobody ever knew.

Although other animals were kept, the farm's main trade was horses and, whether the blazing sun of summer scorched the earth or the hoar frost of winter coated the grass, from early morning till late at night, the stables were a hive of activity, filled with men's voices and the stomp of men's boots, with a neighing and snorting and clip-clop of hooves. The thriving business quickly gained a reputation for excellence that similar establishments could only dream of.

Rich gentlemen and ladies who might wish to hire or purchase a horse told servants tasked with the errand "it must be the very best, it must be from Follyfoot" and it's claimed that once a handsome, swarthy gentleman, who bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain foreign crown prince, visited one day with his manservant who, when questioned about his master, answered only that he was a man of "noble birth" and refused to say more.

Back when it was all that many people could do to find enough to eat, it was often only the very wealthy who could, if they so desired, spare the time and money for animals to be given particular consideration. But the animals kept on Follyfoot Farm were very well looked after. Sick or elderly horses were not despatched to the knackers' yard, as was more common practice, but instead were allowed to live out their remaining days grazing peacefully. It was a tradition, I'm happy to say, that continued with each and every change of ownership, this compassion filtering down to even the lowliest member of staff. Caring, whether about people or animals, became a byword for Follyfoot and mothers told their children that if they grew to be as "kindly as the Follyfoot Farm people" they would do them proud indeed.

Oh, I wish I could tell you it was always so. I wish so much I could tell you that nothing changed. But time has no compunction, progress no tears for the past. As the twentieth century dawned, horse-pulled carriages were being replaced by motor engines and more and more people travelled by car. And perhaps, even then, things may have continued as they were for just a little while longer, but then came the Great War. By the 1920s Follyfoot Farm had closed down.

For ten long years the buildings would remain silent and empty. That is, until a chance visit by the newlyweds and then the magic the villagers still spoke of in awe cast its net and weaved its spell all over again. Arthur and Prudence were arrogant and selfish when first they took up residence in the manor house. Yet within weeks they had begun to mellow, so much so that they justifiably earned their reputation as being generous employers, and caring was the word everyone used to describe Follyfoot again.

But, just when it seemed all that had been lost was re-gained, that symbol of hope, the tree that had flourished there for so long, was struck by lightning and another war tore the world asunder.

Pulling himself out of his reverie, Jimmy looked back to check the flow of traffic before veering left. The bright lights of London streaked in through the car windows, shining on the faces of Lord and Lady Maddocks, who were engaged in an animated discussion. Was it his imagination or did they look more smug, even "piggy", these days? Certainly, in the last few months, both, especially Prudence, had piled on the pounds.

Arthur, his face round and red, particles of snow clinging to his moustache, was haw-hawing loudly at something Prudence said as he unscrewed the top and took a sip of rum from the small silver flask he always carried with him in winter. Prudence, smirking at her smart remark, greedily crammed two chocolates into her mouth from the heart-shaped box on her lap. From the snippets of conversation Jimmy overheard, it was obvious they were mocking a neighbour.

Mrs Vera Funk, the neighbour concerned, was the widow of Peter Funk, who, from humble beginnings, had done so well in building up his recycling business that, upon his retirement and selling off the company, he was able to purchase a small property near to the Maddocks. Prudence however was distinctly unimpressed and was frequently heard to comment that this area of London was not for commoners (not, I must add, without a little racial prejudice too, for Mr Funk had been of German descent, although he and his wife had hated the Nazi regime with a passion). Victory V, as she was more commonly known, due to her habit of decorating her clothes and hats with dozens of home-made union jack badges, had, since her husband's death, begun stopping people and talking rambling nonsense. The poor woman was lonely and her mind gone with age and grief, but Prudence and Arthur regarded her affliction as simply a source of amusement, Jimmy thought sadly, yearning for those golden years at Follyfoot when his employers were more sympathetic people.

Drawing to a stop outside the theatre, and nodding at Vinny Oswald, the commissionaire, with whom he often shared a chat, he paid scant attention to the car phone ringing shrilly from behind and the murmur of Arthur's voice in answer. Not until he heard Lord Maddocks blaspheme furiously.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Prudence sounded frightened.

And, as if in a dream, Jimmy heard Arthur's reply, meant to be a whisper, but unintentionally loud with shock. Peggy, Tom and little Susie had been returning home from a panto only for the car to skid on ice…