***chapter 40***

***Hepplethwaite's***

"Horses. A riding stables."

Aged twenty-eight Gwendolyn Hepplethwaite, heiress to the famous (and some say cursed) Hepplethwaite fortune, had been considered a dramatic beauty, slim and pale, with raven hair, dark, soulful eyes and an appealing, almost ethereal, vulnerability. Aged eighty-eight, bony, wrinkled and ravaged by time, white-haired and wild-eyed, she dictated plans to her solicitor in the same way she chose to communicate with everyone nowadays: through a microphone, attached to unbreakable glass, in one bare room of her luxurious mansion.

Because of the need to eradicate germs, and as per her instructions, each and every room of said luxurious mansion was daily swept, scrubbed and disinfected until it shone as blindingly as the core of the sun. And because people will often dance to the tune of money, if enough of it is paid, even though the well-being of the giver would be far better served other than pampering unquestioningly to their every whim.

And so, as she wished to, and not because she should, Gwendolyn lived all alone in her self-imposed prison, just as she had done for a decade or more, when her deteriorating mental health finally crumbled.

Now Miss Hepplethwaite had been shocked to read about teddy boys in the national newspapers and was heard to mutter as she agitatedly paced the bare floorboards (Gwendolyn believed carpets and rugs to be riddled with insects) "Whatever will become of the world?"

That she was even remotely concerned for the world came as a great surprise to everyone as, in addition to human beings, televisions (radiation) wirelesses (gamma rays) and telephones (bacteria) were all banned from her imperious presence.

Newspapers however had always been the exception. Every morning, at 9 o'clock precisely, and ironed neatly, they were delivered through a small hatch by a white-gloved butler. At 9.03 am precisely Miss Hepplethwaite would sit on a bubble-wrapped chair (germs) wearing a surgical mask (polluted air) and disposable gloves (possibility of human contact) and peruse current affairs. National Service, read she anxiously, was not enough to tame wild youth that was apparently running amok in 1950s Britain.

It seemed working class people in their teens and twenties had more free time and more money than any previous generation. And what did they do with their new-found freedom and wealth? Did they, like the pious Gwendolyn, build churches and temples and pump cash into various religions? (Gwendolyn thought it wise to hedge her bets and contributed to all major ones no matter which god(s) they worshipped or laws they abided by thus, she reasoned, securing eternal happiness should there prove to be an afterlife.) Oh, dear, no! They had instead set about creating their own music and fashion, and, according to the more sensational of the broadsheets, these terrible delinquents had even added to their heathen culture with drugs, drunkenness, wanton destruction, and, most worrying of all, a complete lack of regard for their wealthy betters.

Miss Hepplethwaite first tutted in disgust and then became more and more alarmed. What if the young savages, รก la the Storming of the Bastille, pushed their way past her security guards and house staff, perhaps even killing them, and into her home? Who would protect poor Gwendolyn then? What if they breathed in her air space or coughed or sneezed in it or, worst of all, touched her? Whatever would she do?

And then a certain news item in one of the more serious papers, known for its lofty and lengthy style of journalism, captured her attention.

Drumgold Building Set Ablaze

Follyfoot Farm, Yorkshire, designed early in his career by renowned architect William Drumgold, has been struck by lightning for the second time in its history. Built in 1668, Follyfoot was primarily known for the sale and hire of horses, in its heyday attracting thousands of visitors from across the globe, but trade fell into sharp decline with the advent of the motor car and it has remained unused for several years.

Born in York, Drumgold spent the latter part of his life in London, where around 1700 he was consulted by the Duke of Buckingham over the building of "a new townhouse". This would later form the core of today's Buckingham Palace. A philanthropist, he believed the problems of crime and drunkenness that often blighted communities could be avoided by investing time and money in the future of the young. Almost bankrupting himself in the process, he established what could be seen as a forerunner to the ragged schools, where, in addition to a basic education, destitute boys could learn skills such as carpentry, shoe-making and tailoring while girls, rather quaintly, were taught "keeping a good home for gentlefolk". The breathtakingly beautiful Drumgold Chambers, situated in Covent Garden, is now converted into some dozen shops, including a milk bar where our modern day teens can meet and listen to the juke box or play pinball, but the eighteenth century motto "the devil finds work for idle hands to do" can still be seen carved above its ornate arched entrance.

Follyfoot's first fire in the 1930s burnt down much of its stable block, but, fortunately, the latest blaze is not thought to be as severe. Mr Finlay Patterson, acting on behalf of its current owner, Lord Arthur Maddocks, yesterday confirmed that the damage, to the east wing of the manor house, was minimal. He paid tribute to staff and patrons of The Three Bells public house in nearby Whistedown, who saw smoke and raised the alarm, adding that their quick action averted what could have been a major disaster.

Repairs are expected to be completed by the end of the month.