Brensham Village by John Moore

Author:John Moore
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

Lord Orris’ Daughter

Brensham, which had its own sense of values about which it was sure and confident, wasn’t an easily shockable village. It wasn’t at all shocked, for instance, though it was a trifle surprised, when Jane Orris first walked into the Adam and Eve. However, it was certainly put out when young Jane publicly declared that she was a Communist; and the village took a few weeks to see the matter in its proper perspective.

Probably nobody would have minded if only Jane had been concerned; for she belonged to Brensham, she was one of us even though she had learned unfamiliar ways at Oxford, and since the village believed in individualism and stoutly practised it, she could have declared herself a Seventh Day Adventist if she’d liked and nobody would have minded. From the Mad Lord’s daughter we expected no less. What shocked us for a little while - nothing shocked us for long - was not Jane but Jane’s young men. They came down every weekend and draped themselves upon the bar at the Adam and Eve or the Horse Narrow. They wore long hair and pink ties and very baggy trousers. They preached to us a doctrine which we found difficult to understand in a manner which insulted us. They were bogus and we knew they were bogus. They patronized, and that, in Brensham, was the unforgivable sin.

For instance, they addressed people like Jeremy Briggs the blacksmith and David Groves the permanent-way ganger by their Christian names. The Colonel could do that, and so could Billy Butcher, and both Jane and I could do it because the village had known us since we were children. But when Jane’s foolish young men said ‘Have a drink, Jeremy’ or ‘Tell us, David, are you really content to go on all the rest of your life working for two pounds a week?’ it was a breach of good manners and there was an embarrassing silence before Jeremy excused himself and David made some short non-committal reply.

I don’t suppose there was much harm in these drawing-room Bolshies, as the Colonel called them. Mr Chorlton, who was tolerant and wise and who knew a great deal about young men, told us that they reminded him of his own undergraduate days. ‘We called it Aestheticism then, and now they call it Communism; but it’s simply growing pains really. Our Aesthetes, most of ‘em, were shooting lions or foxes or fighting in the Boer War a few years later. These Communists will probably be Diehard Tories, God help ‘em, before they reach the age of forty. Plus ça change’

‘And what about Jane?’ I asked him.

He shook his head.

‘She’s different. There’s something authentic there. It isn’t part of the fancy-dress which she’s put on with an undergraduate’s gown. It isn’t academic, at all. She’s full of righteousness and burning pity and she wants to go on a Crusade. Isn’t she splendid? She warms my old heart. Do you know, I was looking at her the

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