CHAPTER FIVE

‘How shall I bear so much happiness!’

Pride and Prejudice – Chapter 55

Until I was fifteen, I had always considered myself a Knight, descended from Sir Richard. My fifth great-grandparents were Thomas and Catherine Knight, and Jane Austen was an aunt who happened to have a different surname. I had always known that Edward Austen had been adopted and had changed his name to Knight, but it was not until I read the details of Edward’s adoption in Montagu’s book that it dawned on me that my fifth great-grandparents were George and Mrs Austen and that I was, in fact, an Austen. At the time, my mother explained that I had very nearly been christened Jane Austen Knight. My parents had wanted to recognise our Austen heritage and honour Jane, but they decided against it out of concern that I would be teased at school. Although I understood the reason for their decision, I secretly wished I had been named after Jane—what an honour that would have been.

I had never before considered our Austen heritage. It seemed extraordin­arily lucky that, two centuries earlier, Edward had been chosen as heir by his fourth cousin, who must have had other cousins and relatives from whom to choose. Thomas could easily have chosen someone else, and had it not been for Mrs Austen’s persuasion, George Austen might not have let Edward go, and Chawton would not have been our home. It would not have been Jane’s home either—and her novels might never have been written.

Thomas Knight II married Catherine Knatchbull in 1779 and hoped to have a family, but they did not bear children. Thomas and Catherine became particularly fond of twelve-year-old Edward, and after a visit to the Austens in Steventon, they took Edward with them on the remainder of their wedding tour of their Hampshire estates. According to Montagu’s book, Caroline Austen recorded what her uncle Henry had told her in 1848 concerning Edward’s early life:

he was very clear as to the purport of the discourse which he heard between his Father & Mother on the morning when they received a letter from Godmersham, begging that little Edward might spend his holidays there . . . My grandfather was not disposed to consent to Mr. Knight’s request. With the single eye of a Teacher, he looked only at one point, which was, that, if Edward went away to Godmersham for so many weeks he would get very much behind in the Latin Grammar. My grandmother seems to have used no arguments, and to have suggested no expectations; she merely said, “I think, my dear, you have better oblige your cousins, and let the child go;” and so he went, and at the end of the Holidays he came back, as much Edward Austen as before. But after this, the Summer Holidays, at least, were spent with the Knights, he being still left to his Father’s tuition. Uncle Henry could not say when it was announced in the family that one son was adopted elsewhere—it was, in time, understood so to be; and he supposed that his Parents and the Knights came to an early understanding on the subject.

It was about 1783 when Thomas and Catherine informally adopted fifteen-year-old Edward, and he became heir to the Knight fortune—there was no legal adoption process at that time. To mark the occasion, Thomas commissioned the William Wellings silhouette that I had seen so often in Granny’s bedroom.

The Knights sent Edward on a grand tour of Europe in 1786 to finish his education, as had been expected of young gentlemen since the seven­teenth century. He kept a journal of his travels which has since been published by the Jane Austen Society of Australia—Jane Austen’s Brother Abroad: The Grand Tour Journals of Edward Austen. He visited Switzerland and Italy and spent a year in Dresden, where he was received at the Saxon Court. Many years later, there was an exchange of letters and presents between Prince Maximilian of Saxony and ‘Edward Knight, ci-devant Austen’—as the Prince was inclined to address him. After he returned to England in 1790, Edward lived permanently with the Knights and was gradually prepared for life as squire and owner of three large country estates—Chawton, Steventon and Godmersham—further land and property in Sussex and Essex, and May’s Buildings, built by Thomas Knight I, in St Martin’s Lane in London.

But by the early twentieth century, Steventon and Godmersham had been sold, and most of the landholdings and properties were gone, too. The family’s remaining wealth was concentrated in Chawton, and Montagu owned all but two houses in the village. I was puzzled by the contrast between the grand symbols Montagu had installed in the house and the depleted family fortune. But the Knight family presence in Chawton village had never been stronger, and Montagu may have felt more secure than perhaps he should. Wage rec­ords from 1907 show payments made to more than sixty people as Montagu increased farming across the Chawton estate. He was certainly proud of the village and his heritage, and in his book proclaims:

The beauty of the situation, the venerable age of the Manor House, the old-world character of the village, and its literary associations; the fact that the property (though it has been owned by members of several families) has only once since the Norman Conquest changed hands by way of sale and purchase—all these advantages give the place a peculiar title to be considered as a specimen south English manor.

There seemed to be such a dramatic contrast between Montagu, the thirteenth squire, who had celebrated his position and heritage, and his nephew Lionel, the fourteenth squire, who had left no mark at all, not even a portrait. Lionel was my great-grandfather and a most recent ancestor, and yet I knew nothing about him at all. I didn’t even know what he had looked like.

There was an even more dramatic contrast between Montagu’s wealth and my grandfather’s. What had happened? Had there been a catastrophic event or a poor business investment that had devastated the family’s fortune? Had Bapops been foolish or not attended to his duties and responsibilities as squire? Had all their fortune been squandered away? It was hard to comprehend how so much could be lost in such a short period. I wondered how Bapops had felt as he signed off the sale of one asset after another. Montagu died in 1914, and by the 1950s, when my father was a boy, all but a few run-down cottages and outbuildings had been sold, and parts of the house were tenanted. My father had hoped to renovate the gardener’s cottage at the back of the estate for our family, but it was sold as well. My mother recalled there being many more portraits in the Great Hall when she arrived in 1965, but she didn’t know when or where they had gone. Bapops was fifty-five then and had already withdrawn into a largely reclusive lifestyle.

Fortunately, not everything had been sold. Bapops had given the Knight Family Pedigree Book to my father when he returned to England from Australia. My mother had explained to me that it contained all the branches of the family that had successively controlled the estates, but I hadn’t taken much of an interest in it when I was younger. There were many entries referring to people I didn’t know. But I had become more curious and asked if I could look at it again—I particularly wanted to look up Sir Richard and Elizabeth Martin Knight.

The old heavy pedigree book was kept in a seventeenth-century rectangular Nuremberg cast-iron Armada chest that my father had recovered from the cellar strongroom. The cellars lay under the Great Hall. A door just outside Granny’s kitchen in the servants’ passage opened to reveal stone steps down to the cellars, which comprised four dark rooms that had once been used for wine and safe storage. Cousin Fiona and I had often played in the cellars when we were young, creating make-believe houses between the low brick walls that divided the farthest room. Paul had used another of the rooms to race slot cars on a Scalextric track with Cousin Robin and their friends. The smallest cellar room in the south corner was a strongroom, accessed through a thick metal door.

My cousins would tease me about the unthinkable prospect of being shut in the strongroom, never to be discovered. I was certain that if I did venture in and the door did close, I would have no chance of escape. After all, the door had been designed to keep thieves out, as this was where the silver was kept, and the Nuremberg chest before it had been restored. I decided not to take the chance and never stepped inside. I could see a long metal pole leaning up against the wall inside the strongroom and had asked my father its purpose. ‘It’s for banging on the ceiling if you get shut in,’ he said with a smile. I wasn’t sure whether it was a joke or not. Would anyone hear from the hallway above? I resolved never to find out.

The Nuremberg chest—brown and flaky with rust—had sat on the floor of the cellar strongroom for years. My father had the chest restored to its ori­ginal state, and the medieval dark grey gleamed. Repairs to the elaborate lock mechanism that covered the underside of the lid made it once more a usable strongbox with an impenetrably thick metal body that was much too heavy for a thief to carry. The restored chest sat in our quarters where it housed my father’s most precious heirlooms. I thought the lock mechanism was terribly clever; the apparent keyhole was a trick.

I watched in anticipation as my father put the large key into the secret keyhole. I could see how difficult it was to open as he slowly levered his arm to turn the key. The lock mechanism made a loud noise as each metal rod and spring turned until the bolts retreated and the chest opened to reveal its treas­ures. Sir Richard’s signet ring was in a small box—a rare personal possession preserved from the original line of the Knight family. The ring was tarnished and discoloured, but there was no mistaking the letter ‘R’ and a coronet signifying his knighthood. I wondered whether Sir Richard had worn the ring all the time or just when he was formally dressed—like when my father wore his. My father was proud of his heritage, but he rejected the traditions of superiority. He wore his signet ring on special occasions only. When we went to church, my father preferred to sit in the parishioners’ pews, not in the Knight family pews at the front of the church. He insisted on being called Jeremy, not Mr Knight, and was quick to put people at ease.

Other boxes in the chest contained small items of silver, a few pictures, some small books and a large leather-bound book, which my father lifted out carefully. The Knight Family Pedigree Book, bound in red leather, covered with gold-leaf lettering and other decoration, had been given to my father by Bapops. Reverend Samuel Pegg, once the vicar of Godmersham, started the book in 1731. My father removed it from the chest and placed it on a cushion to protect the spine. It was one of the oldest and largest books I had ever seen—about the size of a large atlas. It had a faded reddish-brown leather cover and was filled with hand-drawn family trees, painted coats of arms and copious amounts of writing.

I was too nervous to touch such a precious record of hundreds of years of history that brought together the branches of the family through marriage, inheritance and adoption. My father carefully turned the thick pages. The gold leaf and vivid colours on the beautifully depicted coats of arms shone as brightly as the day they were painted. The intricately drawn family trees for the Knight, Martin, Brodnax, May, Knatchbull and Austen branches of the family were followed by pages of written entries about each person. My father turned the pages to find Sir Richard’s entry, which read:

Sir Richard Knight

Sir Richard Knight, Son of ye abovesaid Richard Knight Esq,
by his wife Elizabeth, liv’d to ye Age of 40 years, when, after some years spent abroad, & loaded with all the Provincial Honours his Country cd. bestow on him at Home, being a Candidate at ye County Election for Knights of ye Shire, he died before ye Affair was determined. This was A.D. 1679 and he left his Estate by Will to Richard Martin, who took ye Name of Knight, and was his first Cousin once removed. The Inscription on his Monument at Chawton here follows. There’s a large Monument agst ye South Wall of ye chancel, The Arms & Crest of Knight, with ye Motto, An Effigies lying on a Tomb, above which, is an Inscription on Christopher Knight Esq.

HSE Richardus Knight

I didn’t read the inscription below as I recognised it to be the same Latin inscription I had tried to decipher without success in the church. I was interested to see Sir Richard’s entry in the book, but I was disappointed it didn’t tell me more about him.

Elizabeth’s entry in the pedigree book was about a third of the way in:

Elizabeth Martin

Elizabeth Martin, afterwards Knight, & sole heiress of her brothers, mard William Woodward Esq concerning whom, his prior affinity to her (for they were Cousin Germans of the Families of Martin and Woodward), and their Extraction from Sr Christopher Lewkenor, by his Two Daughters, & Coheirs, Elizabeth and Frances, as set forth in ye Pedigree, I shall re: for you to ye Inscription on his monument against the North Wall of ye Chancel of Chawton Church. The Arms are Quarterly Knight (with an Inescachen of Martin), Woodward, Lewkenor, Knight, ye Crest of Woodward.

The inscription

Near this place Lyes the Body of William Woodward Knight Esq (the only son of Edward Woodward Esq. of Fosters in Surrey by Elizabeth the oldest daughter of, and Coheir to Sir Christopher Lewkenor of West Dean, Sussex) who assumed the Name of Knight, upon his marriage to Elizabeth, the only Daughter of Michael Martin Gent of Ensome in Oxfordshire (whose mother was a Knight, & heir to Sir Richard Knight of this place) by Frances, the other Coheir to Sir Christopher Lewkenor, whereby were united, their several Estates, of Lewkenors, Knights, Woodwards, and Martins. A Gentleman, dutiful to his God, true to his Country, affectionate to his wife, sincere to his Friend, charitable & obliging to all. He died, member of Parlmt for Midhurst Sussex, Oct 26 1721 To his memory, this monument was erected By his disconsolate Relict AD 1723

Again, I skipped over the inscription before continuing to read:

And to her second Husband Bulstrode Peachey of Petworth in Sussex Esq who died 14 January 1735 (he was buried at Chawton). This lady, the Time of whose Death is omitted in the Inscription, departed this life AD 1737 and left her Estate unto Thomas May Esq of Godmersham in Kent, one of nearest Relations, obliging him to change his Name at the next Session of Parliament, from May to Knight, wch was accordingly done.

The name Bulstrode Peachey never failed to make me laugh. Where had the book been kept in Jane’s time? Had she been equally amused? I considered the library the most likely location, although it may have been in Godmersham. Either way, I am sure Jane and Fanny turned the pages just as carefully and marvelled at the precision of the brushstrokes and the brightness of the colours. Jane obviously would not have seen her own entry. My father took a firm hold of a thick red ribbon peeking out at the top and bottom and used it to lever the book open at exactly the right spot.

The first page detailed a family tree with Jane on the right, towards the bottom. Over the page was her entry:

Jane Austen

This lady, born Dec 16 1775 is well known as the Authoress of Pride & Prejudice, Emma and of other novels, which were for the most part written at Chawton where she lived with her Mother & Sister from 1809 to 1817 residing in the Cottage near the Pond at the Junction of the Winchester and Gosport Roads. In 1817 she removed to Winchester, for the sake of Medical advice and died there July 18th in the same year. She was buried in the Cathedral near the centre of the North Aisle. A large slab of black marble marks the spot, and a Brass has recently been placed on the North Wall adjoining, by her nephew, the Revd E A Leigh. The Inscriptions on both marble & brass, are given on the next page.

In Memory of Jane Austen

Youngest daughter of the late Revd George Austen formerly Rector of Steventon in this county. She departed this life on the 18th of July 1817 aged 41. After a long illness supported with the Patience and the Hopes of a Christian. The benevolence of her heart, the sweetness of her temper, and the extraordinary endowments of her mind obtained the regard of all who knew her, and the warmest love of her intimate connections. Their grief is in proportion to their affection, they know their loss to be irreparable, but in their deepest affliction they are consoled by a firm though humble faith that her Charity, Devotion, Faith and Purity have rendered her soul acceptable in the sight of her Redeemer.

The inscription on the brass is as follows:

Jane Austen

Known to many by her writings, endeared to her Family by the varied charms of her Character, & enabled by Christian Faith and Piety was born in Steventon in the County of Hants Dec XVI. MDCCLXXV & buried in the Cathedral July XXIV. MDCCCXVII
“She openeth her mouth with wisdom, and her tongue is the law
of kindness”

A school friend and I took the bus to Winchester almost every Saturday during term time to visit my first boyfriend and other friends for the day who all boarded at Winchester College, the prestigious boys’ private school where Edward Austen Knight had sent his sons. My friends and I often sat in the gardens of the cath­edral, but I never went inside to look at Jane’s gravestone or monuments. I liked to think of Jane in Chawton and didn’t want to see her grave.

The last full entry in the book was Lionel’s, with the date of his sudden death in 1932 and the births of his five children, including Bapops in 1910. It was the only place I had seen Lionel or Bapops recorded in our history. Montagu Knight and William Austen Leigh had updated the book in the Victorian era with written entries, inserts and newspaper clippings, but my father didn’t know who had made the final entries. The pedigree book contained the name and lineage of every squire of Chawton, and I loved it.

If the obituaries were to be believed, every squire had been highly respected and had excelled at the ‘duties and dignity of the resident landholder’—as Jane described it in Persuasion—and many had played a prominent role in the community. Bapops didn’t sit on any committees or hold office, but some traditions were maintained, and my grandparents were committed to their responsibility as the hosts of village events for the local community. I had seen old photographs of an event, hosted by Montagu I assumed, with over a hundred people on the lawn.

The house remained a centre for village festivities. Every year the Great Hall and lawns were used for many events, including the Summer Ball, the Chawton Fete and Horticultural Show, and tea and cake after the Christmas carol service in the church. This created a great deal of work, and I sometimes wondered why Granny and Bapops still hosted these events. But I loved the atmosphere of the house being so full of life and was glad they did. I liked to help with the preparations as it made me feel useful and kept me busy. There was always something to do.

Every year, on the third Saturday in July, the Jane Austen Society of the United Kingdom held its annual general meeting (AGM) in a marquee on our lawns. I presumed they had done so for decades—since the society’s formation in the 1940s. A few days beforehand, the biggest marquee I had ever seen would be erected on the flat section of the lawns, close to the side door leading into Granny and Bapops’ quarters. It took a whole day for a team from Carters in Basingstoke to erect the wooden poles, haul over the large canvas tent and secure it with at least a hundred guide ropes. About five hundred folding wooden chairs were delivered for visitors to sit on.

In exchange for some pocket money from Granny, Cousin Fiona and I would put the chairs in neat rows towards the temporary stage that had been built inside the marquee—it took hours. At the beginning, it seemed like a good idea, but at about 250 chairs our enthusiasm often began to wane. We would then stand on the stage in front of the microphone and pretend we were speaking to the crowd, ‘I am delighted to accept this award . . . ’ When we were younger, we would play in the marquee for hours, running in and out between the poles and imagining we were in a grand ballroom or a circus big top.

On the day of the AGM, various volunteers and contractors came and went, setting up a PA system for the speakers, putting cones and tape along the driveway to direct cars into the four-acre paddock in front of the church for parking, and erecting direction notices at the house. For decades, Granny had provided tea and cake for the five hundred ‘Janeites’ and academics who attended for the afternoon. She would bake dozens of cakes and buy cakes from the Women’s Institute Fair in Alton. To the side of the marquee, serving tables were set up with enormous urns for boiling water, cups and saucers, and serviettes to hold a slice of cake. It was a family affair, and we all helped with setting up, serving, and clearing the used crockery. But it was a lot of work for Granny, and by the time I was in my teens, caterers were used.

Early in the afternoon, visitors would take to their seats in the marquee, and the formalities would begin. Guest speakers discussed various aspects of Jane’s life and literary works. I didn’t listen to the speakers. When I was about eight, I had sat on an empty chair at the side to listen and found it a bit boring. But I enjoyed the buzz and excitement of the day. I helped Granny, talked to visitors and directed people who were lost.

The event attracted visitors from far and wide, most of whom were women over forty—which, at the time, seemed old to me. One year, a taxi had pulled up at the front door about half past four when it was all over. A woman had flown from America to attend the event for the day, but her flight had been delayed. She was only able to stay for half an hour before she had to jump back in the taxi and return to Heathrow to catch her return flight home. The teas had been packed away, but my father made her a cup of tea in Granny’s kitchen and gave her a slice of cake and a tour of the public areas of the house, so her journey wasn’t completely wasted.

In previous years, the marquee had stood empty on the lawn for a couple of days, complete with five hundred chairs before Carters returned with their trucks to take it all away. It seemed like a waste to have such a large marquee standing empty, so my mother hatched a plan. The marquee could be used for an event in the evening for a couple of hundred people, far more than the Great Hall could seat for dinner—a fundraiser for the church perhaps. It would take considerable organising. Food, entertainment, tables, plates, cutlery, staff, ticket sales and fundraising activities were among a long list of considerations. It would be hard work, but my mother was focused on the opportunity to raise money for charity and, as long as it was achievable, was not put off. She formed a committee with two local women, and they met regularly for months to plan every detail. I didn’t attend the meetings but saw the file of papers she took with her get thicker and heavier as the months went on.

My mother’s dream came to fruition, and the first of three Chawton summer balls was held in 1986, just before my sixteenth birthday. It was certainly not the first time the house had hosted a ball in its four-hundred-year history, but my father had no memory of one. It was the first ball I had ever attended. Some of my friends went to the Hunt Ball or the Young Farmers Ball, but I couldn’t afford to go. The only dance I had been to was the end-of-school dance at the convent, which I had organised. Unfortunately, it ended with the expulsion of a girl who had invited her brother as her guest and showed him her dormitory, which was in breach of school rules. My father argued that she had not sneaked a boyfriend into the dorm, but the head teacher was undeterred.

The Chawton Ball was due to start at eight o’clock, leaving a tight three-hour window to clear the AGM and set up the marquee for dinner and dancing, with the help of friends and villagers. The dinner tables hired from Carters were covered and dressed with flowers. The chairs used for the AGM were cleared to reveal a dance floor in the centre of the marquee and rearranged around the tables for dinner. The Great Hall was set up for the food buffet. An array of cold meats, salads, breads, condiments and homemade dessert cakes were prepared by an army of volunteers under the careful direction of my mother and her committee colleagues. Some food was prepared in advance and stored in refrigerators, bags and boxes. On-the-day preparation had been happening all afternoon in the kitchen of our quarters—all unseen by the AGM guests. Lettuces were washed by the dozen. Large tubs were filled with sliced cucumber, and the roasted turkey, beef and ham were carved by hand.

Shortly before the ball was due to start, our friends Jake and Amber arrived. Amber looked elegant in a rose-gold taffeta dress with her hair pinned up on one side and cascading with curls on the other. Amber was always stylish and well dressed. Jake wore his dinner jacket ‘shabby chic’. I always enjoyed their company and hoped they would stay for the weekend. Jake had opened a number of veterinary practices in the Brighton area and often had to rush back to work. As we swapped news, Jake casually mentioned that he had treated himself to a new car: ‘I’ve been a bit naughty and bought a Ferrari.’ We rushed outside to have a look. It was dark blue, very sleek and the fanciest car I had ever sat in. Jake had started out in a rented apartment in Chawton House and now owned a business that was so successful he could afford a Ferrari. He was humble, rarely spoke about his business affairs and never bragged. I had known Jake all my life and was awestruck by how successful he had become. He had always been dedicated to his work, and I was inspired.

Nearly all the men were in black tie—that is, dressed in formal black dinner suits with matching black bow ties and cummerbunds around their waists, although a few of the more eccentric guests had brightly coloured ones. The women were in evening gowns, many in taffeta creations with full skirts down to the floor. My father had liked a pink-checked taffeta dress my mother had tried on in a dress shop when we were on a camping holiday months earlier, but it was too expensive. By coincidence, my mother found the same dress for hire locally and surprised my father by wearing it on the night. My mother made my dress—white cotton with white spots, strapless, with a full calf-length skirt. It was the first time I had socialised for an evening with my parents and their friends—people I had known all my life. I felt very grown-up.

Trestle tables had been placed around the Great Hall, and volunteers stood behind them to serve the food, ensuring the food didn’t run out. I served the cold meats—each person was allocated two slices of each, and I was careful to stick to the allowance. Guests came into the Great Hall to get their dinner and returned to the marquee to dine. After dinner, the charity auction was held. Local benefactors had donated items such as bottles of vintage wine, and even a stereo system. I was amazed at the amount that generous—and tipsy—diners paid for auction items as friends and neighbours tried to outbid each other in high-spirited but friendly competition. The band played, and we danced late into the night.

The ball was a complete success. The months of preparations by my mother and the committee had been worth the effort. The evening ran smoothly, was enjoyed by all and raised thousands of pounds for the church. The ball became an annual event and boosted my mother’s confidence. The church organ was in need of significant repair, so the following year, as well as organising the ball, my mother and a small group of friends planned a three-day summer festival in Chawton. The festival involved the whole village, with exhibitions, stalls and open gardens. Everyone either chipped in and helped with the arrangements or volunteered for the rota to ‘man’ different events. Visitors came from miles around, and £8,000 was raised for the church.

Two weeks later, on the first Saturday in August, the annual Chawton Fete and Horticultural Show was held—my favourite summer event of the year. It was a family occasion, and many children from the village and surrounding areas came—I didn’t often see the children who had attended Chawton Primary School with me. The Great Hall was used for the flower, produce, baking and handicraft competitions of the Horticultural Show, organised by the Horticultural Society. The tea-room tables and trestles were arranged around the edge of the room and in a row down the centre before they were covered with tablecloths and readied to display the entries for each competition class. Officials from the Horticultural Society placed cards along the tables to indicate where the entries for each class should go. Non-perishable entries such as homemade jam, dried-flower arrangements, needlework and art were all in place the day before.

I don’t think I was supposed to, but I snuck into the Great Hall the night before and had a good look at all the entries. Each had a card showing its competition class. The maker’s name had been written on the back of the card, which was placed flat on the table, so the judges could not identify the maker. I pretended I was a judge and made a mental note of my chosen winners.

Entries in the children’s classes were displayed in the inner hall of my grandparents’ quarters. A notice saying ‘Private’ was placed on the door to the library and on the bottom of the staircase to my grandparents’ bedroom chambers. The large round hall table was usually cluttered with unopened post and other items that Granny or Bapops never put away: a wooden shoe tree, a picnic basket that hadn’t been used for years and Mills & Boon romance novels that Granny had borrowed from the public library in Alton (the only books I ever saw her read). All had been cleared to the sideboard of the inner hallway, so that the table, along with some trestles, could be used to display the children’s work.

The perishable entries arrived on the morning of the show. Once the freshly baked cakes and scones, fresh flowers and produce were in place, the Great Hall and inner hallway were out of bounds for a couple of hours while the serious-looking judges privately viewed, squeezed, cut and tasted. This was the only time of the year I was banished from the Great Hall, and I didn’t like it at all. I didn’t make a fuss or tell anyone, but I was desperate to hear what the judges were saying and how they chose the winners. I didn’t try to listen—I would not have risked being caught. On the rare occasions when I did get into mischief, I wasn’t harshly punished, but I didn’t like being told off.

Once the judging was complete, other officials went around the tables, turning over the cards and recording the names of the winners before the Great Hall and inner hallway were opened to the public at about midday. Class winners were awarded with small silver cups, with larger cups given to the most outstanding entries, which were deemed to have won a whole category.

I had seen photographs of my father standing beside a table full of cups and holding in his hands the biggest cup awarded to the overall winner of the show. In 1976, the hottest summer in England since records began, my father entered his home-grown vegetables, fruit and flowers in the show; I was too young to remember but had heard the story from my mother. He won nearly all, if not all, the classes he had entered, and he had been awarded the large array of cups in the photograph, including the cup for the overall winner. My father overheard someone in the crowd comment, ‘It must be easy when you’ve got gardeners to do all the work.’ Nothing could have been further from the truth, and my father was embarrassed. He had carried water from the house to the walled garden in buckets every day for months in the heatwave. My father said nothing, but he never entered the competition again. I don’t remember ever entering any of the competitions; if I did, it was only once or twice, and I never won anything.

The fete was organised by a village committee, and the proceeds were used to pay for improvements to village amenities and repairs to the church. About twenty stalls were set up throughout the morning on the front lawns. The lawns were always in good condition as they were regularly cut by my father or Robert with the ride-on mower. The fete opened about lunchtime, and hundreds of people came from Chawton, Alton and the surrounding areas. Throughout the event, a compère kept everyone informed and entertained over a tannoy brought in for the day. In a marquee erected just outside the li­­brary windows on the bottom of the terrace, tea and cakes were served, organised and managed by fete volunteers. As well as the stalls and refreshments, visitors could enjoy the programme of events set for the afternoon—perform­ances and displays by local clubs. I particularly remember dog-obedience displays and choreographed dance troops. There was archery for adults and a fancy-dress competition for children. I had once tried and dismally failed to shoot a target with Paul’s bow and arrow, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of a crowd.

There were games of chance, such as a lucky dip and a raffle, and games of skill, such as ‘splat the rat’ where a pretend furry mouse, a cat toy, was dropped down a length of drainpipe and the player tried to hit it with a stick as it shot out of the bottom. Each game cost ten or twenty pence to play and offered the chance of a small prize or ‘double your money’. Other stalls sold crafts and homemade jams and pickles. My parents sometimes ran the tombola stall for which they collected a hundred or so prizes from the local community—from jars of pickles to boxes of chocolates—and labelled them all with a number that ended with a five or a zero. Players paid ten pence to pick a raffle ticket from a barrel. If the raffle ticket ended in a five or a zero, they won the prize marked with the same number.

In previous years, I had helped my parents, but that year I was fifteen and wanted to run a stall of my own. I called it the ‘Human Fruit Machine’. It consisted of three people sitting on a row of chairs, each with an orange, an apple, a pear, a lemon and a grapefruit in a cloth sack, instead of the reels of a fruit machine. Players paid ten pence to pull a broom handle in a downwards motion, and each ‘reel’ picked a fruit at random from their bag and held it up. If two of the three fruits matched, the player won thirty pence. If all three fruits matched, the prize was a whole pound!

Throughout the afternoon, I persuaded friends, family and visitors to take turns at being the reels. There was no trickery—the reels genuinely picked the fruit at random. But the low probability of two or three of the same fruit being picked ensured the stall made a profit to bump up the fete proceeds—not a great deal was raised, only twenty pounds or so. I enjoyed doing it for a few hours but was grateful when my father eventually took over.

I talked to some of the local children I knew, but mostly I walked around the stalls to see what was on offer and what had been popular, and I had a thoroughly enjoyable time. It was my favourite day of the summer. It was a day full of joy and laughter, and I felt proud of my family’s heritage and role in the community.