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In December 1909 England was gearing up for a general election, Russia was rumbling with the undercurrent of revolution, and my father – the very Reverend Joshia Peter Martins – expired, face down, in his dish of mutton and onions leaving Mother, myself and my younger brother Joe at the whim of Bishop Pagget.
Quite in character Mother was more concerned with the immediate rather than long-term consequences. ‘Why did he not call for the dishes to be removed before port?’ she had cried when our housekeeper had summoned us to the fateful table. ‘To be found among such common fare. Oh, Joshia!’ As it was rare for her to use his Christian name I immediately realised this was my mother in deep despair.
‘He looks very peaceful,’ I offered tactfully. In fact, my father looked if anything deeply relieved. He had the aspect of a man who had welcomed death, albeit he had found it among the gravy, and this helped me bear the awful, wrenching pain I felt at his loss.
‘Oh, Euphemia, if only your father …’
‘There was really nothing he could do about it,’ I countered fairly.
My mother lifted a haughty eyebrow at me. ‘Do not interrupt, young lady. It is not at all becoming. I was going to say if only your father had not been a vicar.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t take the decision lightly, Mother.’
‘I have no way of knowing. It was before he met me,’ Mother paused and then shook her head. ‘It really will not do. I will write to your grandfather.’
‘I will be only too delighted if he offers to help us, but you have been writing to that man for most of my life, Mother, and he has never bothered to reply.’
‘He is not “that man”, Euphemia. He is your grandfather.’
‘He has never behaved as one,’ I declared, grief lending my tone a sharpness I did not intend.
‘Just like your father,’ my mother snapped and left.
Despite my glossy, abundant chestnut hair and clear, grey intelligent eyes, I fear at 18 I am not – nor ever will be – my mother’s ideal of a good daughter. Between us lay the not inconsiderable hours I had spent at my father’s side in his study, while he taught me what he could of the world; how to think analytically and what little he had grown to understand of the human soul during his time as a man of the cloth. My mother considered intelligence ‘as much use on a young girl as a pair of hooves and about as attractive’. I once pointed out how this could occasion a very great saving on shoes and Pa had to stand by as I was sent to bed without supper. Mother and Pa were not close, but without Pa all our futures were dangerously uncertain. The eviction letter was sent by his secretary the day after my father’s death.
So while Mother retired to her room to grieve and continue her one-sided correspondence with my grandfather, I took decisive action. I began to write letters of my own to various country houses. I cannot say where the idea came from. It was certainly born of desperation, but I confess at this point it appealed to my sense of romanticism which I have failed to repress despite witnessing the outcome of my parents’ love-match.
Naturally, I took precautions to protect my identity. I directed all answers to the nearby post office and chose a nom-de-plume. I told the post mistress I was collecting letters for my cousin, who was to join us shortly. This blatant falsehood cost me some sleep, but I doubted anything would transpire of the scheme.
So, I was somewhat taken aback when, after a flood of rejections, I received a positive reply. How on earth would I tell Mother?
