June 2025 From the author’s desk…
THE FAMILY ESTATE AND CLOGS
‘Happy New Year, Ian. But God it’s cold!’ John Mulholland, still clad in overcoat, scarf and gloves, had driven down on New Year’s Day and was sitting across from him on the first floor of Cleveland House. Six inches of snow covered the ground outside.
‘Twenty degrees of frost, according to the thermometer by the front door, coldest January since 1940 they said on the radio,’ Ian answered.
‘The place is deserted, a morgue, where is everybody? Not even the formidable, ‘The Honourable Miss Fiona Simmons’.’
‘She rang in and left a message. Apparently big New Year’s Eve party at the Pump Room last night, didn’t get home until four this morning, so saw no point in coming in. Great life for some.’
‘Not invited?’ Mulholland asked.
‘Different world. Upper class of Bath only, not my sort of thing anyway.’
‘The broke-class more likely,’ the older man responded.
‘Which brings us back to business, and the trustees meeting this afternoon. Tell me, how much does the tax man want for death duties?’
‘I have got him down to half a million since our last meeting with him in November. That really is his bottom line. He won’t be pushed anymore.’
‘That much?’ Mulholland was obviously surprised. ‘What do you reckon the whole estate is worth then?’
‘I haven’t inspected it all. There’s still the area around Great Pulteney Street to do.’ Suddenly Ian had a flashback of a naked Fiona, and hesitated for a moment before continuing. ‘Lotted properly and sold privately over say two or three years, I’d say around £2 million. Much less if the market knows, as it will be sure to guess, because at auction everything has to sell. Added to that there are very few buyers in the market with the money for such a large chunk of real estate. With a forced sale I would say £1 million before costs, net £900,000.’
Mulholland interrupted. ‘Then there’s the interest payable on the half million tax, since the old boy died. It must be around £500 a week and that’s without the local banks hammering on the door for their overdue mortgages to be repaid. Remind me, what do they total?’
‘£600,000, including unpaid interest.’
‘But Ian, that means the estate is bust and it will all have to go. There’s no choice. It will come as a terrible shock for the family, but they have been living beyond their means for decades. They went on borrowing without any thought as to how the loans could be repaid. A classic case of C to C’
‘C to C?’
‘Clog to clog in three generations.’
An extract from chapter forty nine of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
May 2025 From the author’s desk…
A GOOD LUCH IN BATH SIXTY YEARS AGO…
Mulholand had ordered a large brandy and looked around the tea shop.
‘Unusual place.’
‘One of the oldest houses in Bath, dates back to the fifteenth century. There has been a bakery here since Roman times. Gives you an idea of what medieval Bath must have looked like with its narrow alleys and overhanging gabled roofs. Used to be called Lilliput Alley, and hasn’t much changed except they raised the street level about 300 years ago so that the original ground floor became a cellar.’
His boss had ordered the special, the Sally Lunn Bun with the recommended toppings.
‘And the bun?’
‘Recipe discovered in a secret cupboard in 1937. Named after a Huguenot refugee, a woman who fled France and came to work here in 1680. It’s very different, I think you’ll enjoy it.’
Another extract from chapter forty nine of – ‘Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles April 2025 From the author’s desk…
‘A TYPICAL LARGE COUNTRY ESTATE IN 1961…’
Mulholland explained what was to be expected as they drove down to meet the trustees.
‘This is a big job, Ian probably the largest estate the firm has handled for years. Rumour has it that the first Earl Lundy, bought his peerage for a political donation of about £1 million in the early 1920’s, through a man called Maundy Gregory, who was Lloyd George’s whoremaster in such matters. Can you imagine £1 million forty years ago? But this was a mere drop in the ocean of his vast fortune made in mining, shipping, banking and property. The grandson, Marmaduke, has not been too clever; lost a stack of money in some hair brain property venture in Bath. Neither he nor his father, the second Earl, did any death duty planning, as no doubt will be revealed later this morning.’
The estate was enormous. The first Earl had been very canny. Both son and grandson had been barred from selling any part of the estate. However, this had not prevented them from borrowing heavily over the last fifty years, in order to maintain their lavish lifestyles.
‘So there you have it Mr Mulholland,’ Malcolm Austwick, the principal trustee, summed up at the end of their first meeting. ‘It encompasses at least ten per cent of Bath, with all sorts of commercial buildings. There are countless shops, factories, hotels, pubs and other businesses, as well as thousands of freehold ground rents and rent charges, not to mention swathes of working class terraced houses all let on weekly tenancies.’
Austwick stopped and looked directly at Ian.
‘Do you drive?’
‘No sir.’
‘You’d better learn. In the counties around the city are about twenty thousand acres of agricultural and woodland, and much of the Somerset and Bristol coalfields that produced over 8,000 tons a month. Then there are the Fuller’s earth workings that are still profitable but the stone quarries, some dating back to Roman times, lose money – now either too dangerous or uneconomic to work.’
A second extract from chapter forty seven of – ‘Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles March 2025 From the author’s desk…
‘THE ANGEL OF DEATH AND THE GRAVEYARD MEETING’
It was obligatory for each department to be aware of the contents of the obituary column of the Times newspaper every day. Anyone who knew, or had any knowledge of an inclusion, however remote, had to attend the ‘Graveyard’ meeting at ten o’clock, where it was decided who would write to the widow. Usually it was the senior partner, and it followed a strict format. ‘Very sad…’, and if appropriate, ‘only saw him… shared a drink at the club…, and always ended: ‘If there is anything, absolutely anything at all I, in my role as your late husband’s friend, can do to assist, please do not hesitate to be in touch…’
Handwritten, the letter would be delivered, not posted, by the office motor cyclist, an ex-army dispatch rider, nicknamed the ‘Angel of Death’. Mandatory attendance at the funeral or cremation followed, which routinely bore rich pickings for the firm.
Thus, it was that Ian found himself accompanying John Mulholland to the ‘Graveyard’ meeting in early June of 1961, following the announcement that morning of the death of Marmaduke, the third Earl Lundy.
The company had last acted for the family when the first Earl acquired the island of Lundy in the Bristol Channel at the turn of the century. Ian’s connection was instantly and sniffly dismissed when he admitted his mother’s role as housekeeper to the family. He did not mention his last encounter with Alistair, the son, now to be the fourth Earl, when he and his mother had been evicted.
Much more relevant was Brigadier Sale’s connection through Poppy Day and the British Legion. His letter was duly delivery to the widow, Emily, at Rowas Grange Estate. As was hoped, Woods & Parker were appointed to handle the Probate valuation. John Mulholland was put in overall charge, and being from Bath, Ian was the natural choice as his assistant.
Another extract from chapter forty seven of – ‘Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles February 2025 From the author’s desk…
‘AN OLD ETONIAN’
One day, he fell into conversation with the old Etonian who had replaced him in the filing room; he had once been told Old Etonians were either totally charming or perfect shits. This one was the former, always broke, and was at the firm because his father nurtured ‘the vain hope that his first born would learn how to take over the family estate when he fell off his perch.’
He explained his latest money-making racket in the filing room. It involved jamming the machine for franking the postage on the hundreds of letters sent out daily. Given money to buy stamps, the machine would magically and secretly resume working and the filing room boys would pocket the cash.
‘How big is the estate?’ Ian asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know bloody great manor house, with six whole villages, in Yorkshire. Can you imagine?’
Ian couldn’t, they lived on different planets.
‘I will have to go into the House of Lords, when the title passes to me. Probably disappear and join the Foreign Legion.’
Ian was fascinated by him immaculate stiff white collar.
‘How do you get them so smart?’ he asked, conscious of his own limp efforts.
‘Easy, old chap. Regency shirts in Adams Row. The branch at Windsor did the ones for school, and this one is designed for us impoverished wage-slaves. I’ll take you down at lunchtime, if you like?’
To Ian’s dismay, the trip cost him his three shilling luncheon vouchers, but it was worth it. A dozen detachable while collars that were starched like steel. At first, life was agony as they cut into his neck. Viewing the angry circular red scar in the mirror after a week, he looked as though he had just narrowly escaped the gallows. You could always tell a Regency man, scarred for life.
Another extract from chapter forty six of – ‘Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles January 2025 From the author’s desk…
THE OLD AND ONLY WAY OF QUALIFYING
Ian’s learning curve in Mulholland’s office was steep and exhausting. As the only junior in the Investment Department he was at the beck and call of all six of the valuers and negotiators, and sometimes the three senior partners. He was soon exposed to every form of commercial property investment.
Each night he would return to his small dingy room – often too tired to eat – for endless study and little sleep. He got up at six, arriving at the office with the cleaners every morning in order not to fall behind with the written papers, which had to be posted back to the College of Estate Management each week.
Jeremy Thring had been very good about Ian leaving early, and many were intrigued by the large Bentley which waited for him in Berkeley Square every Friday afternoon. He enjoyed the journey to Bath and after a few trips the chauffeur knew well enough to leave him alone, as sitting in the back, he went through the past week’s marked study papers.
He loved the weekend’s of delicious food, clean sheets and competitive games of Scrabble; the luxury of Widcombe House was such a contrast to the maid’s room in London. Right from the first weekend, Marcus Rose had insisted that he bring the work marked by the college with him, so that they could go through it after dinner. It was more unwanted pressure but, keen to impress, these sessions kept him from falling behind in the relentless treadmill of study and work. By the last Friday before Christmas 1960 Ian could relax; Contract and Tort, Valuations, Law of Property, all had earned him an ‘A’ mark, with only a ‘B’ in Building Construction. Marcus was pleased.
Sunday night, back in the maid’s room, the next week’s washing and ironing brought him back to earth. He had splashed out on a new-fangled ‘drip dry’ shirt, bought from Marks & Spencer at great expense. Its wrapper proudly boasted, ‘needs no ironing, just wash and wear, your body heat does the rest: after only five minutes, not a wrinkle in sight’. His creases lasted right through the day. At the drawing board, jacketless one morning, Mulholland made a comment about juniors coming to work in shirts they had slept in. Ian went back to ironing.
Another extract from chapter forty six of – ‘Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles December 2024 From the author’s desk…
STAFF WELFARE IN 1959…
John Mulholland had his Financial Times spread across the desk. His morning ritual always started with a check on his shares’ closing prices on the previous day.
Slowly, he looked up from his beloved ‘pink un’ and over his half glasses, as if appraising Ian before speaking.
“So, you are the bugger Jeremy had decided should join us. You can sit there,” he pointed to the smallest desk in the room that was next to the door, “but you’ll need a decent suit, some proper shoes to replace those brothel creepers, a tie or two and some white shirts. We can’t have you representing the department looking like a bookmaker’s runner.” Ian remembered his headmaster’s comment about his old fur coat and must have reddened because Mulholland went on.
“Don’t worry about the cost, I will lend it to you against your first commission.” He pushed his chair back from the desk and stood up. “Now follow me.” And off they marched to the wonderful world of the Burlington Arcade.
An extract from chapter forty six of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
November 2024 From the author’s desk…
THE JOY OF TRAIN TRAVEL AND PORT TALBOT AT NIGHT 60 YEARS AGO…
It seemed a dream. Yesterday was just another day in the filing room, and now, he was sitting on the night Pullman to Swansea, with all his living expenses paid for four weeks.
He had never seen, or been on a train like it. You could actually have a meal while travelling. After a ‘Good evening, sir’ the uniformed conductor had picked up Ian’s small case and shown him to seat Ten F at a table with a little brass lamp topped by a pink lampshade. Laid for five courses, the silver plated cutlery jingled as the train picked up speed leaving Paddington.
Ian was the only passenger to get off the train at Port Talbot. The rain was tipping down as he walked along the deserted and bleak platform and stared at the flames reaching up to the heavens from a series of towers about five hundred yards away. Guarded by Cerebos he mused, as he headed down the exit tunnel, under a sign welcoming him to ‘THE HOME OF THE STEEL COMPANY OF WALES’; the smell of the sulphur was augmented by the stink of urine. Skirting around the closed booking hall, he found himself in a cul-de-sac flanked by goods yards; not a soul in sight.
Notts had telephoned him earlier that day.
“Sorry I can’t meet you, we are signing the deal off with dinner afterwards. You’re booked into the Berni Inn, best place in town and only two minutes from the station.
He turned into a road of mean Victorian terraced houses with pale lights showing in some of the upper rooms. Further along on his right, illuminated red letters three feet high announcing ‘ERNI INN’ had been fixed to iron bars spanning the first floor of three adjoining houses.
An extract from chapter forty five of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
October 2024 From the author’s desk…
TRUTH IN THE BISCUIT TIN…
“Peek Frean, makers of famous biscuits” said the faded red label on the lid. The tin had rusted in the corners where the label had been worn away by use. Gently he prised the lid off. It was crammed with papers; they were receipts.
He picked out the first, and unfolded it. It was a hire purchase agreement for a bicycle costing nineteen pounds one shilling and ten pence; four pounds as a deposit with weekly repayments at three shillings and four pence. It was dated March 1956. His beloved Raleigh, his mother’s fourteenth birthday present – it had never occurred to him that it had taken her nearly two years to pay for it.
He delved deeper and out came more HP agreements and payment cards going back years. The few sticks of furniture for the cottage at Rowas Grange Estate at half a crown a week for two years. Then a rent book for the house in Mafeking Street at nine pounds and a penny every month. More furniture, on and on it went, everything ‘on tick’. Year after year, the never-never was the only way his mother had survived on her meagre wages.
By now the box was only half full. Next came bundles of receipts for odd payments to Beaconsfield and Pitt College. He had always assumed that his scholarship had covered everything. Dozens of them for odd sums, always in guineas, starting in September 1947, and ending nine years later, that Christmas when he arrived home and discovered her barely alive.
He emptied the last inch and a half of the box and was horrified to discover that every single one of the thirty or so slips were judgements of debt, usually for a few pounds issued by the Bath County Court going back years. In every case his mother had been ordered to pay back a few shillings every week.
Carefully, he sorted them into datal order, each year a separate pile on his bed. The plaintiff’s name for the numerous rent arrears was Lundy, and in most other cases the orders were signed by Colonel John Bradshaw (Registrar).
It was then that he noticed the folded sheet of newspaper almost stuck to the bottom of the tin. He took it out and carefully unfolded the faded front page of the Bath 1942 Chronicle for Wednesday 29th April.
An extract from chapter forty four of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles
September 2024 From the author’s desk…
THE CURSE OF CANCER…
He stared at the crucifix on the wall; it reminded him to take Uncle Sebastian’s Magen David out of his pocket and place it around his neck. He had resumed wearing it when visiting the hospital, as he knew it pleased his mother. Below the crucifix was his mother’s name chalked on the small blackboard showing the ward’s bed positions. Over the last three years she had moved up to occupy pole position.
Sister O’Brien came into the ward office and, unusually, closed the door behind her. He wondered why, as she sat down with the habitual smoothing of her uniform.
“I wanted to see you, Ian, because I’m afraid your mother had a turn for the worse this morning. She’s quite poorly, and you don’t have to leave when you hear the bell at the end of visiting. You can stay as long as you like.”
He nodded slowly.
“Isn’t there any other family at all? Even back in Poland that we could try and contact?”
He shook his head.
“No.” He finally spoke. “There’s only me left.”
The floral curtains were drawn, completely screening his mother’s bed from the others in the ward. He knew that this wasn’t a good sign, but occasionally it had happened before over the last three years, after the numerous operations and setbacks. He was sure Sister would have said something if it was really bad.
They went through the curtains, and he bent down to kiss his mother. The Magen David around his neck brushed her cheek. Her gaunt pinched face was flushed, and she was breathing in short shallow gasps.
Sister took the chair from the head of the bed and placed it behind him before slipping back into the ward. He sat down and clasped his mother’s hand, its back bruised by the continuous punctures from intravenous drips.
Visiting was soon over. The supper trolley came and went. He sat there.
Sister O’Brien gently shook him. He had fallen asleep in the darkened ward.
“The next bed is empty. Why don’t you stretch out on it? I’ll draw the curtain back between the two beds so that you can still see your mum.”
She helped him unlace his shoes and climb onto the adjoining bed. He lay on his side exhausted.
“Goodnight Mum,” he whispered.
An extract from chapter forty two of – ‘ Go Swift and Far – a Tale of Bath’ The first book of The Westcott Chronicles