Tales From The Pantry: A Butler's Diary

Bonfire Night at Carstone

2010-11-11T16:04:00.002Z

Bonfires. In general I am in favour of them. Traditionally they have been an essential part of sundry British celebrations. A new monarch? Light a bonfire. A plot is foiled? Light a bonfire. A glorious victory in battle overseas? Light a bonfire. This year, however, I spent most of Bonfire Night cradling a shaking dog in my arms. Sir Geoffrey's favourite border terrier (Bailey by name) took exception to the fireworks exploding in the night sky and expressed his disaffection by shaking uncontrollably. I am a stern butler. Some (but not many) say 'intimidating.' I can make a stillroom maid quail with merely a glance, but I have a terribly soft spot for dogs. Poor Bailey did not like the fireworks.

King James I survived in 1605 and most in this realm rejoiced. I cannot help thinking that most pets in the land have cursed that day of deliverance ever since.

New Post Tomorrow

2010-08-31T12:45:00.001+01:00

I am, in fact, and contrary to rumour and suspicion, not dead. Indeed I am very much alive.

The first post here in an eon or two will appear tomorrow morning.

Fit as a Fiddle!

2009-10-06T16:28:00.002+01:00

How swiftly time moves on. My knee, of which you heard so much in my previous two entries, is now in splendid shape. The way I currently feel, if I had been born with a natural sense of balance, I could (perhaps this afternoon) fly through the air with the greatest of ease, like those daring young men on the flying trapeze. Sadly any dreams I had of being a trapeze artist died long ago. I struggle to get to the top step of the ladders or scaffolding during spring cleaning here at Carstone these days; and that involves very little flying. In short, however, I am in rude health, and am raring to go.

The Carstone family are in residence this weekend which makes for a bustling week for the staff. Indeed, if I could pluck one word from the dictionary to describe our activities for the next month, 'bustling' would definitely fit the bill. The month is set to end with a large Halloween Ball that Mr Miles Carstone has insisted on. Halloween is an event that, by and large, passes Sir Geoffrey and Lady Carstone by. It would, for example, take an outstanding amount of effort for a trick-or-treater to get to the front door of Carstone House. Our intrepid hero would have to walk a fair way simply to reach the outskirts of Carstone Park. Then he would have to get past the ever-vigilant Mr Llywelyn, the Lodge Keeper. With his love of all things supernatural I daresay he would be even more vigilant on Halloween. The chances of a trick-or-treater getting past Llywelyn on Halloween are slim. He would probably regale them for hours with all the ghost stories he has compiled about the ancient estate, until, bleary-eyed and dazed, and forgetting their original purpose for venturing out that evening, they would stagger back home empty handed.

But all that is for later in the month. I am currently having my portrait painted by an artist we have staying here, but more of than anon.

Love 'Below Stairs'

2009-09-25T11:59:00.004+01:00

I am quite aware that the title of this entry sounds rather like that of an early Barbara Cartland novel. I can imagine its cover now: the lovesick footman, face exhibiting all the pain of unrequited love, gazing adoringly through the serving hatch at an oblivious 3rd Housemaid. No doubt the dominant colour of the tome's cover artwork would be pink.

The reason for all of this is a question put to me on Twitter (I cannot claim to have mastered the technology as yet): "Fielding, have you read 'Remains of the Day?'". The answer is yes I have. I think the book is a splendid one. It touches on many interesting points. In the 19th and early 20th century here at Carstone, staff falling in love was deeply frowned upon. The idea of female members of staff having 'followers' was the source of many a headache for the butler and House Steward of the day. Anything that would disturb the smooth running of Carstone House was deeply disturbing to them. Indeed, in the attics (where all the Servant's Bedrooms are - including my little butler's flat) all the female bedrooms are in one wing, and all the male bedrooms are in another. There used to be a gigantic leather-bound dividing door which separated the two which had to be ceremoniously locked each night by the Housekeeper.

Nevertheless, love often finds a way through even the stoutest of defences. There is a story that is still told here at Carstone of the time that the butler and the housekeeper fell in love (this was in the 1920s). Evidently, the then baronet, Sir Charles Carstone, gave his blessing to the match, but, when the butler finally plucked up the courage to express his feelings and proposed marriage, he was refused. The Housekeeper felt that it would upset the running of the House too much. She put her staff ahead of her own personal happiness. Heartbroken, the butler asked to be moved to the Carstone family's London house. Neither of them married, although the Housekeeper was always referred to as 'Mrs' as a courtesy title, as was customary for housekeepers at that time.

I only have time to dwell on such matters of the heart as I have been ordered to rest my knee by the local doctor. I currently have my leg propped up on a small stool, as I gaze out of the window of my flat. I can see the steep hill that leads to the Summerhouse from up here. Somebody seems to be striding purposefully up said hill. It is possibly Mr Barton, but it is difficult to tell (he really does wander all over the estate. He would be tricky to catch in a butterfly net). There is no way I could get up there at the moment. Getting upstairs was effort enough for me. This evening, knee permitting, I shall go and visit Llywelyn at the Lodge Gates (or possibly the Carstone Arms).

I am eager to return to work.

A Jarring Experience

2009-09-23T09:35:00.003+01:00

The great writer P.G. Wodehouse once admirably described a butler's walk as a "stately procession of one". Today I am certainly not living up to that noble ideal. Walking is beyond me at the moment. Hobbling is my current mode of transport. I rather unfortunately jarred my knee while descending into the cellars yesterday. It was very dim (as cellars are oft to be) and my foot slipped on the penultimate step. This morning the offending knee was rather painful but I am hoping that all shall be well. It is not a good thing for a butler to hobble. My equilibriam is affected, so, whereas I could serve my master a cup of tea with ease yesterday, my attempts at breakfast this morning were less successful. Indeed, the saucer became so full of tea, the cup looked like a small china castle surrounded by a forbidding brown moat. I wisely left Simon to serve at table for the rest of breakfast, while I hobbled forlornly into the darkness.

I obtained my injury whilst making one of my regular checks of the contents of the cellars. Novels and popular entertainment have given we butlers a rather rough deal when it comes to this particular part of our duties. It seems common for a butler to be portrayed as a man forever sucking peppermints to disguise the fact that he has just dipped liberally into his master's wine cellar. Nothing could be further from the truth at Carstone. I don't even like peppermints.

I use the term 'cellars' rather than 'cellar' because we have several of them. There is the Wine Cellar, the Family Beer Cellar, and the Servant's Beer Cellar, as well as a room that was used years ago for the bottling of both wine and beer. They are cavernous subterranean rooms; more 'chambers' really. I am the only member of staff that has access to all the keys to the cellars. Double doors lead to them. Each morning I open the outer-door, walk through the small lobby which contains a folding-table against the wall, unlock the inner-door which leads into the Wine Cellar, place the wine-for-the day on a tray, and then place the tray on the folding-table. I then lock the inner-door, then the outer-door, and the footman only gets a key to the outer-door. This means he can have access to the wine-for-the-day but can't actually get into the Wine Cellar itself.

Phew. I hope you got all that. Perhaps the pain from my knee is making me garble a bit.

The Invasion of Carstone House

2009-09-21T13:18:00.003+01:00

I wonder if using Carstone House for civic occasions will become a regular affair. It is a very strange experience. It was akin to being occupied by a small army; and not a cheerful army at that. There was no Grand Armee bonhomie from the visiting hordes of caterers. They were grim, glum; life, it seems, had treated them unfairly. Even their uniforms were black and white. Colour would not have suited them. In they trudged through the Tradesman's Entrance at 5pm to set up for the event. Robert kept an eye on them. I asked him later if he spotted a smile from one of them at any time. He thought he had, but admitted it could have been merely the beginnings of a sneeze.

Their Dining Table (which sat 50) looked adequate for the occasion, but, unsurprisingly, they laid the table "by eye" which is something that I would never permit from our own staff. I did offer them the use of both the ruler and measuring stick (which is kept in a corner cabinet in the Dining Room) but they looked at me as if I had just escaped from a secure institution. I thought it best to make a strategic withdrawal at this stage.

The Mayors (each one in their own chauffered car) started to arrive at around 6.45pm for a drinks reception in the Great Hall. I was not on duty, but insisted that Robert (by now rescued from the cold draught of standing near an open Tradesman's Entrance) be present at all times to oversee things. The assembled throng seemed to enjoy the occasion and it carried on late into the night. Robert finally retired to bed in the early hours. It had been rather a long day for him.

One thing did annoy me however. Catering were supposed to take everything with them at the end of the night (within reason that is) from the Kitchen and service rooms that they used. I did not expect it to be spotless. Indeed I expected spots aplenty. What I did not expect was the horrified shriek from Mrs Styles as she entered the Kitchen early the next morning to start preparing breakfast. Apparently things had been left in a shocking state. Unfortunately the staff here had to spend much of the morning clearing up the mess. By then, of course, the black and white Grand Armee had trudged, grimly, far, far, away from the battlefield.

The Solution?

2009-09-16T11:41:00.004+01:00

I know, I know, don't look at me in that disapproving, disappointed way. I am aware that I promised to update this diary with a lot more regularity. My head is hanging in shame. However, a solution appears to have popped its head over the boxhedge. I have been inspired. Archimedes had a similar feeling upon taking a bath on one notable occasion.

I am not particularly familiar with a lot of modern technology. Neither, however, am I a luddite. You would not find me hurling the Carstone family copeland-spode dinner service around the Kitchen in protest at the Scullery Maid being replaced with a dishwasher for example. Progress is inevitable. I was explaining my blog situation to a friend at the Carstone Arms last night and he suggested that perhaps I should open a Twitter account in conjunction with this diary. That way there could be more regular updates, and a more indepth write-up when time allows. I confess I was unfamiliar with Twitter. I had read something about it in the newspaper but had no real idea. It sounded vaguely ornithological to me.

It is likely that I will make a complete hash of it at first. So, as ever, I beg patience from my small band of readers.

The reason I wanted to re-ignite this diary at this stage is that we have a rather busy week ahead of us here at Carstone. This evening, for example, we are playing host to a function for the Mayor. He is dining here with a clutch of other mayors from all over the country ('a gaggle of mayors'?, 'a melody of mayors'?; 'a gang of mayors' sounds too sinister..). There will be chains of office as far as the eye can see. I am told that they are encouraged to wear them. A mayor without a chain is a sad sight indeed. Other mayors look at them askance and mutter darkly behind their backs.

So perhaps this gives me a wonderful opportunity to try out this Twitter experiment. I shall twitter throughout the evening (when possible of course), and then pen a more in-depth description of proceedings on here in the morning.

The twitter address is: http://www.twitter.com/butlerfielding

Incidentally, for those of you who have no desire to own a Twitter account, you can see a feed of my updates by scrolling right to the very bottom of this screen.

The Film Crew Cometh

2009-03-31T12:35:00.002+01:00

It would appear that I am back in the blogging (the word still makes me shudder, even after all this time) saddle far sooner than I had anticipated. I am rather tentatively sat in the saddle, like a rider whose last horse fell at the first, but here I am.

The reason for this is simple. Tomorrow a film crew comes to Carstone House. Do not get me wrong: I am quite a fan of film crews in their natural habitat. A film crew cosily ensconced in a film studio can create magical things. A film crew in the Italian Drawing Room here at Carstone, on the other hand, sounds far more menacing. When Shakespeare wrote "All The World's A Stage" in Act 2 Scene 7 of As You Like It, I get the feeling that a few of these chaps took him literally. Not all of Carstone is a stage, and not all of Sir Geoffrey's furniture is to be used as film props. An eagle eye is required I believe.

They are due here at 9am tomorrow morning. The battlements may not be formidable enough to protect the old place. With a due sense of dread, I shall be updating this diary over the next few days.

This Abandoned Ruin Of A Blog

2009-03-17T11:47:00.003Z

I wrote this originally as a message on the previous post (are you still with me? I confuse myself sometimes) but, for visitors who like to nip in, pop their heads around the door, and then depart, cursing the name of Fielding, and comparing it to all that is lazy, I hope the following will explain the abandonment of this blog.

It is rather a romantic ruin these days. Byron would have approved.

So, here is the explanation for those who might have missed it:

"Well, there is always hope. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood!

I began to neglect this blog after its original intention (a day-by-day, blow-by-blow, account of life at Carstone) proved to be difficult to maintain. There always seemed to be something keeping me away from my chronicle. Samuel Pepys probably had the same problem, but handled it in a far better way.

I'm not sure that anybody would really be interested in posts every few days, or every week, or so. It was the day-by-day details that I wanted to capture.

I was frustrated in this act by, as Harold Macmillan would have said, "events, dear boy, events!"

Climbing The Peak

2008-02-17T09:11:00.003Z

Spring cleaning can be a laborious task. My role is usually to oversee things. It has been many a year since you would have found me high in the rafters extracting dust and grime from between 17th century carvings. I leave that now to the younger generation. Although I might have the spirit of a Henry V and would like nothing better than to ride into battle, preparing to close any wall up with our English dead, I am now more like King George VI, and must play a more sedate, but nonetheless vital, morale-boosting, leadership role in the proceedings.

Yesterday we tackled the Banqueting Hall. The scaffolding was put up early in the morning. There is something about scaffolding that brings the inner-child out in me. I can never resist. I always seem to get an urge to climb up it and to survey the majestic scene from its lofty peak. As the years roll by I am acutely aware that the scaffolding is getting higher and higher, for it takes me longer to climb these days. Such was the struggle and the sense of achievement when I reached the top yesterday morning that I felt like planting a flag at the summit.

The view was breathtaking from up there. It gives a man a different sense of perspective. Unfortunately timing is everything. When triumphantly astride the summit, a little voice called up to me from down below. I felt like Zeus, atop Mount Olympus attempting to hear a Greek shepherd's prayer called up from the valley beneath. It was Wendy informing me that Mr Miles requested my presence in the Library. It was as if, when he had reached the top of Everest, Sir Edmund Hillary has suddenly remembered he had left the gas on. I swiftly began my descent.

I finally arrived in the Library rather red of cheek. Mr Miles did not comment on this. His mind was no doubt on loftier things. He had a problem of his own. This problem found its form in the newly installed Agent of the Carstone Estate, Mr Downing; but more of that anon. There is no rest for this butler on Sunday morning. I am off to have a chat with Mr Barton about his new planting scheme in the Orangery Garden. Lady Carstone has left suggestions for him. The day is cold, crisp, but there isn't a cloud in the sky. A nice stroll through the gardens is exactly what I need to clear the dust and cobwebs.

Spring Cleaning

2008-02-14T10:49:00.002Z

The standards of day-to-day cleaning are, I would like to think, extremely high here at Carstone, but the place is so large there are spots that even the most determined Housemaid armed with a duster the size of a knight's lance and a particularly springy trampoline cannot reach. The Carstone family have decamped to London and tomorrow we begin the great spring clean of the staterooms. Scaffolding shall be erected and no piece of dust, however cunningly disguised, shall escape the eagle eyes (and the cleaning equipment) of the staff here.

A Fortunately Damp Squib

2008-02-12T12:13:00.000Z

I should aspire to resemble Churchill more. I do not mean start wearing a bowtie, puff away at cigars, and begin making rousing, defiant, speeches involving one or more of the following: blood, toil, tears, sweat, or beaches. I should instead learn from these wise words he once uttered:

"When I look back on all these worries, I remember the story of the old man who said on his deathbed that he had had a lot of trouble in his life, most of which had never happened."

I am pleased to report that the bombshell I had feared turned out to be a harmless dummy bomb useful only for training purposes. Mr Chando's article appeared last week and, although a Pulitzer Prize will not be winging it's way towards his desk anytime soon (at least a third of the historical 'facts' quoted, were, to use the correct technical term: piffle) it could have been a lot worse. Relief is the dominant emotion.

Unwanted Suspense

2008-01-31T11:52:00.001Z

My nerves are frayed. They are also jangling. I did not realise that nerves could fray and jangle at the same time. It is an interesting but rather unpleasant sensation. I was apprehensive of opening the doors of Carstone House to a gentleman of the local press because I remember what happened last time I was interviewed by them. One popped along about four years ago. I think it must have been the time that Paul Burrell, the Princess of Wales' former butler, was in all the newspapers, and, for a split second, butlers were all the rage once more. An unprepossessing man with a moustache that he seemed to have borrowed for the occasion spent the day with me, to write an article about my profession in the modern age. He went away and wrote an article quoting me at length. He did not actually report what I had said, but what he believed I SHOULD have said. It was quite extraordinary. That chap's name was Mr Chandos. I mention this because it was the self-same reporter that turned up here at 9.30 on Monday morning.

Chandos greeted me warmly as if reuniting with a lost friend. His questions to me were quite brief, but I am convinced that I was not the antelope that this particular lion had his eye on. He was allowed to talk to any members of staff that were willing to talk to him. Unfortunately practically every one did talk to him. He was here an inordinate amount of time, and left with a spring in his step. A journalist with a spring in his step bodes well for no man. Goodness knows what people have told him, and would it matter anyway? He will probably write what he pleases. Quite how Carstone House will be portrayed in the local media is hard to fathom. So everytime the newspapers are delivered I leap up from my chair like a particularly athletic salmon. So far the article has not appeared, but, soon, perhaps today, with the grim inevitability of Greek tragedy, the immortal words of Chandos will be delivered to the butler's pantry, to Mr Downing's office, to the study of Sir Geoffrey Carstone, and will be passed around the Servant's Hall with undisguised relish.

But what will those words say?

Read All About It!

2008-01-27T11:06:00.000Z

I am slightly nervous as I type this in my butler's flat high in the towers of Carstone House. For tomorrow an intruder shall enter the establishment. An invited intruder, perhaps; he will arrive with full permission to be here, but he intrudes, not so much upon this house, as upon my peace of mind. I feel like Count Dracula would feel if he had woken from a good day's slumber and, just as he had grabbed his cape, and had one foot out of the door ready for a good evening's terrorising the populace, he discovered (possibly by reading a flyer that had been popped through the letter box) that his castle was to be the venue for this year's Garlic Eater's Society Annual General Meeting.

For tomorrow at 9.30am a journalist shall be here.

The local newspaper wants to write a feature article about life in service in the 21st century. Unfortunately, following the advice of his new Land Agent (Mr Downing), Sir Geoffrey has agreed to the request. The journalist has been granted permission to interview any members of staff that he sees fit.

I am not looking forward to tomorrow. Indeed, I would probably welcome an interview from a stern Scotland Yard detective, members of the Spanish Inquisition, or the Witchfinder General in a foul mood, far more than a journalist (especially THIS journalist) from the local paper.

A Butler's Diary

2008-01-23T13:07:00.000Z

Tales From The Pantry will return on Friday 25 January.

An Artistic Soul

2007-08-15T10:51:00.000+01:00

The repairs to Mr Miles' gondola have been completed. The eccentricities of the heir to Carstone would be enough to make any father pull out the few remaining hairs on his head. Sir Geoffrey wears hats quite a bit these days. I have seen, on a week-end (when the son and heir often visits the ancestral home) Mr Miles entertain a party for lunch and then, dressed in full Venetian gondolier's uniform (complete with black trousers and striped shirt), take them to the lake, and row them to the small island in the centre for cocktails. Several times I have been deposited (in a normal rowing boat from the boathouse. Gondolas seem rather precarious to me. I believe they belong only in Venice for a reason) on the island, as an advance party, to prepare to serve the drinks. One gets used to such quirks.

Mr Miles telephoned this morning to inform us that he will be visiting Carstone this week-end. His career as a portrait painter has had a rather bumpy beginning. He is bringing with him his latest commission. Perhaps that is how he now drums up business: be painted by Mr Miles Carstone and get a free week-end at Carstone House into the bargain! He is to use a large room in the attics which at one time used to be the Footman's Sitting Room (those were in the days, before the Second World War, when there were four footmen here, who would, if there was a party larger than six for dinner, wear full livery, complete with breeches, buckled shoes and powdered wigs) so I must ensure that everything is set out for him.

Lady Carstone seems rather down. Perhaps she misses Lake Garda. Usually a very vibrant personality, she barely said a word at breakfast this morning. Sir Geoffrey was, in sharp contrast, in most loquacious form. When I informed him about the gondola, he told me a story of when that 'blasted extravagance' (as he calls it) first needed re-gilding. Without his son's knowledge the baronet ordered that it be painted gold rather than gilded. This money-saving plan came unravelled when after only a few months in lake water, the gold paint started to go green. I remember that very well.

'The Chat': A Concerned Master

2007-08-14T10:51:00.000+01:00

Sir Geoffrey has returned from Italy with a furrowed brow. This had nothing to do with the climate, the food, or the hotel arrangements. They were very acceptable. No, the fly in his ointment, the bug on his pasta, the exploding bottle in his wine cellar, was caused by a visit to a castle in a town quite close to his hotel.

On the third day of the Carstone progress around the rim of Lake Garda, the happy party visited the splendid town of Malcesine. A beautiful spot, to be sure. An important place whose dramatic towering 13th century Scaglieri castle once played host to Goethe, who dropped in there to rest his weary head, in the year 1786. Unfortunately for Goethe, the local populace, unused to German poets dropping in on them in such a flighty manner, took him to be a spy and threatened him in a very un-poetical way. He managed to charm them and all was well, but the poor chap could be expected to have been unsettled by the whole affair. The castle at Malcesine left Sir Geoffrey in a similar unsettled condition. He wasn't taken to be a spy. Surely, they thought, a spy would be more adept at fitting in with his surroundings. A spy might have had a slightly better grasp of Italian, for a start. No, it was not the people, as such, that upset the noble baronet, but the castle itself, and what had become of it.

The castle has been restored, Sir Geoffrey explained to me, but many of the rooms have been modernised and stuffed with glass cases. It has become a museum. Upon entering what Sir Geoffrey took to have been a banqueting hall at one time, he found a modern wood floor, and the place full of glass cases with stuffed animals looking back at him. The animals looked bored by it all. Another castle nearby had a similar theme: a once beautiful bedroom had been converted into a museum to fishing. Of interest, no doubt, to fishermen, but an historical shame nonetheless.

In short, Sir Geoffrey explained, before asking for a whisky to settle his nerves, the once grand, bustling castles, had become dead, soulless places. Would Carstone House become one of those one day? That was what worried him. He did not want modern pine panelling put in his Italian Drawing Room, and the place stuffed to the gills with glass cases explaining the fascinating history of the local basket-weaving profession. He could not bear the thought of dear old Carstone becoming lifeless.

There are hidden depths to Sir Geoffrey Carstone. I got him his drink and left him to his thoughts, but not before reassuring him that there was little chance, at present, of the castle becoming a local attraction for basket weavers, taxidermists, or the makers of glass cases. He nodded in relieved agreement, but did concede, however, that he would allow one large glass case to be made for Carstone, on the understanding that Lady Blanche could be stuffed and put in it. As soon as possible. The thought seemed to cheer him up no end.

Return of the Baronet

2007-08-13T10:25:00.001+01:00

Sir Geoffrey, Lady Carstone, and Mr Copeland returned yesterday evening from their trip to the continent. All seemed to enjoy the intense Italian sunshine as far as I can ascertain. It always takes me a little while to get used to Sir Geoffrey with a tan. His is the sort of skin which looks unusual when tanned. His moustache (a soup-strainer affair) looks extraordinarily white when his face has spent time basking in the sun. It sits there, droppingly, daring anyone to pass comment.

After ensuring that the family were settled and unpacked I shared a quick snifter with Copeland to ask how the holiday went. On the whole a good time was had by all. Sir Geoffrey, as usual when in foreign climes, attempted to fit in, and failed in a rather endearing way. He is dreadful at languages and always has been, but, alas, nobody seems to have told him. He attacks the local population, phrase book clutched in one hand, with great enthusiasm, and mangles their noble language beyond all recognition. The only thing worse, Copeland wearily confided in me, than Sir Geoffrey's Italian, was Sir Geoffrey's Italian accent. He cannot escape Eton, even though it has been many years since he was taught there. His accent shines through no matter what language he is speaking.

I have been summoned to 'have a quick chat' with Sir Geoffrey in an hour.

Berry Picking

2007-08-07T11:28:00.000+01:00

Blackcurrants. Raspberries. Apples. All three have been picked in abundance by me over the past few days. Home Farm is awash with them. They are taking over the place. I have been reliably informed that the heat is causing them to grow to a size that would be seen as impressive by even the most cynical hard-bitten observer of fruit. If there was a local competition (and for all I know, there is) for 'Largest Raspberries' then a victorious Sir Geoffrey Carstone would be carried through the streets of the village by a jubilant throng.

Berry-picking was a pleasurable experience. The estate has been bathed in sunshine over the past few days. I do not have a great deal of work to do this week, as the family are away on holiday in Italy. Life in the House continues however. Carstone carries on no matter who is present within its stone (or, in all honesty, mostly brick, with stone cladding) walls.

All seems peaceful as I type this. The only sound I hear is a light tapping noise coming from the direction of the lake and boathouse where some repairs are being made to Mr Miles' gilded gondola. I believe the nice weather has left us now though. Spots of rain have begun to spatter on my window and the clouds above look dark and ominous.

Today is not a berry picking day.

A Stitch In Time

2007-04-12T21:29:00.000+01:00

It boggles the mind. Really it does. How can a Summerhouse get so grotty after being left empty for a few chilly months of winter? Perhaps the local wildlife squat there? Do deer break in, have riotous parties and cause devastation to the place?

Myself, Robert the Hall Boy (who, incidentally, is still smarting from England's so far anemic performance in the cricket world cup. Say the name 'Michael Vaughan' to the poor lad and he gasps and grabs his chest like a Transylvanian peasant asked their opinion of the local castle-dwelling Count) and Simon, one of the Footmen, began our trek shortly after lunch. Perhaps I should have waited a little while. Mrs Styles is a marvellous cook. Sometimes too marvellous, and it is safe to say that I indulged a little too heavily before setting off. The embarrassment I felt at feeling the sharp pain of a stitch in my side before we had even reached the first pathway was acute.

We have managed to make the Summerhouse habitable again. It will probably be in use over the week-end, weather-permitting.

Incidentally, for long-time readers of this blog (I really do still prefer the term 'diary' although strictly speaking this is more of a journal than a diary) my post of yesterday was something of a first. It was the first time I have posted a genuine picture of a portion of Carstone Park. Obviously my titanic battle with the knighted troll 'Sir Quintin' has emboldened me somewhat.

Tales From The Summerhouse

2007-04-11T10:56:00.000+01:00

It looms over me. Every year it seems to grow ever more daunting. While snow flakes fall and the weather is crisp all is well. The hill does not seem so steep, the majestic beauty of the surroundings seem comforting. But when the sun comes out and the butterflies resume their fluttering in its warm rays, a touch of concern marks my brow. Sir Geoffrey and Lady Carstone, or of late, Mr Thomas and Mr Miles, at this time of year begin thinking of spending time in the Summerhouse. The Summerhouse was built by Sir William Carstone in the mid-Victorian period. He chose the tallest hill of Carstone Park, to give his guests the most breathtaking of views as they sipped their tea, twiddled their parasols, and stroked their moustaches and sideburns while discussing the latest actions taken by the Government of Lord Palmerston.

It has always been steep, I presume; after all, the hill was the site of an Iron Age fort. It seems to get steeper as the years wear on. It is the sort of hill that makes a marauding invader take one look and decide to maraude elsewhere. Somewhere flatter. Somewhere like Holland. Or Norfolk. But the British have always been fond of views, and of drinking tea, and the Summerhouse at Carstone provides ample opportunity for both pastimes. The hill provides the view, and I provide the tea; and therein lies the rub. It really is quite a trek; especially on a hot day like today. Also, I seem to have a certain magnetism that attracts wasps and other flying terrors. They usually hide behind trees and ambush me as I am half-way up the hill. Attempting to swat away a wasp while carrying a box of crockery is not an easy thing.

Then there are holes.

A couple of years ago I sprained my ankle rather badly when I lost my footing up there. Whether the hole I plunged into was made by a rabbit in league with the wasps, or whether the rabbit was acting unilaterally is uncertain; what was certain was the pain. I was eventually rescued by the then 2nd Footman, Michael (he has since left Carstone and now works in a hotel where presumably there are less holes), but a state of war has existed between me and the denizens of the hill ever since.

This morning, after breakfast, Sir Geoffrey asked me to 'prepare the Summerhouse'. I shall, with a heavy heart be taking the Hallboy, Mr Cromwell, and perhaps Simon (if he can be spared from the House), with me, as I begin the ascent shortly after luncheon.

No doubt the wasps are already whispering to the rabbits in anticipation.

Note To 'Sir Walter Quintin'

2007-03-24T11:03:00.000Z

Just a quick note this Saturday morning. A poster calling himself 'Sir Walter Quintin' posted with great gusto on this blog overnight. He posted with so much gusto, in fact, that he repeated himself roughly fourteen times (at the last count). Now, I am not one of life's great conversationalists I admit. I could not exactly hold members of the Carlton Club entranced with witty anecdotes about my global travels. In short, I sometimes repeat my favourite stories. I am guilty of this, as the best of us are. Fourteen times, however, is a little overwhelming. Not entirely sure that spamming a post about my sister's health was particularly pleasant either. Not really British, that. But, I have found that worse things happen at sea, and even worse things happen on the internet.

'Sir Walter' was rather offended by this blog. Offended by practically everything associated with it: content, writing style, its veracity, probably even the colour of my socks annoyed him. In short, my humble jottings almost gave poor Sir Walter apoplexy. He felt a little like Senator Joseph McCarthy would have felt if, on a crisp Christmas morning, he had skipped down the staircase in his beautiful Wisconsin home, and excitedly unwrapped his first Christmas present only to find that Father Christmas had left him a copy of 'Das Kapital' by Karl Marx.

I removed most of 'Sir Walter's' repetitive posts because they were simply the same thing over and over again. But, I enjoy debate, and would never willingly censor anybody's comments. I have left one of Sir Walter's messages on the post 'Mr Forrester's Nocturnal Tour' which can be found below. The poor man deserves to be heard. Hopefully he has now settled down with a stiff drink to soothe the nerves that this blog had unwittingly frayed.

It is never my intention to offend or upset anybody. Apologies if I have.

Comfy Again

2007-03-20T11:47:00.000Z

To my very great delight my chair has returned and I must confess that I find the new upholstering to be rather splendid. I have found every possible excuse to settle into it over the past couple of days. If anybody wished to find me, they would have to look no further than the now shining mid 19th century arm chair tucked next to the fire in the Butler's Pantry. There they would stumble across a butler content with his lot in life.

Mr Miles has been in bed for almost a week now. His influenza has quite knocked him for six. Sir Geoffrey, who never gets ill, but occasionally gets 'seriously ill', firmly believes that his son is faking illness to avoid accompanying him to the re-opening of the village hall tomorrow. If he is, Mr Miles has missed his calling, rather than penning mystic poetry, he should be treading the boards in the West End, or lighting up a screen in cinemas across the globe. His temperature remains high. He looks not a little green about the gills. In fact, his gills resemble a village cricket pitch at the moment. Dr Morgan has been called but merely diagnosed what we already knew: ie influenza which requires rest, and absolutely no opening of village halls in cold weather.

Dr Morgan enjoys visiting Carstone House, with good reason. He never leaves without a drink in the Servant's Hall, and a hot meal prepared for him by Mrs Styles.

Hitting The Bottle

2007-03-15T09:16:00.000Z

Mr Forrester left at half past eight this morning in order to catch his train back to London. He left behind a package he desired be passed on to Mr Miles, who remains ill in bed with a strain of influenza. I check on Mr Miles at regular intervals and have taken him a hot water bottle. This brought back vivid memories of my first day as a footman here. An elderly aunt of Sir Geoffrey's had fallen ill and the first interaction I had with the family 'above stairs' was the taking up of a hot water bottle to her room. Of course, that bottle was not a modern, rubber affair, like the one I just took up to Mr Miles: Sir Geoffrey's Great-Aunt received from a nervous, tentative footman, (whose white-tie was a little erratically tied) an earthenware 'bed warmer' complete with cork stopper. How times have changed in the hot water bottle department.

I am as discreet as possible as butler of Carstone House, but I shall now reveal a secret that if the News of The World ever found out, would be plastered sensationally on their front page on Sunday. 'Tis a dark secret........

Every hot water bottle owned by Sir Geoffrey Carstone has a cover with his family crest and motto upon it.

In fact practically every piece of linen, and certainly every piece of stationery in the house, also has the Carstone family crest upon it, so perhaps my exclusive is not quite as sensational as tabloid editors would have hoped.

I said I was discreet...

Mr Forrester's Nocturnal Tour

2007-03-14T10:09:00.000Z

At 10pm I walked, with a heavy heart, to the Banqueting Hall to meet Mr Miles and Mr Forrester. To my surprise I found only Mr Forrester there. He explained that Mr Miles had felt rather unwell and had retired to bed. The plan for me to accompany him around the House remained the same. I began the short tour in the Library. I was not exactly certain what was expected of me, so I merely opened the Library door for Mr Forrester, and waited in the doorway as he entered, looking around him constantly, with a keen interest, like a cat in an aviary. He approached one of the bookshelves yet seemed rather disappointed with the contents. Obviously Mr Forrester was not a collector of First Editions. Perhaps the absence in Sir Geoffrey's collection of anything by Aleister Crowley or Madam Blavatsky troubled him somewhat.

He explained to me that he was about to publish a volume of 'esoteric poetry with primary focus on the occult and mysticism'. I nodded. He seemed to be examining the shelves looking for the place where his book will one day rest. I am sure Mr Dickens would be delighted to learn that some of his First Editions will be in such exalted literary company. But, perhaps, Mr Forrester converses with Mr Dickens most evenings, and his plan has already received approval.

Next, we went into the Italian Drawing Room. Something seemed to stir inside Mr Forrester and he proclaimed in hushed tones that it was his 'firm belief' that the painting on the ceiling 'at one time hung upon the walls.' This seemed a rather startling suggestion. One would have thought that all that plaster would have looked out of place hanging on a wall. It would also have needed a rather immense frame. I confided to Mr Forrester that in every probability he was incorrect in his proclamation. At this he looked at me sharply, as if I had kicked his cat and enjoyed it, and snapped "I would need a second opinion!" It is likely that if he digs further into this topic he will find many opinions in agreement with my own.

This continued throughout much of the House. We would enter a room, Mr Forrester would peer around him, sometimes close his eyes, as if deep in concentration, and then nod to me when his meditations were at an end. Nothing remarkable had occurred until we reached the Bell's Passage. Here, he suddenly stopped me, and grabbed my wrist. "There is a lady here!" he almost hissed.

"Indeed, sir?" I replied.

"Yes, a lady, quite young, she is in a hurry to get somewhere."

"Perhaps she is answering a call, sir?" I thought considering the fact that above our heads were 39 bells, and that Mr Forrester might have missed them, that I would lend a hand here.

"Yessss!" the excitable psychic whispered. "She is desperate to answer the call. She fears for her job."

Well, the ghostly servant would of course be quite correct in her assumption that her status of employment would be jeopardised by a laxity in answering a call. Ignoring a ringing bell is not a good pastime for those who wish to keep their jobs in establishments such as this. So far, I was finding Mr Forrester to be rather vague, and my temples were starting to ache. I was starting to wonder how long all this would go on for. Time seemed to drag. Perhaps his psychic abilities had stopped it?

Finally, after visiting room after room (Carstone seemed larger than it usually is) Mr Forrester informed me that he felt drained and desired to be shown to his bedroom. After conducting him there, I was dismissed, but not before he told me of an elderly spirit that was following me around the house. He intimated that this spirit was very proud of me and the way I was dressed. "She is an ex-Housekeeper here!" he confidently informed me. "She follows you everywhere. I saw her next to you in the Library, in the Entrance Hall, the Drawing Room, and she was peering at you as you were putting the port on the table after dinner."

I bid Mr Forrester good night and headed back downstairs to ensure that all windows and doors were tightly locked.

As I listened to the familiar clunk while turning the large key in the main lock of the Front Door (always a satisfying sound) I reflected on this rather strange character that was settling down to sleep in the Green Bedroom in the North Tower and of the many pronouncements he had made over the past hour and a half. One bothered me more than any other: A Housekeeper who strayed into the Dining Room when the gentlemen of the house were having port? I went to bed firmly believing that standards of service in the Spirit World were really rather tardy.

A Disappointing Duty

2007-03-12T16:18:00.000Z

Just a quick update. I have been given rather an unpleasant duty for this evening. Mr Miles has asked me to accompany him and Mr Forrester around Carstone late tonight. I can only presume that Mr Forrester will attempt to 'converse with spirits' or whatever it is that he does. It may sound disrespectful of me to refer to a guest of Carstone House in this way, but, considering I almost froze to death the last time I attempted a similar task, you may place me firmly in the 'sceptic' camp.

Also, the knife polisher (which is kept in the Plate Scullery) seems to have broken. The handle was loose and came off in my hand about half an hour ago. I presume that Simon did not know who to telephone for a replacement. This is understandable.

Sir Geoffrey In The 21st Century

2007-03-12T08:42:00.000Z

I have been asked by two curious readers whether or not the gift of a computer has proved to be a hit with my Master or not?: Does his birthday present from Lady Carstone sit on Sir Geoffrey's desk glowing with use, as an indispensible tool without which his day-to-day life would be a struggle usually only read about in Russian novels, or does it sit there, unused, (I would say 'gathering dust' but you know I would never permit such an atrocity), unloved, straining the wood of his oaken desk, as the largest white elephant in gift-buying history?

The truth lies somewhere between these extremes. The computer (beautifully dusted, of course) is often humming with use in Sir Geoffrey's study. If truth be told, however, it is rarely used by Sir Geoffrey himself. He sometimes gets summoned to the screen by Lady Carstone who will point out one of it's myriad uses. At this point Sir Geoffrey, like an obedient pet dog, nods with great enthusiasm. He is rarely enthusiastic enough to approach the computer under his own steam, however. He needs to be led to it, reluctantly, and the look on his face at such a juncture reminds one immediately of a poor unfortunate missionary being led towards a large pot by a less than well-meaning cannibal.

I cannot, in truth, ever see Sir Geoffrey Carstone fully embracing the modern age. He is barely on speaking terms with it.

I am quickly settling back into my old routines. I did have one unsettling moment upon my return to work. My favourite arm-chair in my pantry was missing. This startled me. Its replacement was adequate but not ideal. I settled into it gingerly. I discovered upon questioning Simon in the Servant's Hall later that day that my 'old faithful' chair had not become firewood, but it had been sent for re-upholstering. Secretly I think it likely that Simon, or somebody else, had spilt something upon it in my absence. It did not need re-upholstering. Nevertheless, no harm has been done. The chair is due back on Wednesday. I do hope they are punctual. My pantry does not feel quite the same without it.

Llywelyn also gave me some unsettling news at the Carstone Arms the other evening. He gave me some information about a guest that arrives here on Monday morning: a friend of Mr Miles, who goes by the name of Peter Forrester. This Forrester chap has business cards that claim he is a 'psychic medium'. My last brush with the spirit world at Carstone did not result in a pleasant experience. I do not wish to repeat it. With a little bit of luck the whole affair will not concern me. Perhaps Mr Forrester will find that the spirits of Carstone do not wish to converse with him. Quite frankly, if he is as odd as some of the people that Mr Miles has invited here, I would not blame them in the slightest.

A Pint To Catch Up

2007-03-09T18:07:00.000Z

Am off to the Carstone Arms in a couple of hours for a pint of their finest in the company of Llywelyn. He has promised to update me on all I have missed during my unfortunate absence. I am looking forward to it. I like the Carstone Arms; like all proper public houses, it has history to it. No fashionable name changes there! I firmly believe it is unlucky to change the name of a pub. Some use that maxim for ships. I use it for pubs. It has I am glad to say been known as 'The Carstone Arms' for as long as history records. It used to be a coaching inn, and was even used for the odd hanging on occasion in the 18th century.

Back In The Saddle Again

2007-03-08T08:20:00.000Z

Actually, nothing would upset me more than being in a saddle. I have a great deal of admiration for the beauty of horses; I frequently make a trip to the stables, and have a chat with Sir Geoffrey's Groom, but, I do not believe my constitution could survive actually riding one. I know from the archives here that it was usual in Victorian times for both the Housekeeper and Butler of Carstone House to each own a horse, which would have been stabled here alongside the family's steeds. Indeed, (thumbing through the notes that Llywelyn gave me) I can tell you that the butler's horse here in 1876 was named 'Preacher'. No doubt this was an excellent animal but it would not have got on well with me, I fancy. Horses don't. They eye me with suspicion. Obviously, to them, I resemble a horse rustler, or a hay-stealer, and consequently am not to be trusted.

Many thanks for all the kind messages and emails. I have for some time been looking after my sister who was struck down with an illness that, happily, now seems to be in full retreat. I do not blame it. I sometimes think that if my sister had been stationed at Rorke's Drift in 1879 that the fearless Zulu warriors would have taken one look and decided that the odds weren't so massively stacked in their favour after all. They would have fled to the hills, all the time checking over their shoulders, to assure themselves that my sister was not following. These are, nevertheless, the words of a relieved and very grateful brother.

These last few months have been the longest period I have been away from Carstone. I missed it dreadfully. All seems to be well here. Simon, the footman, had been attending to my duties throughout my absence, and, aside from an understandably tentative first few days, he has, by all accounts, performed admirably. I left a letter of thanks for him to find, as well as a homemade chocolate fudge cake, which is one of my sister's specialities.

A Sad State

2007-01-30T11:45:00.000Z

Unfortunately my festive season did not go as planned. I had intended to spend it at Carstone, but my sister fell ill shortly before Christmas, and I spent it with her instead. She hasn't really got any better, and I am spending more time looking after her, than I am working at Carstone. Sir Geoffrey and Lady Carstone have been wonderfully considerate throughout the whole affair.

Hopefully I will be fully back at work shortly.

Busy, busy, busy

2006-12-16T09:21:00.000Z

Things are so awfully busy here at the moment, so I apologise for the lack of an update. I will post in greater detail when I get the chance.

In short:

All the decorations are now up. The Christmas trees look splendid. And they are green. Not even a hint of tinsel in the House, much to my satisfaction.

Sir Geoffrey accepted his birthday present with the matchless grace and tact you would expect from him. However, it sits, practically untouched on his desk in the Study. Every time Lady Carstone begins to demonstrate it for him, Sir Geoffrey usually finds some emergency he 'simply must attend to.'

The Medieval Birthday Party was rather amusing. I have discovered however that the knife and fork is among the greatest inventions of mankind. Eating sans these important implements is a dreadful, dreadful thing. Never have I had to supervise the cleaning of so much grease and mess from the Hall floor and furniture. I could feel Mr Chippendale shuddering in his grave.

It Arrives

2006-12-07T10:02:00.000Z

The computer arrived at 4.15pm yesterday. Despite being directed, by both telephone and by Llywelyn at the Lodge Gates, to deposit this dubious (in my eyes) gift at the Tradesman's Entrance to the rear of the house, the delivery men had other ideas. Obviously presuming that the directions were more of a guideline than a rule they veered adventurously off their set path and drove around the turning-circle right to the Entrance Porch and rang the front door bell. I am sure Lenin would have done the same had he chosen to enter the delivery business rather than politics. Unfortunately, Sir Geoffrey Carstone, baronet and unwitting computer owner, happened to be peering out of the Drawing Room window at the time and spotted the offending vehicle. I was serving his afternoon tea (slightly earlier than is normal) and witnessed his ears prick up like a spaniel at the sound of the van's engine.

"He appears to have gotten lost." Sir Geoffrey pointed out to me.

Then the front door bell rang and I left to answer it. The delivery man, looking less like Lenin than I had imagined, asked me to sign his paper, and then unceremoniously dumped the box on the newly polished floor of the Entrance Hall. It cannot have done either the floor or the computer any good whatsoever. I asked him to take the box around to the Tradesman's Entrance where there would be somebody waiting for him. He looked at me as if I had asked him to scale Mount Everest before dinner. With much muttering he eventually picked the box back up and getting into his van (did it have the hammer and sickle on the side? I didn't spot it but it is possible) he drove around the side of the House. Rarely have I seen a van driven in such a huffy way. If Lenin had driven vans, he would have driven them in this way.

I don't think Sir Geoffrey realised the package was for him. When I returned to the Drawing Room he was engrossed in a book about horses. Somehow I can never imagine him to be engrossed in a book about computers. I am sure Lady Carstone knows what she is doing, but I have the gravest of grave doubts about this.

I'm not sure how she knew, but within minutes of the box, and the delivery man's muddy feet touching the floor of the Entrance Hall, there was Rhiannon, polishing it again. Perhaps she has some kind of radar. She really is very thorough in her work. Not as dreamy or as absent minded as Wendy, the other Housemaid; Rhiannon takes any dirt or dust as a personal insult to her professional skills. One day she will make an excellent Housekeeper. Unfortunately she knows this, and I have often seen her looking with envy at Mrs Berry, and stroking the armchair near the fire of the Housekeeper's Room. Ambition, I daresay, is a good thing. I do not think we will have a coup any time soon. She will not seize the keys to the Spice Cupboard and barricade herself in the Housekeeper's Scullery.

The Christmas tree is ordered. I went to the village this morning to purchase a few additional decorations. The lady behind the counter attempted to point me towards a whole batch of discounted tinsel. My expression changed her mind about her sale tactics. On leaving the shop I noticed a pound coin gleaming on the pavement in front of me. I picked it up. If finding a penny brings you good luck, then finding a pound can only be a good thing, I thought to myself. As I turned to head home, I spotted, coming out of Mr Wilkins' Confectionary Shop, two little girls, one of which was in floods of tears. I politely inquired as to the matter, and her less-tearful friend told me that she had lost some money. I happily re-united the tearful party of the first part, with her lost pound coin. Her face brightened up, she thanked me, and they both dashed back into the Confectionary shop. Tragedy on the scale of Macbeth had been averted.

A Good Present?

2006-12-06T10:01:00.000Z

December 8th is the 57th birthday of my Master, Sir Geoffrey Carstone. It has come to my notice that many of my posts involve parties, balls, and social gatherings. I do not wish to give the impression that Carstone House is one large den of carousers. We do not spend all of our time in that state of debauchery that the Romans knew all too well.

Bacchus does not rule the roost here.

Although, admittedly, he visits sometimes.

We give him the Chintz Bedroom.

Sir Geoffrey's birthday will be celebrated with a Medieval Ball. It is not going to be a big event, only close friends and family will be invited. It should be a pleasant enough occasion.

Lady Carstone called me into the Drawing Room early this morning to discuss the plans for Sir Geoffrey's birthday. She told me that his present should be arriving at some point today. It is a computer. I was not entirely sure I understood correctly, so I asked Her Ladyship to repeat herself. She confirmed that her husband's present was indeed to be a computer. Personally I believe this to be a startling revelation. Giving Sir Geoffrey a computer is akin to handing Henry VIII an exercise bike. He will be confused and ultimately repelled by such a gift. Lady Carstone insisted that it was time "we dragged him kicking and screaming into the 21st century." She sounded determined. Her face was set with a "Rome has spoken. The matter is settled." expression. I did not like to point out that Sir Geoffrey has a deep distrust of the 20th century, nevermind the 21st.

Later this afternoon I must order the Christmas Tree. Decorating Carstone House is a large job. I try to ensure that the decorations are as traditional as possible, as befits the setting. Certain things at this time of year make me shudder. Red Christmas Trees for example. Or purple. Or any other colour that isn't green grates on my nerves dreadfully. I also have an intense dislike of tinsel. I suppose we all have our own little peculiarities in taste.

And So They Departed

2006-11-29T12:24:00.000Z

The tourists came, then the tourists scuttled off.

Things went relatively well actually. They did not stray from the tour. They did not put their shoulders to the Green Baize Door and invade our realm. They were really rather well behaved. They seemed to be a group of baroque experts, so at Carstone they were as happy as pigs rolling around in particularly pleasant muck.

Only once was I spotted. As I processed from the Library to the Billiard Room with a tray of sandwiches for Sir Geoffrey I noticed eyes upon me. The group were clustered in the Hall and they momentarily found me to be of interest. Their interest dissipated when they realised I was not baroque in any shape or form and their focus quickly returned to Sir Geoffrey's Archivist who was busy pointing out a rather intriguing fact about the ceiling.

Such visits from members of the public do make me wonder what would have happened had the Carstone family followed the example of so many other aristocratic families after the Second World War. So many of this sceptred isles' great houses were thrown open to the public with gusto. Lions appeared in the park of one, railways popped up to attract the public in another, the owners, having to make way for the pursit of profit found themselves penned up in a small corner of their ancestral home, like lodgers. The world had changed. Some ancestral homes even had to be destroyed because the cost of maintaining them was simply too great.

Thank goodness Carstone survived. There are no lions for me to dodge if I wish to stroll the park here. There is no railway line cutting through the parterre garden. There are not hordes of tourists pounding the oak floor in the State Dining Room with their boots. Sir Geoffrey and Lady Carstone are not sentenced to live only in the South-East Tower, and the Butler's Pantry contains a working butler, not a wax mannequin of what experts believe a butler once looked like.

Yes, the world has changed; but when I gaze out of my bedroom window, and see Carstone Park stretching past the lake to Llywelyn's Lodge Gates in the far distance, and spot, beneath my window, Sir Geoffrey happily pottering around the garden with a proud Barton beaming at his shoulder, a great feeling of calmness and contentment sweeps over me. I am pleased that Carstone is still a home. Indeed, it is a home to a great many people. It is my home and has been for so many years. This is where I belong.

But the tourists in small quantities are welcome too.

If they don't sneer at the chintz curtains.

And remember to wipe their feet before entering.

And definitely do not poke the butler with a pointy stick.

The Tourists Cometh

2006-11-24T10:24:00.000Z

Tomorrow there is an invasion. The hatches will be well and truly battened down. Supplies have been stockpiled. The tin hat is firmly placed upon my head. I intend to defend my pantry to the last round of ammunition. For tomorrow, a tour party will be wandering around the House. They arrive at 2pm and their tour will be conducted by Sir Geoffrey's archivist (a part-time position). I have a grim forboding about this event. This morning I spotted a raven of the most blackened hue at the very top of the Cedar Tree. It gave, what I could only ascertain to be, a look of warning. Surely this was a grim omen. Of course it could be that the bird was looking for worms and saw me only as a distraction, but that is neither here nor there.

Members of the public tend to wander. They see a tour party as something a little similar to Colditz. It is their duty to escape using any means necessary. I can assure you it can be very disconcerting when cleaning the Georgian candelabra to look up and find a complete stranger, camera dangling around the neck, gazing at you with a look of intense curiosity. You feel like the depressed gorilla at the zoo. It is not a pleasant feeling.

Below Stairs is not part of the tour. The tour contains wondrous rooms full of baroque carving and remarkable early 17th century ceilings. It is a rare chance to view the state rooms of Carstone House. It is not an excuse to stray into the Pantry and jab the butler with a pointy stick hoping he will do tricks.

Robert, the Hall Boy, looks tired again this morning. His gloom continues. He now has a little of Jean Paul Sartre about him. I will not mention anything to him. If he has again stayed up to watch the cricket, the poor lad has suffered enough.

It IS November!

2006-11-23T14:58:00.000Z

The signs are everywhere. They make me shiver, but they are everywhere. Christmas is coming. I went down to the village this morning and the decorations were up. The little shop fronts were all trying to convince me that it was Christmas Eve, or at the very least, December 23rd. I was not fooled. As long as my calendar states that it is November I steadfastly refuse to acknowledge Christmas or any of its trappings. Fortunately it will be several weeks before Carstone House gets decorated. A lot of work is involved in Christmas at Carstone. A large party is thrown for the children of the village and the surrounding areas. I arrange it, and all the children are invited into the Servant's Hall, for a (hopefully) wonderful evening of food, dancing, carols, and an appearance from Father Christmas. These children's parties are the stuff of local legend. Years ago, Sir Geoffrey's father arranged for reindeer to make an appearance at the party, to the delight of the children. Well, they weren't exactly reindeer: they were actually horses from the stables with little antlers fixed to them. I have never asked exactly how the antlers were fixed. I am assuming that they were lightly attached and resembled little ear warmers, but perhaps I do not wish to explore that avenue of inquiry. There will be no reindeer this year, but there is still much for me to do.

There. I've gone and done it. I've spent a full paragraph (in November no less!) discussing Christmas. Obviously the village shop front propaganda has got to me.

There is one shop that I must avoid in the future: the confectionary shop. It used to be run by old Mr Wilkins whose father worked on the Carstone Estate. Now his son has taken over. I cannot say anything bad about the junior Mr Wilkins' abilities as a shop keeper. I am sure he is very able. However if anybody is unfortunate enough to stray into the shop, they might as well write off the next hour as lost. I found myself entangled in a conversation from which I was unable to extricate myself. This always happens to me in there. I am never rescued either. Nobody else ever seems to go into the shop. I never hear from Mr Wilkins, while in full rhetorical flight: "Terribly sorry, Mr Fielding, do you mind if I pause here and attend to this customer?" It is as if Mr Wilkins waits for me. I am sure that when my back is turned he closes the shop so that his conversation cannot be interrupted.

An odd day so far. The weather seemed rather pleasant so I thought I'd have a chat with Mr Cromwell who was doing some work in the Boat House near the lake. As soon as I got near the lake the heavens opened and the wind started to howl. I got quite soaked and had to seek shelter in the Boat House. I stayed there for about ten minutes discussing cabbages and kings with Cromwell and found, upon leaving (the Heavens having halted their downpour) that I had got the side of my jacket quite filthy. Obviously one of the row boats was dirty and I had been (rather foolishly) leaning on it, while taking refuge from the wrath of Mother Nature. A quick change was necessary. Sir Geoffrey and Lady Carstone would not wish their butler to be anything less than perfectly attired. Although, perhaps Sir Geoffrey would not have noticed anyway. He has been given some medication for an ailment and he seems to be "away with the fairies." I encountered him on returning to the House and he greeted me with, what can only be described, as a giggle. He then mumbled something about cake. Lady Carstone explained all to me just five minutes ago.

I harbour a grave suspicion that the Hall Boy has been up all night watching the cricket. I specifically warned him not to do so. He looked awfully tired today and carried himself with a resigned air of weary despair. He obviously was not impressed with England's performance. Hopefully this will convince him to get a good night's sleep tonight instead.

Prague

2006-11-09T11:40:00.000Z

Apologies for the delay in updating. Work, life, and, yes, lethargy, have often prevented me updating this blog since my return from Prague. It really is the oddest thing. During working hours I am ever vigilant and am very harsh on myself if the smallest detail is neglected. There is always so much to do, and I am eager to do it. When I get home after work, and close the door to my flat at the top of the House, my will to be active sometimes fades away, to be replaced by a lethargic feeling which I can only describe as 'Pointless Slumptitude'. I suffer from this malady occasionally. Just lately it has been rampant.

I greatly approve of Prague. An interesting place. The people were all very friendly. They have, over the years, had a penchant for throwing people out of windows (defenestration) but, happily, this mania seems to have passed. My hotel was merely a tram-ride from the centre of town. I was, however, placed in an extremely small room at the top of said hotel. It felt like a footman's quarters from years ago (which, of course, it might well have been at one time). I like exposed beams in buildings, it adds character. I like them slightly less when I smack my head against them at regular intervals. The room was so small (lets be polite and say 'cosy') that everytime I got out of bed and stood upright my head was in grave danger of being hammered into my neck. I believe I have returned to Britain at least a couple of inches shorter than whan I left. At least the window in my room was small. No chance of defenestration here, I remember thinking with satisfaction. Unfortunately there was little chance of light entering either.

I think had I gone away for several years, I would still have found, on returning, that very little had changed at Carstone House. It is a comforting feeling to have. Everything seems to have been quite calm in my absence. In London, Mr Miles, caused quite a stir apparently when a party trick he was performing went badly wrong, but I did not ask for details. London is many miles away, and what happens there, stays there, in my opinion. Apart from that the gossip in the Servant's Hall was rather light. Mr Llywelyn, with permission from Sir Geoffrey, conducted a special 'ghost walk' around the grounds on Halloween. This proved very popular. Many people came from the local village and from further afield. I did not attend but saw them snake by torchlight to various parts of Carstone Park from my bedroom window. Not really my thing. I commend Llywelyn for his business sense, however. He raised quite a lot of money for charity. Flushed with this success I am sure he will be pursuing the 'Transparent Pound' with assiduity from now on.

I shall attempt to apply myself to this diary. I really must crack on with it. No more excuses. Did Samuel Pepys miss a few weeks because of 'Pointless Slumptitude'? Did Chips Channon or Virginia Woolf? What about those great Czech diarists like, Kafka (probably), even with the sinister shadow of defenstration looming over them, I'm sure they remained jolly, and knuckled down to recording the day's events.

Back Home

2006-10-24T13:45:00.000+01:00

I have returned from Prague to discover Carstone still standing proudly. No Madereley-like flames licking from its turrets, and everything pretty much as I left it.

Will make sure I post a full report at some point tomorrow.

Last Night I Dreamt.....

2006-10-04T12:46:00.000+01:00

Yes, it happens occasionally. It is almost time for this butler to take a holiday. I have been feeling a little run down of late, so it has come at a good time. No doubt Carstone House's proud towers and faux battlements will still be standing when I return. When you work in a house centuries old, for a family centuries old, the sobering thought pops into your head: nobody is indispensible. This place has seen it all before. Just how many butlers have worked in the snug pantry close to the Entrance Hall here I could not say. No doubt Llywelyn would be able to tell me. I am one in a long line, and hopefully I am far from the end of that line.

If you think the above passage is simply me trying to convince myself that all will be well in my absence, you would be right. I always worry so terribly when I am away. I sometimes fear that, one day, on returning to the castle, just before approaching the Lodge Gates, I shall see the towers of Carstone burning in the distance. I am a born worrier. I think that is what makes me a perfectionist and, I hope, a good butler.

Perhaps I should not re-read Rebecca on the plane.

No, no, I am being silly. All will be well. The staff at Carstone are excellent, dependable, and not a Mrs Danvers with a box of matches among them.

Prague is my destination. I shall update you all on my return.

If Carstone remains standing.....

Sigh. There I go again.

All will be well.....and the 1st Footman has an emergency number to reach me, just in case.

No Ring For Wendy

2006-09-28T09:45:00.000+01:00

Those who believed that I had been exterminated by an irate young farm hand with a pitchfork can rest easy (or can put the champagne away for another day, depending on your opinion of me); I am safe, well, and my body contains no puncture marks. I returned unharmed from Home Farm. A dog did not attack me. I didn't even receive a nasty look from a chicken. My life was not in danger. In short, I am in the pink.

I do confess, however, that fears of impending doom did enter my mind the evening before I was due to stride manfully to Home Farm to have a talk with the breaker of House Maid's hearts.

Fortunately I found a very shamefaced young man full of apology. He invited me into the kitchen, offered me a cup of tea, and we sat at the kitchen table and talked for about an hour. I explained the situation and the drastic measures Wendy was considering taking. He seemed quite alarmed at this. He explained that the relationship was just getting far too 'intense' for him. He did not quite claim that Wendy was picking out curtains for their marital abode, but she did seem to be taking an inordinate amount of interest in jeweller's shop windows. Knowing that Wendy had no thieving tendencies and did not carry a brick around with her in her handbag, he put two and two together and panicked. He promised he would not pester her in any way, but that it was probably better that they remained apart. That seemed fair enough, but I left feeling very sorry for Wendy.

Over a week has now passed and life seems to be returning to normal here at Carstone. Wendy has started to look a little more cheerful and all thoughts of leaving have been banished from her mind, it would seem. Relief is the prevailing feeling in the Servant's Hall.

A Butler Intervenes

2006-09-15T12:52:00.000+01:00

Wendy has agreed to stay at Carstone after a last minute change of heart. It was obvious that she did not wish to go. The situation continued to deteriorate in the days after the Servant's Ball. Her spirits remained low (dancing with me will do that to you) and she made plans to return home to her family (near Norwich, I believe), and plot her next career move from there. One evening last week (Wednesday I think) I was enjoying a cup of tea with Mrs Berry in the Housekeeper's Room, and the topic was touched upon. It was decided, I am not sure exactly how, that I would intervene. I can't remember agreeing to do it, but Mrs Berry assured me that I had. I cannot help thinking that Mrs Berry is a fully trained hypnotist. Her powers are a wonder to behold. In any case, I am to head off to Home Farm tomorrow to have a chat with the young man who has broken Wendy's heart.

In the past the young male workers on Home Farm were always looked at with suspicion. I am not sure exactly why farm hands were seen as a continuous threat to the honour and decency of any passing woman. Perhaps it had something to do with haystacks. The Laundry Maids, in particular, were seen to be at risk. The Laundry building was (in fact, still is, but is no longer used for its original purpose) situated close to the farm boundaries, but cunningly it faced away from the farm, and was walled in. The Laundry Maids, it was thus assumed, were safe in their fortress, and could not be gazed at by any old hobbledehoy that tended the fields. The farm hands were thwarted. Innocence and decency reigned supreme. The Housekeeper could rest easy at night.

Housekeepers have always had a keen interest (some say obsession) with separating the Male and Female servants. In the attics of Carstone, through the Green Baize Door, are the servant's bedrooms. The male servants sleep in the one wing, the female in another; in the middle is a huge, leather bound door, which the Housekeeper would lock at night with a most imposing key. It is no longer locked at night. We tend to trust people a little more these days. We are here to work, and I frown at anything that disrupts the smooth running of Carstone House. The personal and professional should be kept in separate and secure boxes. Nevertheless, love does not obey rules set down by butlers or housekeepers. I have even heard it rebel against the wishes of a House Steward.

Attempting to sort out the love affairs of House Maids was certainly not in my original job description. I only hope the Farm Hand doesn't set the dogs loose on me.

The Servant's Ball (Summer edition!)

2006-09-01T12:25:00.000+01:00

The Servant's Ball was a wonderful event. It always seems to run smoothly. Mrs Berry took it upon herself to organise most of it this time around. I could, in the main, just enjoy the results. There was a very good turn out, which was only to be expected. All house and gardening staff attended, as did the craftsmen, and estate workers. Tradesmen from the local village were also invited, and a few tenant farmers popped in.

A mountainous buffet was set up in the Great Kitchen by Mrs Styles. Just before it all began, I strolled into the said Kitchen to inspect the wonderful array of food provided. Mrs Styles was putting the finishing touches to a dish of something while talking to a man (who I later found out to be a tenant farmer) I did not recognise, who must have arrived early. A small, slightly wizened man, he was bent over, examining a plate of lobster most intently, as if, at any moment, he expected it to leap off the Kitchen Table, and make a dash for the lake. He greeted me with a grunt but seemed satisfied with Mrs Styles' work.

"Wonderful spread." he proclaimed to me, "Probably as good as that lots' upstairs. Except we don't have to stand on ceremony down here! I've no time for all that etiquette nonsense!"

I mumbled something non-commital. I was quite apprehensive about the evening as it was, and did not feel like engaging anybody in a debate about tradition. For all I knew this tenant farmer had bolshevik tendencies and probably had a little picture of Lenin lovingly pinned on the wall of his aga-heated kitchen back in his farmhouse. I had not slept well the night before, (a terrible nightmare involving dancing shoes) and had no stomach for such an argument. I like ceremony. It is an important part of life at Carstone. Perhaps, despite his apparent age, it was his first Servant's Ball, so we have to make allowances for his naivety. Ceremony and etiquette still play a large part in proceedings, thank goodness.

Guests began arriving at 7pm. The Tradesman's Entrance door was kept wide open (Robert, the Hall Boy, welcomed them, and ensured no undesirables or hobbledehoy had slipped through the net) and people filed in at a steady pace. All the House staff, I am proud to say, were impeccably dressed.

The food was wonderful. We all dined heartily. Everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves - even Wendy at this stage, although, understandably, she was slightly more subdued than she normally is on these occasions. Llywelyn seemed quite drunk by 9pm. Not that an outsider would notice. He never staggers or slurs his words. His face just keeps getting redder and redder and his tales get wilder and wilder. He is very entertaining but never have I seen a man look so flushed. By the end of the night his face resembled Mr Miles' infamous umbrella. I drank very little at this stage of the evening and my conversation could probably be described as dull. I was distracted. I had one important duty to perform before I could fully relax.

At 9.30pm we all congregated in the Servant's Hall. It had been cleared of all furniture and a wooden floor had been placed over the stone to act as a dance floor. A band had set up in one corner. The leader of the band kept checking his watch. He could do nothing until the correct time. Tradition, probably much to the disgust of the tenant farmer, still reigned supreme here. Finally, at the stipulated time, the musicians picked up their instruments and all eyes turned to the staircase at the far end of the Hall. As the band stuck up the first tune of the evening, the Carstone family made their grand entrance: Sir Geoffrey and Lady Carstone, to the strains of 'The Roast Beef of Old England', led their family down the well-trodden staircase into the packed Servant's Hall. They looked a splendid sight. Lady Carstone looked very beautiful, and the light danced off a necklace that I knew to be a very old family heirloom. Mr Copeland once told me that Lady Carstone dislikes that necklace and thinks it far too flashy. She only wears it at certain events, and only then because people would be disappointed if she didn't. Sir Geoffrey, looking for all the world like an amiable King Penguin, spent five minutes beaming at everyone, and then gave a pleasant speech, thanking us all. Mr Thomas and Mr Miles were stood behind their father, looking quite dignified, but a tad too solemn, I thought. Every so often, during his father's speech, Mr Thomas would nod gravely. Mr Miles just looked bored to tears. Miss Gemma looked quite dazzling. Half way through the speech she started giggling about something her mother had whispered to her. Miss Gemma certainly doesn't do solemn. Vivacious, yes. Mischievous, good lord yes. Solemn, no.

It was almost time. I got nervous like I always do. Just how many Servant's Balls must I attend before I cease being nervous at taking the first dance? It is a butler's duty. The Ball needed to be officially opened before the dancing could begin. The first dance is always Sir Geoffrey and Mrs Berry, and myself and Lady Carstone. The music of that familiar old country dance, 'Speed the Plough', that so terrifies me each year, began as I took Lady Carstone by the hand. I always feel that I will step on her foot. I never do, but the fear never goes away. I see it as a great victory if the dance ends without Lady Carstone hopping around the Servant's Hall in agony, while screaming an aristocratic curse on all butlers. I am not the most graceful of dancers. I am always relieved when it is all over.

After the dance I swiftly retired to a corner to partake of a mug of the ancient Carstone ale (another tradition) and left the younger generation to take to the dance floor. The Carstone family stayed for about an hour and then returned from whence they came and left the rest of us to it. Because it was a pleasant evening, the ball spilled out into the gardens, and the whole atmosphere was really rather lovely. Llywelyn was in full flow by midnight. I, however, had heard all his tales many times before, so I left him explaining to Mr Barton, why he thought the Orangery was haunted, as I sought solitude. Barton seemed more anxious that no guests trampled on his flower beds. I settled myself on a bench near the Parterre Garden to simply enjoy the night air alone. It was more nippy than it would have been a few weeks ago, but very peaceful, and the gentle hum of music could still be faintly heard from the House. I was very relaxed, (the terrors of the dance leaving me), and wondering about cabbages and kings when my reverie was disturbed by the sound of my name being called out. Simon sprinted over to me. He asked me if I could follow him back into the Servant's Hall. Mrs Berry wanted a word with me. Thinking something had gone wrong (had the wizened tenant farmer set fire to the place in protest against the ancien regime?) I swiftly followed.

I found Mrs Berry near the fireplace in muted, conspiratorial, discussion with Robert. Huddled around them were several other figures from the household staff. They seemed grave and were plotting something. All that was missing was Guy Fawkes. The night was winding down now but there were still a few couples on the dancefloor. Mrs Berry explained that Wendy had been miserable all evening, and, despite the best efforts of Richard and Simon, the two footmen, Mr Copeland, and most of the Household staff, her gloom remained profound, and she refused all invitations to dance. They were all very worried about her. Wendy was usually the last to leave the dancefloor, but, following Mrs Berry's nod, I could see that the Housekeeper reported accurately; Wendy sat glumly in the corner of the Hall, alone with her thoughts. It all seemed very sad. Quite what I could do about it, however, eluded me. Should I talk to her? No, explained Mrs Berry, I should DANCE with her. I attempted to protest, but Mrs Berry, very firmly told me that although Wendy could easily refuse to dance with anybody else present, she would find it very difficult to reject my invitation, if I proved insistent. She pointed out the respect that the staff had for me. If I spoke, Wendy would listen. I must confess that at this point I felt a rather un-British lump in my throat. Obviously the fumes from the ale were also in the air because my eyes moistened ever so slightly as I looked over at the terribly sad figure of Wendy. She looked as if she hadn't a friend in the world.

With a sigh, I thanked Mrs Berry for her kind words, and left the worried group huddled in their shadowy corner of the Hall. I had one more dance that night.

The Stately Homes of England

2006-08-31T09:52:00.000+01:00

The comment by 'the Hon. Brian' that popped up in response to my previous post, has made me dig out the lyrics to Noel Coward's 'The Stately Homes of England.' It is a song that I have often listened to with much amusement. The previous butler of Carstone had served Mr Coward (as he was then, his knighthood only coming later) on a couple of occasions and always spoke of him with the utmost fondness and admiration. So, as I prepare to enjoy myself tonight at the Servant's Ball, here are the lyrics to that most apt of songs:

The Stately Homes of England (Noel Coward)

Lord Elderley, Lrd Borrowmere, Lord Sickert and Lord Camp,
With every virtue, every grace,
Ah what avails the sceptred race,
Here you see-the four of us,
And there are so many more of us
Eldest sons that must succeed.
We know how Caesar conquered Gaul
And how to whack a cricket ball;
Apart from this, our education lacks co-ordination.
Though we're young and tentative
And rather rip-representative,
Scions of a noble breed,
We are the products of those homes serene and stately
Which only lately
Seem to have run to seed!

The Stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand,
To prove the upper classes
Have still the upper hand;
Though the fact that they have to be rebuilt
And frequently mortgaged to the hilt
Is inclined to take the gilt
Off the gingerbread,
And certainly damps the fun
Of the eldest son-
But still we won't be beaten,
We'll scrimp and scrape and save,
The playing fields of Eton
Have made us frightfully brave-
And though if the Van Dycks have to go
And we pawn the Bechstein Grand,
We'll stand By the Stately Homes of England.

Here you see
The pick of us,
You may be heartily sick of us,
Still with sense
We're all imbued.
Our homes command extensive views
And with assistance from the Jews
We have been able to dispose of
Rows and rows and rows of
Gainsboroughs and Lawrences,
Some sporting prints of Aunt Florence's,
Some of which were rather rude.
Although we sometimes flaunt our family conventions,
Our good intentions
Mustn't be misconstrued.

The Stately Homes of England
We proudly represent,
We only keep them up for Americans to rent,
Though the pipes that supply the bathroom burst
And the lavatory makes you fear the worst,
It was used by Charles the First
Quite informally,
And later by George the Fourth
On a journey north.
The State Apartments keep their Historical renown,
It's wiser not to sleep there
In case they tumble down'
But still if they ever catch on fire
Which, with any luck, they might
We'll fight For the Stately Homes of England

The Stately Homes of England,
Though rather in the lurch,
Provide a lot of chances
For Psychical Research-
There's the ghost of a crazy younger son
Who murdered, in thirteen fifty-one,
An extremely rowdy Nun
Who resented it,
And people who come to call
Meet her in the hall.
The baby in the guest wing,
Who crouches by the grate,
Was walled up in the west wing
In fourteen twenty-eight.
If anyone spots The Queen of Scots
In a hand-embroidered shroud
We're proud Of the Stately Homes of England.

Disastrous Dinner

2006-08-30T14:21:00.000+01:00

I have felt very low over the past few days. I take it quite badly when an event I have had a major hand in planning goes dreadfully wrong. I should have the experience to know that, no matter how good the planning, one cannot always legislate for the behaviour of guests. Below Stairs we can only do so much. Events of the weekend did not run smoothly.

Eighteen people sat down to dinner a few nights ago. The guest list included the local great and good, as well as a few of Mr Miles' friends thrown in for good measure. Things started well enough. I announced the guests as they arrived. Mr Thomas greeted them. So far, so good. Before dinner conversation seemed lively and all seemed well. It was after I had struck the dinner gong that the problems began. As I served the starter I noticed that the guests were not sat in their correct places. I had organised (with Mr Thomas) the correct placements for all the guests. I had inspected the Dining Table minutely moments before the guests processed into dinner. I could not understand what had happened. The guests could read, they knew the protocol involved in dining: What had gone wrong?

This unsettled me slightly but it could not be helped. Perhaps things would turn out splendidly in any case. The two footmen served the next course, while I supervised. As I was filling up the local MPs glass, I noticed that an animated conversation was occurring at the far end of the table where the Bishop was sat next to one of Mr Miles' friends. This friend, who was not in correct evening dress, seemed to be expounding loudly and with much vigour his thoughts on mysticism, and proceeded to give a detailed explanation of how and why organised religion had got it all wrong. The Bishop seemed strained. Mr Thomas looked pained, and, suspiciously to me, Mr Miles looked amused. The tense atmosphere seemed to slowly seep throughout the table. Laughter became more nervous. Polite conversation seemed to die down. Guests became fascinated either by the 17th century plasterwork on the ceiling, or by the splendid job the Housemaids had made in cleaning the chenille carpet that morning. Awkward is the word that could best be used to describe dinner at this point. The atmosphere begged to be carved more than the meat.

Guests left early and from the look on Mr Thomas' face, I knew that the evening had not improved after dinner. It had died a slow death, but not a quiet one, as Mr Miles' friend, not taking the hint, had continued his tirade against religion, over the port. Dreadfully bad manners. It was like being invited to Windsor Castle, being placed next to the Queen, and then spending all night singing the praises of the French Revolution, all the while expressing a hope that a similar craze would soon break out in Britain. I felt dreadfully sorry for the Bishop. What a terrible evening he must have had.

Later that night, long after the guests had wearily departed, I entered the Servant's Hall to thank the staff for their hard work that evening. There was much muttering about the dinner. I asked Simon (a footman) about the place settings. He told me that just before dinner, Mr Miles had entered the Dining Room, and had switched the settings. He had deliberately placed the loud mystic next to the Bishop. Puck would have been proud of that one, but I cannot say that I was.

Something deep within me can never trust a gentleman who attends dinner improperly dressed. This prejudice, I am sorry to say, has now been reinforced. I should have realised that a man who wears a lounge suit with multicoloured tie to a (semi) formal dinner would only cause trouble. Spirits are low. Hopefully the Summer Servant's Ball tomorrow evening will cheer me up. Mrs Berry has been splendid with the organisation.

Purple?

2006-08-27T10:08:00.000+01:00

The Brothers Carstone are as different as two brothers possibly could be. One is studious and has made a great success of his London legal practise, (to nobody's surprise here) and is a firm believer in duty and tradition. The other is Mr Miles Carstone....

Both brothers are to co-host a dinner party this evening for the local great and good. Their father, Sir Geoffrey, believes it important that the heir (and dare I say, the spare) play a greater role in the local community. They spend so much time away from the ancestral home that they could probably stroll around the local village without being recognised. Perhaps the odd person might catch a glimpse of their noble profile in the early morning light and find it familiar, but few could confidently identify the sons of the baronet from the 'Big House.' Theirs is a London life. Carstone but a week-end retreat and a place where the family roam.

Mr Thomas arrived early this morning, punctual as ever. We spoke for twenty minutes in the Drawing Room, discussing the plans for this evening. Mr Thomas is a most thorough man. It was decided that the festivities should be simple but elegant. I am not sure that Mr Thomas enjoys the social aspect of his role; he appears to see it more of a duty than a pleasure. We inspected the guest list. It seemed rather disparate to me. Several of Mr Miles' friends have been invited. They are not local, or great, or, I hesitate to say it, particularly good, as far as I have been informed, but perhaps that was the carrot dangled before Mr Miles to entice him to Carstone for the evening. We are expecting 18 to sit for dinner. No guests are staying the night, which simplifies matters.

Mr Miles arrived not long ago. There is a wonderful refreshing breeze whenever he appears. I have known him since he was young, and have a lot of affection for him. I do however concede that what I describe as a 'refreshing breeze' is often seen by others as a 'howling gale'. Things are rarely dull in his company. He does have his little eccentricities. It is little wonder that he gets on so well with Lady Blanche. The weather has been quite kind over the past few days and there is little sign of a downpour today, and yet, while sweeping into the Entrance Hall this morning, Mr Miles handed me an umbrella. This was curious enough in itself. If I inform the gentle reader that the umbrella happened to be purple in colour I am sure my surprise (shock is too strong a word when applied to umbrellas) will be appreciated.

After gingerly placing the umbrella in the stand, and assuring that Mr Miles was settled, I sought the company of My Master's valet, Mr Copeland. I found him in the Servant's Hall locked in conversation with Mrs Berry. Copeland was not surprised by the purple umbrella, even though his expression suggested a distaste for it. In fact, he knew its history, and the Boswell of Brollies enlightened me. Apparently, about a fortnight ago, Mr Miles attended a cocktail party in Knightsbridge, where everything, from the paint on the walls, to the attire of the staff, was coloured a rather garish purple. He greatly enjoyed this 'purple party' and picked up the umbrella for the occasion. He has grown rather fond of it, and it is now quite as a cane to him. I am sure it is only a phase, and it will pass.

The Bishop is due to arrive later to have lunch with Sir Geoffrey. My Master is not staying for dinner; he has a prior engagement.

Wendy has handed in her notice. It has come as quite a shock to us all. I must ponder the matter carefully. She has been very badly let down by a young man who works on Home Farm. It seems rather dramatic to give up her position here for that reason. I am sure she would regret such a drastic move. Her heart seems quite broken. I used to be known as something of a heartbreaker myself at one time (although I confess that was rather a long time ago. I am more likely to break a hip than a heart these days) but was ultimately unlucky in love. I am therefore sympathetic to Wendy's plight. I gave up on the possibility of marriage several years ago. As a notable Welsh peer once said: "I have stood on the precipice of marriage for so long, I can now peer over the edge, without fear of falling."

The Wendy matter must be resolved soon.

NB: I was very pleased to find an image of a purple umbrella to add to this post. It is not quite the same as Mr Miles', but, purple umbrellas are purple umbrellas, and a little illustration DOES help matters along, I always think.

A Ball To Look Forward To

2006-08-23T15:10:00.000+01:00

Sometimes duty is a painful business and, my goodness, how Mr Cromwell must have suffered over the past week.

The first evening (Thursday) he settled down behind a tree near the lake to await the dastardly fishermen. I remember as I prepared my hot chocolate (yes, I know it is summer, but hot chocolate is one of my little pleasures no matter what the season) that night that the storm seemed intent on barging its way, uninvited, through my bedroom window. The wind howled, the rain battered against my poor innocent window pain, and I thanked my lucky stars that I was a butler and not a gamekeeper.

The next morning I got the rundown from Mr Cromwell, who seemed none the worse for his nightly vigil. Yes, the rain was heavy, he explained, but that was neither here nor there (a phrase he is particularly fond of using). The point was that the rain seemed to keep the miscreants away. There was no sign of them. They had lost their desire to fish. Cromwell kept up his lonely vigil for the three following nights and still the fishermen did not arrive. Perhaps they did and caught a sight of the determined looking Cromwell. That would be enough to put anybody off fishing for a while. Perhaps it even turned them vegan. Peace has now returned to the lake.

Good news was confirmed last week. Sir Geoffrey has given us the go-ahead for a Summer Servant's Ball, in commemoration of the twentieth anniversary of the noble baronet's succession to the estate and title. In the old days we only had one Servant's Ball a year (usually around Twelfth Night) but over the past decade or so, perhaps sensing a certain lack of lustre in the eyes of those Below Stairs come August, a smaller, more modest, summer event has also been added to the calendar. I think this might be a bigger event than previous summers. I have to do some of the organising but everything should be arranged by the time of the Ball (on the last day of August), so that I can enjoy myself.

Quite a surprise today: Wendy (one of the Housemaids) has handed in her notice. I must consider the situation carefully.

Quick Cromwell Update

2006-08-17T22:43:00.000+01:00

It is now 10.39pm as I type this. I have just returned from the lake where Mr Cromwell is settling down for a long night. He seems in good spirits and is armed with a flask of something that smells suspiciously unlike coffee. It has just started to rain again, but that will not dampen his enthusiasm for the task ahead.

He is a determined man. Meanwhile, safely ensconced in my butler's flat, I am about ready to make myself a cup of hot chocolate.....

Mr Cromwell's Mission

2006-08-17T12:43:00.000+01:00

It is very good to be back. The problem with fishing on the lake has increased. Apparently the miscreants are sneaking into the park at night, fishing away happily, but then leaving a dreadful mess behind them. This greatly concerns the Gamekeeper Mr Cromwell. He is a man who would quite happily live outdoors. He rarely enters the House and when he does he seems rather claustrophobic, even in a place this size. He yearns for the freedom of the Great Outdoors.

During the heat-wave Mr Cromwell and Mr Barton would have frequent discussions whilst looking sagely up at the clouds. Cromwell is the man you go to for that type of thing. No problem with that now though. As I type this I can see rain hammering down on the window. The gardens will get a good dousing and Barton will be happy. Or as happy as is possible for a man like Barton to get.

I have a feeling that Cromwell will be lying in wait for the fishermen tonight. Anything that damages the countryside deeply wounds Mr Cromwell. He takes it personally. I can imagine him now, hiding behind a tree near the lake, ever alert, eagerly waiting for his prey to come toddling along, unsuspecting. Sleep, rest, even blinking, will be ignored by him tonight. I saw him just 25 minutes ago. I took a local university student to see the shack (I hesitate to say 'cottage') that lies within the woods, that used to be home to Sir Ronald Carstone's pet hermit in the early 18th century (I kid you not!). The student wants to write an assignment about it. Didn't actually pick up what the assignment was going to be entitled. I am fairly certain it won't be 'Pet Hermits of the 18th Century', probably something more subtle and sophisticated than that. As we were leaving the Hermit's House we saw Cromwell. He looked intense, like a prizefighter before a title bout. He nodded briefly to us, but his mind was elsewhere. I said I would pop over to see him tonight, just before it gets too dark. Again he merely nodded.

I warn you, do not be a fisherman on Carstone Lake tonight. Cromwell is about. Hope he doesn't get too soggy if this rain keeps up. Then again, he likes that sort of thing. You wouldn't find me outdoors in that kind of weather. I am more the tucked up in bed, hearing the rain rattling the window pain type of chap. I am quite content to hear bad weather. I do not wish to be buffeted by it.

Back From The Brink

2006-08-13T12:33:00.000+01:00

Well, perhaps I was not as ill as all that. Perhaps the obituary writers in the local village were not sharpening their pencils and trying to think of something nice to say about me. But I was ill. It had been quite a while since I was last unable to attend to my duties. I have suffered a very frustrating week.

As I lay in bed I could not help thinking of all the things that needed to be done: were all the doors and windows locked? Had the correct wine for the day been taken out of the cellars? Was Simon aware that we were expecting delivery of the new monogramed writing paper? Myriad thoughts and worries haunted my rest.

I was kept informed of proceedings and I should have been most grateful for the little stream of visitors that arrived to attempt to cheer me up. Unfortunately, when ill, I can get ever so slightly cranky. The sunshine goes out of my life. Clouds gather. It has been whispered that I am not good company. Nevertheless, like courtiers visiting a dying monarch, much of the staff trooped in to pay their respects at one point or another over the week.

Mr Copeland was the first to arrive. He has recovered his usual elan now that Lady Blanche is safely back in Scotland. His conversation was gossipy and really rather entertaining. Although I did notice that he attempted to keep his distance from me. At one point when I leaned closer to hear one of his trademark conspiratorial whispers, he recoiled quickly and placed a silk handkerchief to his mouth, as if a bubonic plague victim had just asked him for a kiss.

Mrs Berry was always making visits. She was very kind. Bringing me tonics and medicines and keeping me updated on everything Below Stairs. Apparently the Wendy situation has solved itself but she did not elaborate.

The footmen (Simon and Richard) visited every day as I had requested. No problems seem to have occurred in my absence. I should not have expected any. I have never worked with a more dedicated staff in all the years I have been in service.

Robert (the Hall Boy) was the most interesting visitor. Chiefly because we could chat about cricket. He thinks Flintoff should be England captain on his return from injury. I am an Andrew Strauss man. He also told me of problems over on the lake. Apparently people are sneaking into the park after dark to fish on the lake without permission. The Gamekeeper, Mr Cromwell, is no doubt on the case.

An Ailing Butler

2006-08-08T11:48:00.000+01:00

Apologies for the lack of updates. I am ailing. Since Sunday I have been struck down by a mysterious bug. Well it probably isn't that mysterious but it certainly is a bug, and one of flu-type proportions. I stumbled through the day's work yesterday but I am afraid I have been unable to conduct my duties today.

I feel lethargic, listless and shivery. I type this from the chair near my computer but I shall shortly return to bed.

A Few Questions

2006-08-03T11:18:00.000+01:00

Tonight I entertain Llywelyn, whilst remaining on my guard the whole time. He always has schemes and plans. I think it must be the boredom of being stuck at the Lodge Gates all day. The last time we met up for a convivial beverage after work he roped me into a nocturnal ghost hunt. I shall not make that mistake again.

Since, against all odds, and against people's better judgement, this blog seems to have been gaining in readership, I have had an influx of emails from inquiring minds. I like having feedback. They do not ask me about the mysteries of life, they do not want to know if I have a good tip for the Grand National, they reasonably ask for the small details that I may have omitted in my posts. So I shall take this opportunity to answer a few questions:

How did Lady Blanche put the fear of God into Mr Copeland?
She gave a scathing appraisal of his attire. Simple as that. There is nothing that hurts a valet more than when people deride their clothing. It strikes at a valet's very identity. It leaves them wondering whether becoming a Groom might not be a better idea. Horses rarely comment on a badly-cut waistcoat. It was a couple of years ago that Mr Copeland first encountered his most severe fashion critic. He was dressed immaculately, or so he thought. Lady Blanche took one look at him, sniffed (someone is always in trouble when Lady Blanche sniffs), made a unflattering comment about peacocks, and then proceeded to criticise everything from the bagginess of his trousers to the softness of his collar. I even believe an unflattering comment about the cut of his jib was made, before Copeland's aristocratic nemesis swept away leaving him feeling shabby, rather like Bob Cratchett after Tiny Tim had hidden the darning equipment.

Will we ever see your Pantry?
This question came up on a PG Wodehouse forum recently. I believe it SHOULD be possible to post a photograph of my pantry. Very rarely does anybody from 'Above Stairs' find themselves there. Sir Geoffrey and Lady Carstone would be unable to point out my pantry from an identification parade. It is an alien land to them. It was decided that I should make sure it is an artistic shot, just to make identification that tad bit trickier. A wide-angled lens was suggested. I shall see what I can do during the week.

What is the pattern for dinner-time at Carstone House?
A good question this. It shows keenness and interest in custom. Well done. It is all rather traditional. I bang the dinner-gong at 7.15pm which is the signal for the guests to change. I then bang it again at 8.00pm precisely to herald that 'dinner is served'. The assembled party then process into dinner. Everything will have been arranged down to the finest detail. I keep a ruler to measure the distance between cutlery, plates and glasses. Laying the table for dinner is a precise affair. A mistake, however miniscule, would be noticed, especially by me. I am a perfectionist when it comes to the Dining Table. I believe in my job I have to be. After dinner the ladies leave the gentlemen to their port; then all re-assemble afterwards. Sometimes to listen to music (Lady Carstone has a fondness for the harp. A harpist is nearly always present at a large dinner party) or to converse. If Mr Miles is host then the next bit can become rather embarrassing. He is addicted to parlour games, and after dinner he tries to coax all the guests to take part in sometimes excrutiating games of his own concoction. Personally I prefer the harp.

What WAS Barton up to, on his own, wandering around the grounds at night, all those weeks ago?
I am afraid I still do not know.

So, how DID you break the dinner gong handle?
My, is that the time? Better run.....

The Odd Gift

2006-08-02T10:11:00.000+01:00

I was deeply moved yesterday morning to discover a small envelope waiting for me on the Servant's Hall table. It contained a pair of pince-nez and a kind note from my erstwhile employer. Obviously deciding that contact lenses (which, of course, I have never worn, or for that matter, owned) were a curse upon me, and that if this terrible affliction continued something really bad might happen, such as tea being delayed, Sir Geoffrey sent me what he saw as a more than adequate substitute. That was an enormously kind gesture. It is just a shame that I don't really need them. I DID try to tell him the truth but, perhaps thinking that I was about to be emotional in my thanks, he waved me away. I shall store them somewhere safe.

The Wendy situation seems to be an ongoing one, which is of great concern to me. I have a lot of sympathy for her. Affairs of the heart are not totally alien to me. I must, however, hope that this dark cloud passes soon. Copeland pointed out that he saw her gazing out of the window for quite a considerable time yesterday morning neglecting her work completely. It is a good job that Lady Blanche is not coming tomorrow. I feel that the House would not look as sparkling as it did last week. Perhaps I should have a chat with her. Something avuncular in tone might prove beneficial.

The Tradesman's Entrance door needed a new lock. Mr Collins came in to fix it. Mrs Berry will be relieved. She was getting tired of deliveries turning up at her door. It was also rather irritating for her to have servants traipsing through the Housekeeper's Room to depart the House. As she pointed out (repeatedly): "If it were winter, I would be freezing with that door open all the time!" Of course it is not winter and I can only imagine that the light breeze was refreshing, but her point is nevertheless a valid one. Mrs Berry has a mortal fear of draughts. Perhaps a great-great-aunt of hers was felled by one in Victorian times. Victorians always seemed to die from 'chills.' Could a family tragedy be behind it all? Quite possibly.

Have decided to play host to Llywelyn in my butler's flat. It is only fair considering we met at the Lodge Gates last time. The summit meeting shall take place tomorrow night. I shall avoid the topic of ghosts.

In Praise of the Pince-Nez

2006-07-30T12:07:00.000+01:00

Woke at 6.45am to begin another day. Climbed out of bed and stubbed my toe on the Chamber Pot; they are not used anymore, I assure you, but Sir Geoffrey Carstone is so in love with tradition that he insists each room has one; one of his little quirks, perhaps. Then, while shaving, I spotted in the mirror ANOTHER small part of the wall that I had missed while re-decorating last week. That really is intolerable. I have no idea why my attention was wandering so badly. I am usually so thorough. Perhaps it was the thought of Lady Blanche's arrival.

Things got no better as the day wore on. I popped a cufflink on the floor of the Dining Room, and as I was rummaging around on all fours looking for it, Sir Geoffrey came in, and presumed that I had lost a contact-lens. He proceeded to give me a ten minute lecture on the evils of the contact lens. I did not like to halt him when in full flow, so I listened politely, hoping to learn something. The contact lens, according to him, was to blame for much of the problems in the world today. He had been bullied, a few years ago, by Lady Carstone into trying contacts because he kept misplacing his spectacles. The experience appears to have been an unpleasant one for the noble baronet. He is much happier with the older method. He is extremely fond of the pince-nez. That may seem rather old fashioned to some, but that is exactly how Sir Geoffrey likes it. He spoke for another ten minutes on the merits of the pince-nez, and seemed to put its invention right up there with the telephone. I assurred him that I would never wear contact lenses again. In fact, I have NEVER worn contact lenses. I have a pair of reading glasses, but that is it. Finally found cufflink under a side-table.

Problems in the Servant's Hall. Wendy in tears. Probably love trouble. She was being comforted by Mrs Berry. The sobs were really rather wracking. The old Jacobean beams were shaking. The two footmen were standing around looking worried but slightly uncomfortable. I overheard one of them say to the other: "She will be okay after a Mrs Berry special in Pug's Parlour." Mrs Berry is indeed a wonderful person to talk to. She is the one that most rush to when in need of advice or simply a friendly ear. I am sure that is exactly what Wendy needs. However, I do frown at the term 'Pug's Parlour'. I know, traditionally, the lower servants in many large British houses have referred to the Housekeeper's Room in this way, but I have never liked it.

Having problems with the Tradesmen's Entrance door. It may need a new lock. Couldn't open it properly this morning. We all had to enter and exit via the Housekeeper's Scullery Door. Very inconvenient.

One person who seemed very happy today was Mr Barton. The rain has improved his mood immensely. He was whistling to himself while tending the flower beds in the Cedar Garden and called out to me: "Good morning Fielding! Didn't Harmison and Panesar bowl beautifully in the Test Match!" I am not used to such friendliness from Barton. I usually only get plant lectures from him, and moans about the younger gardening staff. I was quite taken aback. At least he has his priorities right. Harmison and Panesar did indeed bowl beautifully.

Day ended with an invitation for drinks with Llywelyn in a few nights time. Mindful of what happened the last time, I shall be very cautious in my conversation.

Rain!

2006-07-29T15:07:00.000+01:00

And a Head Gardener rejoices......

Dog Walking

2006-07-25T12:50:00.000+01:00

Lady Blanche has come and gone. I am sure I detected a soft sigh of relief emanating from the battlements of a relieved Carstone House on her departure. There now seems to be a spring in the step of all, the world seems a better, less fraught, place.

Only Barton maintains a look of grave concern, but that is all to do with the state of the lawns. There is still no sign of rain. You see him pottering around muttering darkly to himself. He actually climbed up to the Summerhouse yesterday evening to peer sagely at the clouds as the sun set. He was looking for any sign of moisture in the air. Any indication that his torment will soon be over. His look seemed to say, "Forget Pennies From Heaven, just give me a Bracing Downpour."

For the rest of us, however, life is returning to normal. One can actually now approach Mr Copeland without him leaping several feet into the air; there is less of a jangling coming from his nerves. I can even enter the Kitchen without the fear of being snarled at by Mrs Styles (her cake was a great success). Things were very different at the week-end.

Saturday saw the Carstone family invade the ancestral home. Lady Blanche's arrival put everyone on edge. I hope I did not give the impression of an advancing dragon. She is not particularly strict, her voice is very soft and friendly. In fact, if you didn't listen to the words she uttered, she would seem pleasant. She is the sort of person who can insult you dreadfully, and you only realize it later that night in bed. Her insults are fired, not with a blunderbuss like some, but with a sleek revolver with the silencer firmly fitted. She is also undeniably odd. She has a passion for birds and animals, which makes her marriage all the more puzzling. Her husband, Lord Hallross likes nothing better than to go out shooting. Lady Blanche sides with the birds. There would be terrible arguments if only the two conversed.

Accompanying Lady Blanche to Carstone was her favourite Skye Terrier, named 'Bailey'. Lady Blanche is obviously very fond of Bailey. When listing her favourite things Bailey would appear noticeably higher on the list than Lord Hallross. Just before dinner I was summoned to her regal presence with a beckoning finger. The conversation (which I guarantee is absolutely true, no matter how unusual it may sound) went something like this:

Lady Blanche: Wilson! (she always calls me Wilson. I have never quite figured out why)
Fielding: Yes, My Lady
Lady Blanche: Bailey needs to be taken for a walk!
Fielding: Indeed, My Lady? I shall inform the Hall Boy.
Lady Blanche: Remember Wilson. Don't let Bailey actually WALK. Far too dangerous. He is far too precious.
Fielding: My Lady?
Lady Blanche: I was reading that last year only 35 Skye Terriers were born in this country. Did you know that?
Fielding: Indeed I did not, My Lady.
Lady Blanche: They are a dying breed!
Fielding: Very sad, My Lady.
Lady Blanche: Tragic Wilson! tragic! We can't afford to lose darling Bailey. Take him out for a walk. Get the chauffeur to do it!
Fielding: You wish Mr Reynolds to walk Bailey, My Lady?
Lady Blanche: Not WALK, Wilson! Far too dangerous. Get the chauffeur to DRIVE him!
Fielding: Very good, My Lady.

And so it was that visitors to Carstone Park on Saturday evening would have witnessed the remarkable sight of Mr Reynolds in Sir Geoffrey's Rolls-Royce driving at a sedate pace around the turning circle, his only passenger being a small Skye Terrier perched on a velvet cushion in the back seat. If this passenger had sat up and looked out of the window he would, no doubt, have seen a Gardener muttering darkly, his gaze always up at the darkening sky, his attention on more important matters than chauffered dogs.

Sometimes this is a very strange place to work. I was telling this tale to an estate worker at the nearby pub, The Carstone Arms, only last night, and he repeated an opinion I have heard many times before. Leaning back in his chair, he snorted, and said: "Only the aristocracy are eccentric. If you have money you are 'eccentric'; if you have no money you are 'barking mad.'"

I merely raised one eyebrow and changed the subject to cricket.

I have much more to report from the week-end's festivities. I hope to have the time to write again very soon.

Saturday Morning Update

2006-07-22T10:26:00.000+01:00

Lady Blance arrived later than expected last night, and so retired directly to bed. She was accompanied by her Lady's Maid and her secretary. The secretary seemed to carry himself with a more regal air than his titled employer, and since I have a sneaking suspicion that Her Majesty the Queen feels compelled to curtsey in the presence of Lady Blanche, that really is saying something.

The rest of the party are expected to arrive this afternoon. An awfully busy day awaits.

I have a headache, and it is a bad time to have one.

The Gathering Storm

2006-07-21T14:05:00.000+01:00

Sir Geoffrey returned at 11.15am, and I think by 11.30am he was out riding. He had travelled from London, and as a man who sees the train as a dangerous new invention, he was quite eager to return to the 'natural way of doing things', as he so regularly puts it. He has always been a fine horseman. He was taught to ride as a young boy here at Carstone. I have seen photographs of the young baronet-to-be being led around the Riding School (which is attached to the Stables) on a small pony. This image surprised me when I was first shown it, because I have always found it hard to believe that there was ever a time when Sir Geoffrey was clean shaven. I harboured a sneaking suspicion that he was actually born with his drooping moustache. This sepia-tinted gem from the family archive seems to suggest otherwise.

Family is both a delight and a burden to Sir Geoffrey. Mostly a burden. His eldest son, Mr Miles, for instance, has never really lived up to his father's expectations. You rarely see Mr Miles on a horse. Even his trips to the countryside, I suspect, are only taken because he cannot avoid them, and that they occasionally come in handy when recovering from a particularly nasty hangover. London Society knows Mr Miles well. The Carstone Estate workers seem a little unsure about him.

The whole clan are gathering here over the week-end to celebrate Lady Blanche's sixtieth birthday. Lady Blanche is Lady Carstone's sister. We do not see her very often but she makes a point of attending all the major family functions. She tends to bring a small retinue of her own servants with her whenever she arrives. In the past some of the staff here have commented on her slightly erratic behaviour, but the aristocracy have always had ways that were peculiar to outsiders. It is not for us to pass judgement. We are also expecting her husband, Lord Hallross, who will probably spend most of his time talking about shooting or horses with Sir Geoffrey; Mr Thomas Carstone, Miss Gemma Carstone, and a whole host of family members that need to be catered for. Preparations are well underway.

Wendy and Rhiannon have made a superb job of the brass in the House. Rarely have I seen it gleam so. I must take the time to commend them. Mrs Styles is in the process of creating a splendid looking birthday cake. The last time I checked it was progressing nicely. That was a little while ago, because I received a glare when I popped my head around the Kitchen door, that will take a while to recover from. The glare seemed to say, 'do not disturb an artist at work.' I quickly backtracked to the Bell's Passage where I almost bumped into a rather agitated looking Mr Copeland. At first I thought that he had also unwisely entered the Kitchen, but his look told me that he was afraid of a higher power. "She is still coming tomorrow then?" he asked, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes. Poor chap. He was obviously hoping for divine intervention. I didn't have to ask who he meant. I well remember the last time Mr Copeland met this week-ends' guest of honour. I left the poor man to lick his re-opened wounds. He won't sleep tonight. Never has a valet suffered so much in the call of duty.

Sir Geoffrey and Lady Carstone spent a quiet evening relaxing. The noble baronet seemed rather tired from his ride. When I served afternoon tea in the Drawing Room Lady Carstone was obviously deeply engrossed in planning the week-end ahead. Notebooks and lists were strewn on the table in front of her. Her spectacles were perched on the end of her nose, and she kept tutting, and muttering to herself. Occasionally she would ask her husband a question. I do not suppose she ever expected a reply, certainly not a useful one. It hardly mattered because by the time I had poured the tea, gentle snoring could be heard coming from Sir Geoffrey's armchair. As I turned to leave, as if noticing me for the first time, Lady Carstone asked how the preparations were going. I assured her that everything was in hand. "I hope so." she replied with a tired sigh, "because SHE is bound to notice everything. She ALWAYS notices everything." With that I left Her Ladyship to her lists, and the sound of a gentle snore that was in the process of becoming less gentle.

There is a reason why everybody is tense. One majestic figure links the furrowed brow of Lady Carstone, the nervousness of the usually unflappable Copeland, and the raw intensity and concentration of a cake-making Mrs Styles. Lady Blanche is, as Llywelyn put it to me today, "rather unique in the annals of Carstone; possibly unique in the annals of humanity."

And So We Swelter

2006-07-20T08:43:00.000+01:00

And so it continues: relentless, overbearing, causing discomfort to everybody, people hide from it under hats that cover their faces: I am of course referring to the questioning that our little visitor Amy inflicts on all in her path.

Perhaps I AM being a little unfair.

Her questions were lively and showed interest. Despite informing her of the more unpleasant duties of a scullery maid, she still seemed keen on being one. You must admire her spirit. Despite Miss Roberts spending a good hour showing Amy some of Lady Carstone's finest dresses, and extolling the perks and privileges of being Lady's Maid to one of the British aristocracy's finest, Amy still steadfastly maintained that it would be much more fun to gut fish, pluck game, clean vegetables, peel potatoes, and wash-up in the scullery. The youth of today!

Things seem quiet now Amy has departed. I am rather relieved that everybody has left. I'm not sure what to make of 'Remus' and his clan. I like things to be orderly. I like to know a little about the guests of Carstone, otherwise how can I best ensure that their stay will be a pleasant one? I can only assume that they were poetical or bohemian people in nature. Although I find it hard to imagine Remus writing anything TOO sensitive. His handshake was a little too excessively firm. You can tell a lot about a man from his handshake. I suppose their dark secret (everything about them, except Amy, seemed dark and brooding) will come out eventually.

Not happy with myself. Spotted a bit that I missed while decorating. That is not like me. I am usually most thorough about everything. It must be the weather.

It has been sweltering at Carstone today. Apparently we could hit the highest temperature since records began. Barton was having problems keeping the lawns nice and green. He has been forbidden to use the sprinklers, and the hosepipe is frowned upon, when it comes to the lawns. This worries Barton. To me, everything still seemed immaculate, but, for a perfectionist like Barton, these are hard times. I left him near the Summerhouse with a furrowed brow. He had explained, in great detail, all the problems that this constant sunshine causes for him. The weather and Barton seem to have a love-hate relationship. At the moment the weather is being rather too 'clingy' and Barton would prefer a cooling off period.

Inside the house things were scarcely much better. I asked both footmen to help me stockcheck the cellars (always my refuge when it gets TOO hot), this allowed them to stay blissfully cool for an hour. I sent Robert, the Hall Boy, out in the gardens to help Barton. There was nothing really for him to do in the House, and I thought he might find a cool spot outside somewhere. I also spotted something which really amused me. I took a quick trip to the garages to ask the chauffeur Mr Reynolds something, and he showed me the quite remarkable shield that he places on the windscreen of Sir Geoffrey's car to help keep the interior (especially the steering wheel it seems) of said vehicle cool when unoccupied in blazing sunshine. I have seen these things before, of course, but nothing like this: it was gilded. I thought that seemed rather extravagant, and must have been custom made. Reynolds explained to me that it was a gift from Mr Miles. Everything then made sense. Mr Miles does like gold-leaf. I am sure he would like to gild the driveway, as was once done at one of Britain's stately homes in the 1930s to honour a particularly eccentric visitor.

Today sees the return of Sir Geoffrey. How reassuring that will be. Normality and tradition shall reign supreme once more.

A Small Companion

2006-07-18T21:51:00.000+01:00

The week-end proved to be far quieter than I thought it would be. Miss Gemma's party left early on Sunday morning, and Mr Miles' group kept themselves largely to themselves. I'm not entirely sure about their background, and they seemed to remain a mystery to all in the Servant's Hall. They never used the bell pull to summon a servant and they never seemed to want anything. They just kept themselves in their rooms doing goodness knows what.

I did have a lasting encounter with one of them, however. I had not been informed that she was among the party, and I had not detected her on arrival, presumably on account of her tiny size. Yesterday morning as I was unlocking the front door, Mr Miles bounded down the staircase, and called out to me. He asked me if I wouldn't mind showing one of the guests the servant's areas of the house, and outlining my duties to them. With some surprise (which I did not betray) I agreed. Little did I know at the time that I had just agreed to spend much of my day babysitting.

The 'guest' happened to be a little girl named Amy, aged roughly nine years old (I am not very good at estimating the age of people. I invariably cause offence when asked to do so.). Actually I was informed, several times throughout the course of the day, that she was actually nine and a quarter. This fraction seemed to be very important to her. I admired her precision. She seemed very interested in service and, as instructed, I gave her a tour of 'Below Stairs.' She had all the impetuousness and curiosity of youth, and peppered me with questions. In fact she followed me around like a puppy. Wherever I went, she was not far behind. I thought I had left her with Mrs Berry in the Housekeeper's Room but when replacing the notepaper on a desk in the Morning Room I felt eyes upon me. Sure enough, there she was gazing up at me, her brain obviously buzzing with more questions.

My favourite moment of the day came in the Entrance Hall, when Amy asked me:

Who answers the front door?
I answer the front door.

What if you are busy?
If I am unavailable, the 1st Footman will answer the door.

What if he is busy?
The 2nd Footman will do it.

What about The Scullery Maid? (we had a long discussion about scullery maids earier)
Certainly not. You can't have servants like the Hall Boy or Scullery Maid answering the front door. Imagine a scullery maid with bits of potato peel, and bits of fish on her hands and apron, answering the front door of Sir Geoffrey's house. A Scullery Maid answering the door? Where would it all end?

"It would end up on the door handle." She replied with grave sincerity.

There wasn't much I could say in response to that.

An Odd Arrival

2006-07-15T12:44:00.000+01:00

Began decorating at an early hour. The colour scheme that I have settled on is very tasteful, very refined. There was something rather therapeutic about the whole process.

Mr Miles arrived at half past three with a party of four people. As is traditional Llewelyn telephoned from the Lodge Gates as an early warning for me. I stood to greet the party on the front steps. Two men and two women emerged from cars, and what an odd bunch they were. They were dressed primarily in black (I would have approved of this had the hour been later, but at that time in the afternoon it all seemed a little peculiar) and the bright orange waistcoat that Mr Miles was wearing stood out all the more in consequence. I reached out to take the bags off a burly gentleman who approached me, and, completely misunderstanding my intentions, he took my hand and shook it warmly, introducing himself as 'Remus'. Rather embarrassing. Only Mr Miles seemed to think this was unusual, but he hid his smile, and bade the group to follow him into the House.

I fear that with Miss Gemma and her friends in residence, and now joined by Mr Miles' odd companions, that this will not be a quiet weekend.

The Task In Hand

2006-07-14T14:28:00.000+01:00

I am going to re-decorate my butler's flat at the top of Carstone House. I have been told that it could be re-decorated for me, but I would like to attack the task myself. I have purchased all that I need this morning, and tomorrow I shall jump to it. I think a SLIGHT change in decoration is what is needed to spruce things up. Nothing too radical, of course. You will not find my flat turned into a 'modernist' fantasy, that is for sure. My preferences lean towards 'cosy' and slightly cluttered.

Miss Gemma is staying at Carstone with a couple of friends, and Mr Miles is expected tomorrow. The sales of his volume of poetry have not gone particularly well, and he has now vowed to throw himself fully into portrait painting. I suppose he only half threw himself into poetry. And I think he might have sprained something in the process.

For all who are new to this diary, the following links might come in useful as way of an introduction:

The First Post
Carstone House
Above Stairs: The Family
Below Stairs: The Servants

Oh, and for those in a mood for a little socialising:

My ill-fated drink with Llywelyn
The Ball

That should set the scene quite nicely, I should think. We are quite a nice bunch here at Carstone. I warmly welcome you to the blog 're-launch'. I will be posting much more regularly, even if it is only a line or two, so that you can be properly kept up-to-date with all the goings on at this wonderful old house.

Let's Try Again

2006-06-09T10:16:00.000+01:00

With the Llywelyn scare now behind me, it is time to resume the diary.

All is gloriously sunny at Carstone at the moment. The last few days the sun has been beaming down upon us (and judging from the brightness of the rays it would seem that the sun has been using teeth whitener) and the weathermen promise more to come. This brightens the mood and lightens the step.

There is a certain self-satisfaction in being butler here on days such as this. The sun is kind to those whose duties are, shall we say, rather light: It will pour its affections upon a snoozing Sir Geoffrey, a copy of The Times over his face, as he relaxes in a chair in one of the formal gardens, for example; it will shimmer on the still waters of the lake as Mr Miles reads poetry while being rowed by a chum; it will even shine with admiration and encouragement on the plants as they are lovingly tended by the Head Gardener Mr Barton; but, it does not look kindly on those with hard manual work to be done. It makes their task infinitely harder. The sun is not the Hall Boy's friend during working hours. It mocks him.

But, surely, I hear you cry, that being a butler in such weather is no sinecure? Surely the heat makes my task uncomfortable? This is true, but I do have an antidote to the most sweltering of days: the key to the cellars. This is not to imply that I partake of beverages to cool me down. I would not touch a drop of anything from Sir Geoffrey's wine or beer cellars without express permission. However, it is so wonderfully cool in the cellars that it is the ideal place to find brief sanctuary from the rigours of a warm day. The alternative, of loosening my tie a touch, is, of course, too ghastly to contemplate. My appearance is one thing that is non-negotiable no matter what the weather. Certain standards must always be maintained.

Now, I must just pop into the Servant's Beer Cellar to check that the 'Prince of Wales' is full of beer....

NB The 'Prince of Wales' is the largest of the beer barrels at Carstone. It is six feet tall, and almost six feet wide. It is said to have obtained its name because of a passing resemblance to King Edward VII

Update - Do forgive the un-ornamental appearance of this post. I find myself temporarily unable to post pictures. I hope the problem resolves itself soon.

Rumbled!

2006-05-30T10:49:00.000+01:00

I have been quiet. Very quiet. In fact I would have received approving looks from librarians for my lack of chatter of late. I am sure speculation has been rife (from the handful of people who read this blog) as to my mysterious disappearance. Perhaps in pubs and bars across the kingdom, and at water coolers in workplaces around the world, there has only been one topic of conversation: Fielding. Where has he gone?

The mystery can now be solved.

I was rumbled. The game is up. The cat has been let out of the bag and is sunning itself in the Orangery Garden.

Fortunately it was not Lady Carstone who found me out. No, the figure that exposed me was the Lodge Keeper we all know as Llywelyn. Of course, that is not his real name, but, when searching for supernatural tales on the internet (yes, Google, I am glaring at you!) he stumbled across a rather familiar little scene. It was not hard for a keen mind like Llywelyn's to recognise himself. There are very few Lodge Keepers around these days, still fewer who are Welsh, have a fascination for ghosts, and have recently taken a butler on a nocturnal supernatural tour of a historic house.

The game, as I have said, was well and truly up. My identity was shot to pieces.

Cowering from the icy finger of truth that was pointed towards me, I went into hiding somewhat. Not only did I not update this site, but I also tried to avoid venturing near the Lodge Gates, and whenever I saw Llywelyn in the gardens I pretended not to see him, and became absolutely fascinated by whatever plant was in front of me at the time. Barton would have been impressed by my sudden horticultural interest.

Yesterday, however, the inevitable, as it so often does, happened. Llywelyn approached me near the entrance porch to Carstone, and just as I was wondering how quickly a butler could run the 100 metres across gravel, he called out in a not unfriendly manner. This stopped me in my tracks. He then started to reproach me for not updating this blog. He pointed out the inaccurate (in his eyes) portrait I had painted of him, but on the whole he found it very amusing. I can only assume that Lodge Keepers get so little press these days (positive or otherwise) that Llywelyn was grateful for anything that could shine a light on that noble profession.

So this blog is not necessarily dead. So long as Llywelyn's silence can be bought (presumably with something of liquid form) there is no real reason why this rather odd diary cannot continue.

Llywelyn has made it clear however, that he would sometimes like to post on these pages himself. He has agreed to use the nom I have given him to maintain whatever semblance of secrecy remains.

I fear I have no choice but to accede to his request.

A Week Of Calm

2006-05-05T10:55:00.000+01:00

Another few days drift by without a post. Oh dear. It seems to have become more of a journal than a diary. Nevertheless, onwards and upwards, what is past is past, etc etc.

Not an awful lot has happened since I last posted an entry here. We have had a quiet week. It is sometimes the way after a large event like the Monarch's Ball, that Carstone House, like a middle-aged former athlete, now finds that it needs to catch its breath after such an exertion.

Sunday will see the return of Mr Miles, who is entertaining some literary friends; the publication of his book of verse 'The Salmon' is imminent. My Master Sir Geoffrey is not particularly looking forward to this event, and he will try to stay out of the way as much as possible. To him, any poetry written after Alfred, Lord Tennyson died is just plain balderdash and totally incomprehensible. Lady Carstone will play hostess, which she will do with some aplomb.

I am on the hunt today for a new hammer for the dinner gong. I am afraid the old one snapped yesterday evening. The details of which I would rather not go into.

The Ball

2006-04-25T16:27:00.000+01:00

What a wonderful evening it proved to be. Never have so many 'monarchs' been assembled in one place since Queen Victoria's family get togethers.

The State Dining Room and Ballroom looked exquisite, and, I must say, that the staff excelled themselves. Working long hours without much of a break took it out of everyone, but the ball was such a success, that it was surely worth it.

The two footmen looked splendid in full livery and were not laughed at by the Still Room maids (unless they giggled behind their sugar cone), at least not to my knowledge. Simon did have a problem with the buckled shoes, as he was not used to them, and the soles were very hard. He said it was like wearing clogs with buckles on. By the end of the evening he admitted that his feet were blistering really rather badly, but he was probably too tired to notice.

The Second Footman, Richard, another newcomer to full livery, had a different problem. A couple of hours before we were due to change for the evening, I heard a tentative knock on the door to my Pantry. I had been busy adding up the sums for the provisions for the big event. Mathematics is not a strong point of mine, and I usually attempt such work only in conjunction with Mrs Berry. I put down my pen and bid the visitor 'enter'. It was Richard, wearing, what I can only describe, as a sheepish expression. You could almost see the wool. After looking down at the floor for a bit, he confessed that he was worried about wearing the breeches that were a part of the full livery of a footman. You see, although Richard is rather tall, his legs, he explained, were 'not up to much'. In fact, they were rather thin. Spindly was the word he used. He worries about them when he visits the beach. In the usual footman's everyday uniform of black trousers this is not an issue, but breeches can be rather unflattering to those whose legs run to spindly.

I attempted to reassure him that his problem was not a new one. Indeed, quite often footmen in years gone by would actually wear 'false calves' and sometimes even 'false thighs'. A footman after all has to be ornamental, not just useful. These 'falsies' were not as dramatic as they sound, but their application in the right places could make a considerable difference to both the footman's appearance and, presumably, to the footman's self-confidence. Richard thought about this for a minute, and then concluded (correctly in my view) that if a Still Room maid was going to giggle at him for wearing livery, the hysterical laughter that would ensue from the Still Room if word got about that the livery contained false muscles, would be too much for one man to bear.

Richard looked fine. Nobody laughed. Perhaps he can now return to the beach in confidence.

The fancy-dress list, as far as the Carstone family were concerned, were as follows:

King Charles II - (Sir Geoffrey Carstone) I'm not sure if this worked particularly well. My Master is a rather thin man, and the effect of his 17th century wig, made him look rather like a malnourished spaniel. There was too much hair, and too little face. The wig rather consumed him. He bore himself with great dignity however, and the sight of Charles II dancing with Queen Victoria was an amusing one.

Queen Victoria - (Lady Carstone) I was surprised at this. I had heard for weeks that Lady Carstone was going to attend the Ball as the first Queen Elizabeth. Perhaps there were last minute problems (I must ask Lady Carstone's Ladies Maid, Miss Roberts) but, although considerably different in both height and build to Victoria, she cut an imposing figure, and seemed to enjoy the evening greatly.

King Alfred - (Mr Miles Carstone) Fortunately the rumours that Mr Miles was going to come dressed as Oliver Cromwell proved to be unfounded. An interesting costume for the heir to Carstone House. His tall, thin figure, actually suited it rather well. A wonderful touch was the collection of burnt cakes he carried around with him that Mrs Styles had provided. I think burning cakes, even deliberately, cut Mrs Styles deeply. "Why couldn't he have gone as Edward III?" was the cry from the Kitchen.

Queen Marie Antoinette - (Miss Gemma Carstone) I knew it, and predicted it in this diary just before the ball. We had three Marie Antoinettes in attendance, but none quite so striking as young Miss Gemma. There is something about a ball that brings the Marie Antoinette out in people. Somebody, somewhere, is doing a roaring trade in Marie Antoinette costumes. Miss Gemma is very beautiful and always looks innocent even while in the midst of the utmost mischief. Charles II's crown went missing. It was eventually found in the punch. Miss Gemma looked like butter would not melt in her mouth, but I saw her submerge the Merrie Monarch's crown with a giggle half an hour before. It was a rather unique sight to see Henry VIII sternly reprimanding the Queen of France for stealing Charles II's crown!

King Henry VIII - (Mr Thomas Carstone) Seems to take these sorts of things very seriously. Quite an extraordinary costume. Lavish and full of bright jewels. Henry himself would have been proud to wear it. It really is quite remarkable how effectively rotund a man can look merely by pushing a cushion up his shirt. Mr Thomas is an athletic individual but such was the effect of his costume, you would have thought that some sort of crane would be needed to lower him onto his horse. Miss Gemma approached me wanting to know why I had also stuffed a cushion up my shirt. Needless to say I hadn't. As well she knew.

There were many guests and many costumes. It was such a wonderful evening. We had another cushion used to good effect by Richard III (this time as a hump); Charles I wandered around, but rarely strayed from the drinks; unfortunately a rather inebriated Henry V at one point thought it was rather funny to bump into people and then quote Shakespeare: "A little touch of Harry in the night!" Personally I do not think Agincourt would have become the great English victory we now see it had the King, repeatedly and irritatingly, bumped into his bowmen. He would have done more damage than the French.

My role involved announcing the various kings and queens as they entered the Ballroom. The dancing continued long into the night. At one point, Charles II (My Master) halted the music, gave a mini-speech thanking everybody for coming, and then wished Elizabeth II a happy birthday with effusive praise. The band then struck up 'God Save The Queen' which was sung with great gusto. All in all, a magnificent occasion.

Afterwards, as the party died down, and most of the guests had departed, I began checking the ground floor to make sure that no guest had dozed off in an armchair somewhere and had been forgotten about. I began to draw the curtains in the Library when I noticed, out of the window, the waving figure of Christopher (The Groom). He had spotted me and wished to bring my attention to something. I went outside to meet him. It was lovely and cool in the grounds after the heat of the Ballroom. The sight I saw was certainly a remarkable one. Three monarchs were racing against each other. According to Christopher they had wanted to use horses from the stables but he had wisely vetoed such an idea. Richard III seemed to be winning, but I had seen enough monarchs for one evening, and I returned inside to begin locking up Carstone House for another night.

A Hectic Day Awaits

2006-04-21T07:40:00.000+01:00

Just a quick note to update everybody on things. I awoke several hours ago. An early start is essential today for there is much to do. This evening, to celebrate the 80th birthday of Her Majesty The Queen, Sir Geoffrey and Lady Carstone are hosting, a 'Monarch's Ball'. Many guests are due to arrive dressed as various Kings and Queens from our island's past. I am fairly sure that there will be 'monarchs' from other nations as well. It is my long experience that whenever there is a fancy-dress ball of any kind, there are usually one or two 'Marie Antoinettes' in attendance. She is a popular choice.

My Master is attending as King Charles II. For many weeks it was a close run thing between 'Old Rowley' and 'George III' but Charles just pipped 'Farmer' George to the post.

This glittering occasion calls for full livery for the footmen. They are both relatively new and have never worn 'full livery' before. This involves buckled shoes, britches, and, to the horror of Simon, the wearing of a powdered wig. I believe he protests too much, and is actually looking forward to the big event. There is always a fear, I suppose, that one of the Still Room maids might snigger at him. But, I ask you, can we allow old traditions to die out because of the mockery of Still Room maids? Simon must, nay, will, be firm and wear his powdered wig with pride.

There is much to do.....

Bishop's Mitre or Cardinal's Hat?

2006-04-18T09:57:00.000+01:00

The Carstone family headed off to spend Easter in Prague, (which allowed me the opportunity to take a few days off to spend with my family). They are returning home at the end of the week, and I am already back at work, and trying to ensure that everything will be in tip top condition at the House for when they return.

Friday evening was not an unqualified success. I hardly expected it to be. Llywelyn, from the very beginning, had the fevered gleam in his eye of the true believer. I just wanted to be tucked up in my nice snug bed. I still haven't finished my Brian Johnstone book. I met him (Llywelyn not Brian Johnstone), as he requested, at the Tradesman's Entrance at 10pm. He didn't bring his volume of 'Carstone's supernatural history' with him. I think he would have required some sort of trolley, or durable pack horse, in order to do so in any case. All the stories and tales have, no doubt, been confined to his memory long ago.

Our first point of call was the State Dining Room, where, Llywelyn breathlessly explained, the ghostly image of King Charles I, or "a figure very like him" had been spotted at alarmingly regular intervals. We stayed there for about fifteen minutes, but nothing appeared to break the silence and serenity of a room, which even in the semi-darkness still seemed to radiate more majesty than any spectral monarch, headless or otherwise, could have managed. I also noticed that a leg of one of the chairs at the Dining Table seemed to be slightly wonky. I will have to see to that before the family return from Prague.

I then followed Llywelyn to several other rooms, and although I found his stories to be fascinating and wonderfully well told (I think he should seriously consider publishing a book on them. Surely there would be a call for a slimmer, more concise book on the ghosts of Carstone House, that locals could purchase and take home with them without running the risk of acquiring a hernia) I found my mind wandering to other things: should the cushion covers in the Chintz Room be cleaned again? Was that a speck of dirt on the face of the longcase clock in the Family Dining Room? Would Mr Miles be joining the family next week-end? Was the chandelier really as secure as I thought (I could swear it moved slightly as we left the room)? Should I fold the napkins on the Dining Room table in the bishops mitre, cardinal's hat, or arum lily style, for the week-end?

If Lywelyn had known that while he was telling his heart-stopping, blood curdling, flesh creeping tales, his audience had been mentally pondering the merits of the Bishops Mitre, as opposed to the Cardinal's Hat, he would have thought: "I have lost him." He might well have been right.

I felt rather guilty since Mr Llywelyn had put in so much effort. We did not see or experience anything. I think the ghosts were rather inconsiderate. They could have at least clanked a few chains, or slammed a door (not too hard though, we would not have wanted to wake anybody up), but they were obviously not interested in us. The only 'ghostly' thing I heard was a wail coming from the Game Larder, which on further investigation turned out to be Simon, the Footman. Sigh. Standards are slipping when footmen are pretending to be ghosts. He did not wear a sheet over his head though, so I suppose that was a blessing.

Whisky And Lodgekeepers: A Fatal Combination

2006-04-13T19:48:00.000+01:00

I arose this morning with a terrific headache. Perhaps it was rather unprofessional of me to have drunk so much on a Wednesday evening, with work the next day. I did not plan on drinking so much, and it is not a mistake I shall make again soon. It is just that Llywelyn does tend to dominate a conversation so, leaving the party of the second part with only a bashful grin and a glass in his hand, and taking a sip seems the only option available.

After breakfast I encountered My Master's valet Mr Copeland in the Bells Passage. He seemed eager to talk to me, so I led him into the Pantry and closed the door. Copeland was, as always, immaculately dressed. He asked if he could borrow my hat brush, which I dutifully supplied, but I sensed that he had other things on his mind and he did not seem too keen to leave. After a little bit of small talk, he came straight to the point: gossip. He asked me if I had detected a certain amount of frostiness in the demeanour of Mr Miles since the return from London. I confessed that I had. There had been so much frostiness in fact, that I was surprised that any of Barton's hothouse plants had survived the sudden drop in temperature, orangery or no orangery. Leaning forward conspiratorially Copeland told me that he knew the reason why (and presumably he had to pass on the gossip or die).

In London, apparently, one of the highlights of the 21st birthday celebrations, was to be the recitation of a poem by Mr Miles Carstone. He had been preparing it for some time. When the big moment came, he delivered his work with verve and passion. Now, there is nothing worse when a man bears his soul, and delivers dollops of verve and passion, than for his efforts to be greeted with utter indifference. This was the fate of Mr Miles Carstone. The audience were polite, yet seemed rather confused by it all. It also did not help Mr Miles to overhear his father muttering to Lady Carstone, "What was all that about?" rather too loudly. An argument later ensued.

Mr Miles has a slim volume of poetry due to be published at the end of the month entitled 'The Salmon'. This was not a good boost to his confidence. His full-time career as a portrait painter is not going well either, and it seems a few home truths were exchanged between baronet and heir. The atmosphere was very unpleasant, and Copeland admitted he was glad to get back home. Personally he thought Mr Miles' poem 'ghastly' and began to explain poetical rhyme and meter to me in great detail. I was rather glad when a bell rang, calling me away.

Sir Geoffrey seemed quiet at dinner. Ironically the starter was smoked salmon, and he barely touched it. Perhaps it reminded him of incomprehensible poetry. I daresay he has a lot on his mind. These familial squabbles are never easy, and his children do tend to try him so. He has a function at the local British Legion this evening, so perhaps that will rouse him out of his gloom, and chase the black dog from Carstone.

I myself have my own little troubles. After dinner in the Servant's Hall, I retired with my dessert into the Housekeeper's Room to have a chat with Mrs Berry. I told her about the previous evening's events with Llywelyn, and how I was not overly keen on accompanying the Lodge Keeper on his Friday night nocturnal spook hunt. Mrs Berry seemed to find it all very amusing. She told me that it was my own fault for agreeing to it. This was not the sympathetic response that I was hoping for. Perhaps I could get out of it, I suggested. "How?" she not unreasonably replied. Now, it may not be very British, or gentlemanly, but feigning illness was top of my list of possibilities. Mrs Berry, in that uniquely stately way that only Housekeepers can manage, got up to put some table cloths into the linen drawers in the corner of her room, and looked at me with a sphinx-type smile, before sweeping out of the room with the cryptic comment: "It will not be that easy."

It did not take me long to ascertain her meaning. Everybody 'below stairs' seemed to know about it, and they all had comments to make. Mr Copeland, returning my hat brush, tapped me on the arm, and wished me luck. I overheard the two footmen, Simon and Richard, discussing the horrors that awaited me, especially if we ventured to the Summer House after dark. Mrs Styles, not surprisingly, took a grim view of things: she warned me to be careful, and told me that she would not do it for worlds. She also delighted in pondering on the fate that awaited me: her forecasts had me tripping over and spraining my ankle, or being hit with an object by a poltergeist with a particularly good aim, or my dropping a candle and setting the whole place alight. I left the Kitchen promptly when she started musing on 'possessions.' Even Lady Carstone mentioned something about the 'thin veil that surrounds Carstone', as I helped her on with her coat this evening, before she headed into town. I did not get her meaning, but she definitely smiled while she said it, and her eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief.

Getting out of this will not be easy. I do not want people thinking that Mr Fielding has no backbone. A butler needs to be respected, or who knows what might happen to the whole structure 'below stairs'? I cannot berate the Hall Boy for slovenliness, when he can simply retort, under his breath: "Pah! But I am not afraid of ghosts!" It is just so tiresome. Never mix whisky with Lodge Keepers. That is the lesson I have learnt.

It is getting late now, and as I got to my bedroom, just a few minutes ago, my telephone rang. It was Llywelyn. He asked me if I wanted to back out. I indignantly replied to the contrary. I encountered the worst that Carstone could throw at me last night: a wandering gardener with the power of the 'evil eye'. Any ghost seems quite insipid in contrast.

Spirits With Llywelyn

2006-04-13T09:42:00.000+01:00

With Sir Geoffrey and Lady Carstone dining elsewhere, the house empty of guests, and the quick departure of Mr Miles back to London (not looking happy in the least) yesterday was quite a calm one after the storm of activity brought by the previous week.

With my duties for the day completed I left Carstone House with something of a spring in my step at about 8pm. Although the wind was rather blustery (if I had been wearing a hat it would surely have been blown off my head and probably been nibbled on by one of the swans on the lake) the walk to the Lodge Gates was rather a pleasant, bracing one, and the House behind me looked quite dramatic as the sun started to set. Mr Llywelyn had obviously spotted me, because he was waiting by the open door of one of the Lodges, with a glass of whisky in one hand, and a smile of benign friendliness on his face.

His living space is actually a lot larger than it appears from the outside. Llywelyn is addicted to clutter, however, and the whole effect is one of infinite cosiness. I think he likes an audience to listen to his stories and I was ushered to a comfy chair next to the (unlit) fireplace. Although he also had a chair next to mine, he did not spend a great deal of time sitting in it. As our conversation progressed, and a few drinks were imbibed, Llywelyn's opinions became more vocal and his excitement grew. He passed judgement on many things: from the dark nature of the swans on the lake, to the unsuitability of Mr Miles as heir (I blushed at this, and kept quiet; apparently Mr Miles sometimes drives his car to the Lodge Gates at 3am, and toots his horn, with the sole purpose of waking up Mr Llywelyn - at least according to Mr Llywelyn), to the myriad mistakes of Mr Barton's gardening staff. As he grew more animated, he paced back and forth, waving his arms about. I could imagine him as a 19th century firebrand politician, perhaps upbraiding Mr Disraeli for crimes against the people. The Welsh lilt to his voice made me wonder if this was the sort of thing that Mrs Lloyd George was subjected to of an evening.

After a couple of hours of Llywelyn putting the world to rights he charged into his favourite topic: the ghosts, ghouls, myths and legends of Carstone. He asked me if I had seen or felt anything strange. I confessed that in my fifteen years at Carstone, I had not experienced anything supernatural, and perhaps I was not sensitive enough to do so. Llywelyn sniffed at this. Sceptics apparently rating somewhere below cat burglars in his mind.

Seeking to convince me he brought out a large, very large book. Mrs Beeton would have been proud of its dimensions. He semi-staggered with it and placed it on a coffee table, which groaned beneath the weight. This book reminded me of the 16th century poet who said of a great tome: "It is a portable work if your horse be not too weak." Llywelyn explained that it was a collection of all the sightings and paranormal experiences and stories linked to Carstone over the centuries. Flicking through its leaves he informed me of a previous Steward who regularly conversed with spirits. Since the Steward's Room (now used as a store room) is situated right next to the entrance to the cellars, that did not surprise me in the slightest. In fact, I know of one Steward who was imbibing a bottle of whisky a day at one point, out of convenience, probably, more than anything else. Seeing the fire in Llywelyn's eyes I decided to remain silent and merely nodded, quietly trying to work out exactly how much whisky I had consumed so far that evening.

When he had completed his ghostly peroration: from poltergeists in the parlour, to ghouls in the Long Gallery, Llywelyn conjured up a 'brilliant idea'. On Friday night, he informed me, he would take me around the House and its grounds and give me a 'ghost tour'. Perhaps I would then feel some of the eerieness so obviously apparent at dear old Carstone. "Perhaps then" he said ominously, "you won't be so much of a sceptic." I suppose it was the whisky, and I regret it now, but I agreed to the scheme.

By the time I left the Lodge, I was slightly tipsy, and there seemed to be more than the usual number of stars in the night sky (and since apparently it was overcast last night, it shows how much alcohol I had actually consumed!) as I tottered back across the grounds towards the Tradesman's Entrance at the rear of the House. I had almost reached my destination when I heard a rustling sound coming from my right. Was this one of Llywelyn's spirits? No, it was something far more sinister. It was Barton moving rather quickly towards the Orangery Garden. Do gardeners never sleep? What was the man doing out and about at that time? It must have been past midnight.

I must remember to ask him when I get the chance. My head hurts now.

Mrs Styles Suffers For Her Art

2006-04-12T16:08:00.000+01:00

What a tiring week it has been so far. The family entertained quite widely, as some of the guests from the 21st birthday party in London were invited back to Carstone to stay the week-end. I think the event was quite pleasurable. Sir Geoffrey, however, seemed relieved to be back. He always says that although he loves being surrounded by family, he is not overkeen at being surrounded by ALL the family. Certainly not for long spells. I sympathise with this sentiment.

Mrs Styles recovered quite swiftly from her illness, and was able to cook the dinner for the large dinner party on Friday evening. Well, the doctor said that she was fine, but anybody hearing the groans of anguish coming from the Kitchen would have assumed that a murder was taking place. Mrs Styles, as always, had lots to moan about; from her health, to the weather, to the quality of ingredients, and, I am sure if I had stayed any longer in the Kitchen, probably the current state of the political world as well. I hastily retreated to my Pantry and allowed Mrs Styles to prepare the food as she likes to, in a state of considerable misery.

I received a reply this morning to my stinging letter about the behaviour of Overall Man, the chandelier fitter. It was rather grovelling. It was quite satisfying to read. I daresay they do not wish to lose Carstone's custom. I shall evaluate our options when the time arrives. I think I will make one thing absolutely clear, however: there can be no smoking in Carstone House by visiting workmen.

The dinner party and week-end were a great success. It meant rather late finishes for me, but I didn't really mind. Great houses only come to life when they are being lived in, otherwise they are just echoes of past glories, and in some places, the echo seems rather muffled, as if being heard from behind a Green Baize Door! It is always a delight to me when the house is full. I did notice something that concerned me, however; Mr Miles Carstone, far from being the life and soul of the party, as he usually is, was rather quiet and distant. Perhaps there was an argument in London, or perhaps Mr Miles has something on his mind. The Servants' Hall grapevine has yet to produce anything on this topic but I shall monitor developments closely. I disapprove of gossip, of course, but Servants' Hall gossip is usually rather better-informed than your average tittle-tattle.

Mr Llywelyn has invited me to his Lodge this evening for a quiet drink. All the guests have dispersed now, so things are winding down a bit, and I think I need to wind down a bit too.

I shall finish with an apology. It has always been my intention to update this diary on a daily basis. The fact is, however, I am a creature of routine, and I am yet to settle into the routine of posting on here; that combined with a hectic schedule, has meant that this blog has been rather neglected this week. I shall endeavour to do better in the future.

Chandelier Complications

2006-04-06T20:02:00.000+01:00

Some days, things just seem to go wrong. Yesterday I believed that chandeliers were beautiful, useful things; they hung there elegantly and shone their glittering rays on those below, illuminating, and, in some cases, inspiring with their magnificence. Today I saw their darker, more malevolent side.

Today was the day that the freshly cleaned and spruced up chandelier was due to be returned to its rightful place in the Family Dining Room.

I was awoken with a cup of tea by Simon (the Second Footman) at 7am. Do not believe that such luxuries are the norm in this establishment, they are not. I am quite capable of getting by without relying on the kindness of passing footmen, but, I thought it a nice touch by a young man who is obviously trying rather hard to make a good impression. Apparently he had been reading a book on The Edwardian Country House, a Channel 4 (also shown on PBS for all of our American cousins) television series that attempted to re-create the upstairs and downstairs of Edwardian life. I did not see it myself, which is a shame. The delicious irony is, that whenever it was on, I was usually serving at table as a real butler! I can thank it for my cup of tea this morning though. Simon explained that the butler in the programme was always woken with a cup of tea by a footman. Long may Simon continue to study his book!

My usual morning duties, which include a short meeting with Sir Geoffrey, passed without real incident. The wine-list for this evening was agreed; all the writing desks in the house were equipped with both pens and paper, and I began my usual patrol of the rooms, ensuring everything was satisfactory. Usually I find everything in excellent order, but today I discovered a fly in my ointment; when entering the Italian Room, I encountered a man in white overalls lounged upon a sofa, smoking a cigarette. He didn't seem to jump up at my presence. He didn't seem to react much at all. He kept lounging there, and I half expected him to snap his fingers at me and command me to fetch a double scotch at once. In short, he had made himself at home.

My worry was that he would get cigarette ash over the carpet as he seemed to only have a vague notion as to the location of the ashtray. I politely enquired as to his business. He had come to replace the chandelier. Indeed. And why was he not, at this present time, engaged in chandelier replacing activity in the Family Dining Room? There were complications he explained, and his mate had had to nip back to the van for something. Finding himself alone (the other two workers had apparently disappeared somewhere also) he had decided to explore his surroundings a little more thoroughly. A little too thoroughly I thought, and bid him to follow me back to the chandelier-less Family Dining Room. He seemed a little put out at this, but eventually, and rather reluctantly, he followed me.

That was just the beginning of a day of 'complications'. I was interrupted many times through the day by the Overall Man and his requests and updates. My Pantry door was continually being knocked upon, and my telephone was practically ringing off the hook. I had not realised, obviously, the intense difficulty of cleaning, restoring, and replacing a chandelier. We have never had any problems of this kind in the past. I have made a note of the company. We shall not use them again.

After they had eventually departed (I half expected their van not to start through 'complications') I walked into the Italian Room to find that Overall Man, obviously failing to find the ashtray, again probably because of complications, had stubbed out his cigarette and had left the stub on a side table, cunningly pushed behind a lamp. Such things do not escape my attention.

Tomorrow evening there will be several guests arriving for dinner, with several of them staying for the week-end. We have much to do. I only hope that the Housemaids Wendy and Rhiannon do not find any further cigarette stubs hidden around the House.

I could not help wondering what Easter would bring at the household of Overall Man. Perhaps the traditional Easter egg hunt would have a slight twist there. Perhaps his smiling, rosy cheeked children, would dash around the house in a frantic search to find all the cigarette stubs lovingly placed by their father.

My day became complete when I was informed that Mrs Styles (the cook) had taken to her bed. She complained of feeling poorly earlier on today. I hope she will feel better in the morning. Lady Carstone has specifically requested one of her specialities to be served at dinner tomorrow evening.

England also lost to India in the cricket earlier today. My mood being slightly dampened in consequence.

'Below Stairs': The Servants

2006-04-04T19:50:00.000+01:00

In years gone by there was a steward at Carstone House (as there was in many of the larger houses in this country). Those days have passed. We no longer have the huge staff that would necessitate both a butler and a steward. This means that, today, I am the senior servant, and am responsible for all the male members of staff. I have been fortunate enough to be in service for many years, and I like to think that I am a shrewd judge of both the abilities and character of those I work with. I know what makes a good member of staff. I know what makes a bad one. I am delighted with the current staff. Perhaps being the butler puts one in a jolly frame of mind anyway. I have that most fantastic of powers, the ability to 'delegate'. It brings a smile at times, but I never abuse my position. I shall quickly run through some of the members of staff that may well appear in this diary in future:

Mrs Berry is the Housekeeper. She hasn't been at Carstone for too long, six years or so, but she has already (I say 'already', some might think that six years is quite long enough to get settled into a job, but, in the grand scheme of Carstone, with its ancient halls and centuries of tradition, six years really isn't that long at all) proved to be something of a rock to Lady Carstone. Unflappable, and usually cheerful, there is also more than a hint of steel behind that twinkling, jolly smile. She is, in the old tradition, unmarried, but is always referred to as 'Mrs'; which is something of a courtesy title.

Mr Copeland is Valet to Sir Geoffrey. He is rather indispensible and, as the years have gone by, seems to have become something of a confidante to my master. A good man, with at times, admittedly, a rather superior attitude. He is something of a connoisseur of art, music and literature, or claims to be. Sir Geoffrey sometimes dispatches Copeland to Lady Carstone's artistic evenings, as a sort of proxy.

Miss Roberts is Lady's Maid to Lady Carstone. Amusing and talented, she can also be almost unbearably fussy and bossy. It depends in what mood you catch her.

Mrs Styles is The Cook. Small, slight, aged about forty, she is superb at her job, but is often so pessimistic about everything, and is often in such a gloom, that you find yourself musing on whether it is only professional pride that keeps her from slipping poison into the Plum Duff. If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong according to Mrs Styles. She always comes up trumps in the end but she does like to torture herself (and anybody within ear shot) so!

We have two footmen, named Simon and Richard, they seem efficient enough, although they have not been in their jobs long, so I shall reserve judgement on them.

The housemaids fall under the supervision of Mrs Berry. I only have good things to say about them, although Wendy, does seem to be rather flighty at times, and I am convinced that Rhiannon already has her eye on the Housekeeper's job; she is not without ambition or confidence. The kitchen maids are supervised by Mrs Styles, and for that they have my sympathy. We have several staff that are part-time, and are brought in when the circumstances demand.

Robert is the Hall Boy. He is young and willing to work hard and learn. He always attacks any task he is given with vigour. He is also very adept at supplying me with the latest Test Match score when required.

The Outside Staff included:

Mr Llywelyn the Lodge Keeper, of which you will already have read. He is a fountain of knowledge and tall tales about Carstone House. The problem often comes in distinguishing between the two. He also has other duties to perform, including back-up chauffeur.

Mr Reynolds is my Master's principal chauffeur. Unsurprisingly, he has a passion for cars, and can probably take them apart and re-assemble them, just for fun. He is marvellously well-organised, and likes to run things by military precision. He once showed me his diary where he documented every journey he made in Sir Geoffrey's employ, clearly stating the distance driven, and the conditions that day. Most impressive, if, perhaps, a tad obsessive.

Mr Barton, the Head Gardener, we shall not dwell on at this juncture, suffice to say that his plants treat him as a monarch, and seem to do everything he commands. He has three permanent gardeners under his supervision, with other part-timers being brought in when necessary.

There are others, of which you will hear in due course, but I hope the previous posts have given you something of the flavour of this establishment.

All that is left now, is to begin the diary proper......

'Above Stairs': The Family

2006-04-01T21:02:00.000+01:00

I must apologise in advance, in the old days of service, it was quite conceivable that a butler from Something Castle might leave his post tempted by a better offer (possibly even the ultimate appointment, "Steward" at one of this nation's large country houses) from Thingummy Towers. Many in service moved about a bit. I never really have. I started at Carstone from a rather young age and have worked my way up the ranks to my current position. As such, I have a certain affection for the place, its traditions, and the family whose ancestral home this is. Perhaps I will sometimes portray them sympathetically (even fondly) when a more objective soul would pass criticism. I am biased, I am a "Carstone man", and am rather proud of it.

My Master is a man easy to admire. Sir Geoffrey Carstone is a British gentleman from the old school. His age hovers around the 56 mark. I am not always certain that the 21st century suits him very well. In fact, I think he also frowned a bit at the 20th century. Even the 19th might have received a stern glare from him. He is very old fashioned in taste, and has a distrust of modern gadgets. He is a very popular man however in the neighbourhood, and he is seen as a friendly philanthropist. He is certainly generous and amiable. He takes an interest in all estate matters, and claims that only by 'being useful' will he avoid that damning verdict that society sometimes passes on members of the old aristocracy these days: 'obsolete'.

My Master's wife, Elizabeth, Lady Carstone is, in some ways, the direct opposite of her husband. She thrives on modern technology and certain aspects of modernity. She certainly knows her way around a computer, and if anybody is going to discover this blog and blow the gaff, then it will be her. She is about four years younger than My Master (I blush to mention a lady's age) and has a keen interest in the arts, both older and (to the shudder of Sir Geoffrey) modern. Artists often find their way to Carstone for 'cultural evenings' at which Lady Carstone excels, and My Master tries to avoid like the plague.

This strange, but ultimately successful union between two such diverse characters, has produced the following issue: (They all visit Carstone regularly. Sometimes My Master is pleased about this, other times he is not.)

Mr Miles Carstone The next baronet, and heir to Carstone. Tall, thin, and with rather eccentric ideas about life. Again, I do not wish to pass judgement, and nothing surprises me, but, I must say I am surprised by many of the things that Mr Miles does. He celebrated his 31st birthday last year but we are still waiting for his youthful impulses to lessen. His circle of friends are artistic and poetical, and Mr Miles himself has dabbled in verse. He is currently attempting to make a success of a career as a portrait artist, with so far mixed results.

Mr Thomas Carstone is only a year younger than his brother and (if I may be allowed to give an opinion on this rather sensitive matter) would have made a far more stable heir to Carstone. He has a passion for history, the law (for that is his profession), and politics. Tall, and athletic in build, he is a fine cricketer (and wonderful to talk to on the subject) He has also many times extracted his elder brother from various scrapes. If the family ever has a crisis, then Mr Thomas is immediately called for.

Miss Gemma Carstone Well, I shall start by praising her for her lively mind, spellbinding beauty, and puckish sense of humour. A moment is never dull when Miss Gemma is around. Her brother Thomas tries to be a stabling influence on her, but she is wilful and spirited and listens only to her heart. If anything, she has a wilder circle of friends than Mr Miles, and these have caused great concern to Sir Geoffery and Lady Carstone. She is unmarried but not for the want of suitors. She can be as unpredictable as her eldest brother. Perhaps age, or the wise guidance of Mr Thomas, will temper their excesses soon. Since I have seen all of the younger Carstone clan grow up from the Nursery I am very fond of all of them.

Dear Old Carstone

2006-03-31T10:26:00.000+01:00

Carstone House, my home and workplace, is a rather large mansion near the border of England and Wales. It is indisputably a country house but it likes to wear the cunning disguise of a castle. Call it a mock-castle if you will, call it a castle that simply likes dressing-up, but it wears its battlements as proudly as a Dowager Viscountess parades a new hat.

The setting is wonderfully beautiful. The outside world of urban sprall seems to have taken one look at Carstone and swiftly moved on without comment. A visitor entering Carstone Park would be met at the Lodge-gates by the Lodgekeeper Mr Llywelyn, a Welshman who seems to know every story about the House, many of which, I have often suspected, were created by Mr Llywelyn himself. The lodges (which are 19th century replacements of the originals) flank the large iron entrance gates. Llywelyn has a living room in one, and a bedroom in the other. This often means that, at night, if you have a powerful telescope, and get to a window in the South-East Tower of Carstone, you might see the sight of old Llywelyn (complete with old fashioned nightcap) moving, like a ghost unwilling to wake up the local wildlife, silently from lodge to lodge in order to retire for the night. Many ghost stories, I am sure, were generated by a passer-by witnessing Llywelyn in wee-willy-winky-esque attire going to bed!

Once into the Park proper, your car would sweep up the curving drive, and you might see, to your right, just over a ridge in the near distance, the large serpentine ornamental lake, complete with quite rare exotic fowl. On this lake is a boathouse. It can be wonderful to row out into the centre of the lake on a Sunday afternoon in summer. The boathouse contains about six such rowboats, and also a gilded gondola that Mr Miles Carstone brought back from Venice.

To your left you would see a large wooded hill. In ancient times this was an iron age hill fort, but the Carstone family built a summerhouse on top which gives impeccable views for miles around. It is quite a climb to reach the thatched summerhouse, and I confess, on a very hot day, I do sometimes cringe when Lady Carstone decides to take tea up there. I am quite out of puff by the time I get to the top. I am sure I am not getting less fit, I suspect the hill is getting steeper.

When you eventually reach Carstone House itself, with its battlements and towers, trying oh-so-hard to be the castle it always wished it could have been, you are confronted with an imposing porch which contains the armorial bearings of a monarch who enjoyed the hospitality of Carstone so much that he left behind many legends, by way of a tip. Of course, how many of these legends were later created or embellished by Mr Llewelyn, perhaps only a trip to the archives would reveal.

Inside (and I have to be careful in revealing works of art and possessions for fear of giving the game away) you would find all the rooms you would expect in such a building. The State Dining Room, The Family Parlour, The Library, The Smoking Room, The Armory, The Italian Room, The Long Gallery are all wonderous creations reflecting the taste of various owners of Carstone over the centuries. There is, inevitably, a King's Room, where the said monarch once slept, and a long sequence of bedrooms; my favourite being the Chintz Bedroom which is situated in the South-East tower for its sheer boldness of decoration, although I do not recommend entering that room with a hang-over, it is liable to make you feel quite queasy. I speak from sad experience.

My domain is, of course, Below Stairs, but, perhaps you have heard too much about Carstone House for one sitting. Perhaps, in this modern age of narrowing attention spans and instant entertainment, you are sitting there in front of your computer screen, rolling your eyes, and thinking: "This Fielding chap does go on a bit!" So for now I shall turn my focus elsewhere: to the family.

The Carstone identities

2006-03-31T10:16:00.000+01:00

I did write the following entry last night, well, in draft form at least. It took me an awful long time to settle on names to cover the real identities of my subjects. On more than one occasion, in fact, I have sailed perilously close to the wind, and I can only hope that anybody who rumbles me, and discovers the true identities of the characters that will be flitting in and out of my diary, keeps such revelations to themselves, because, obviously, posting such information on this blog (you know, I really DO prefer the term 'diary'; 'blog' is a rather horrid word; it gives me indigestion) would be akin to hurling a lit match into a fireworks factory.

The missing spectacles

2006-03-29T19:09:00.000+01:00

I arose at 6.30am to find the day blustery and wet. I had struggled to sleep much during the night. Not only did my hand continue to ache (some call me a hypochondriac, but that is ridiculous!) but I had also mislaid my reading glasses, and was worried about not finding them. I found it rather difficult to read in bed as I normally do to wind down after a day's work. There is nothing more annoying than curling up with a good book (in this case, a book about the cricket commentator Brian Johnstone) only to find that the print is unreadable. Like a small child I could only look at the pictures! The mystery of the missing spectacles was solved this morning when during the serving of breakfast I noticed them on a side table. I discreetly retrieved them with the dexterous slight of hand that would have made a street conjuror proud.

The family left for London at 8.45am for an engagement. They are not due to return until Friday evening. A cousin is celebrating a 21st birthday and the planned festivities are set to be lavish and rather splendid. It is at times like this that I sometimes, for a fraction of a second, envy my Master's valet, Mr Copeland, who accompanies him on these trips; but then I gaze out of a window onto the magnificent formal gardens (Mr Barton does a good job for all of his indifference to cricket), or maybe I wander around the state rooms, or maybe even just settle back in my comfy chair in the Pantry, and I realise that for all the delights elsewhere, it is here that I feel most comfortable and happy. When I am away from this House, for even a few days, I find myself worrying about a million and one things that might have gone wrong in my absence.

It is only 8.15pm as I type this, and all, rather unusually, is quiet in the House. I am in my flat at the top of the building, and perhaps I will now have the opportunity to tell you a little more about this place, to set the scene, as it were.

Thorn of a dilemma (or 'Gardeners Never Forget!')

2006-03-28T21:41:00.000+01:00

Well, this is quite exciting. My first real blog post. I daresay that some are wondering what it is I actually do. Well, wonder no more. As Butler of Carstone House, I am the senior member of the serving staff. I have many duties, and it is my responsibility to ensure that the Household runs smoothly. Certain tasks can be delegated to others, but you will often find me serving at table, supervising the cleaning of the silver and crystal, answering the front door and telephone (not at the same time, although elasticity is called for in this post), ensuring that the cellars are well stocked, administering the budget, and many other sundry tasks. I am in charge of the male members of the Service Staff. The female staff are under the supervision of Mrs Berry, the Housekeeper.

The staff here are not as numerous as in years gone by. It used to be taken as a rule-of-thumb that in Victorian times there were thirty servants in the house, thirty on Home Farm, and thirty working in the gardens. When there is a busy social occasion looming I often find myself wishing for just a fraction of the manpower of those halcyon days. But, it is not good to whine about such things. We go on as we must.

I take great pride in my work and have a keen affection for dear old Carstone. This House has certainly gotten into my blood, so to speak, and, if I'm being honest, my blood has gotten into this House. Such as today when I caught myself on a rather nasty thorn that was protruding from a bush near the Orangery. It caught the side of my hand and cut it rather badly. The name of the guilty plant, I could not say, it was probably an incomprehensible Latin one. I readily confess that I know little about gardening, and Mr Barton, the Head Gardnener, is not always the most approachable of fellows to ask about it. In some Houses and, indeed, here in years gone by, the Gardening staff were deferential to the Butler. Not today I am afraid. My Master likes to keep the 'inside' and 'outside' staff as almost independent bodies. I sometimes believe that Mr Barton is too 'independent' by far. I am not convinced that he has forgiven me for playing cricket on one of the lawns last summer. We had permission, of course, but that meant nothing to him.

He was preparing for one of my Master's garden parties, and he did not approve of Robert, the Hall Boy, bashing stumps into his, admittedly beautifully kept, lawn. I am not sure about Barton. He arrived last summer with all sorts of ideas and changed an awful lot. He also does not like cricket, or indeed any sport that might cause damage to his beloved plants. His predecessor, Mr Wells, I got on far better with. He supported Yorkshire and was a decent leg-spin bowler in his day.

Have I been poisoned by the possibly strategically placed thorn? I wouldn't be a bit surprised. I got a clean rag from my Pantry (the first-aid box that is stored in the drawer beneath the knife polisher was out of bandages or plasters) but it took a while to staunch the bleeding. The colour seems strange too.

I had intended to introduce you to the family and staff that live here, but time seems to have gotten the better of me, and my hand is throbbing quite painfully. Tomorrow should be a relatively quiet one as most of the family are away with my Master in London. Hopefully I will get the opportunity to properly introduce you to Carstone and its inhabitants then.

A Warm Welcome To My Blog

2006-03-27T14:23:00.000+01:00

The above photograph is not actually of me. I am most dreadfully unphotogenic. I could, and indeed often do, find myself in a similar situation to the fellow above: stepping out of the shadows while holding a tray, but my profile is not quite as pleasing to the eye.

The idea of this blog came to me last week. My job can be conducive to day dreaming at times. Do not get me wrong: I work extremely hard, and I can rarely be certain when I will be allowed to disappear through the Green Baize Door and retire to my bed at night. But, certain tasks, such as polishing silver does sometimes allow one a moment to reflect on life with all its hopes and travails.

I was polishing my master's silver punch bowl, last Tuesday, when the idea came to me. The things that occur in this house, are often far more interesting (to me at least!) than many of the things you see on television or read about in books. So many people seem to believe that butlers are extinct. That we are quaint things that appear in films like Gosford Park and Remains Of The Day, but that, surely, in this day and age do not exist outside of Her Majesty's Household.

This is a fallacy.

I hope you will return here again and again to read my jottings. I shall post whenever I get a minute. I hope to post everyday but that will not always be possible. It will all depend on my Master's arrangements.

Perhaps it will be best if I supply a 'Dramatis Personae' as the Victorians used to say of the people living in this household (I think I shall tomorrow). It will be essential for you to get to know them. I hope you find the blog interesting and enlightening.