A Breath of English Air.

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

The Soldier – Rupert Brooke

Christmas in a foreign land. There are some who import both personnel and armoury – the mince pies, the Sherry, the Christmas Cards and all their homeland relatives to conduct this commercial war. Others who adopt the customs of their new country. I had always belonged to the latter caste. Yesterday I had an experience both surreal and emotional which has changed forever my views on those who find it hard to let go of their Mother country.

We had left our home in a medieval village in blinding sunshine; no grey, cold, English skies. It was for us, ‘a bit of a lark’, a little nonsense to fill the morning of our first Christmas alone in 20 years. No need to rise at dawn and stuff a Turkey, no last minute panic over sufficient gravy for 10,000; we had planned a quiet day, ignored all invitations – except for one.

Mr G wanted to hear his friend singing – carols no doubt, I had not paid much attention.

We drove across the endless Dropt valley, through orchards of ancient plum trees, over winding rivers, and down barely tarmaced farm tracks, until we started to climb the steep limestone cliffs of the historic lands of Bézaume, once the scene of terrible battles under the aegis of Charlemagne. There, at the highest point, we parked our car under gnarled lime trees, and gazed out over a panoramic patchwork of medieval villages dotted with 13 church spires. It was the quintessential French landscape, reproduced on a thousand post cards.

A few yards up a steep cobbled street, past barely habitable stone houses, we came upon a second car park. This one filled with distinctly English vehicles. French number plates, but here a Range Rover from Holland and Holland, there a gleaming Jaguar, no doubt bought cheap in the final death throes of that great company.

“Hmmn, English carols”, I sniffed to Mr G, snootily recollecting that occasion when I had unwisely accepted an invitation to a night of ‘English Theatre’ and sat through a ghastly rendition of ‘Abigail’s Party’, the irony of that play completely lost on the audience, who sat there with their gin and tonics, sniggering at Abigail’s accent. Not my cup of tea at all. I had forsworn involvement in anything like that ever again!

We threaded our way through the car park, and found ourselves in a gem of Romanesque stone masonry – the 12th Century church of Notre Dame in Monteton. None of the ornate artifice of the French Roman-Catholic churches we had occasionally ventured into, the only colour was the sunlight streaming unhindered through the mosaic of jewel rich stained glass windows. No sound beyond the murmered words of the chaplain, hand outstretched in the French manner, but – what was this? “Merry Christmas and Welcome” he said, as we reached the head of the shuffling queue, and handed us both a red leather bound copy of ‘Hymns Ancient and Modern’  – written in English!

I have no idea who Miss Dora Hall  was, only that after her death, someone had taken care of her bequest to supply a stack of hymnals to this small ecumenical community, now housed by kind permission of Abbe Grimaud in his hill top church. I have no idea where the church of St. Bartholomew’s of ‘Oxbridge’ might be,  is there such a place as ‘Oxbridge’? only that they,  along  with Miss Dora Hall, had a hand in putting this red leather book so unexpectedly in my hand, and causing the early warning signs of tears forming in my eyes. There was something so very English about it all. An England I had all but forgotten.

I looked about me. These were not the English faces of the summer holiday makers;  the raucous, sometimes foul mouthed, barely dressed, wine quaffing occupants of a thousand pavement cafes. There was something different here. Sturdy, well polished brogues poked out from corduroy trousers, a moleskin waistcoat here, a flash of a red kerchief there. A thorn-proof shooting jacket on military shoulders. Puffa jackets from pony gymkhanas, a sprinkling of those fur hats beloved of Norfolk ladies out for a Sunday afternoon walk. These were the men and women of the shires, solid country folk, the inhabitants of a dozen or more rectories, by choice or economic advantage. Children in fair-isle bobble caps painstakingly crafted on four needles with a melee of coloured wools by fond grandmothers who could still remember how it was done. Farmers, Solicitors, County Councillors, Lord Mayors; dutiful folk who gave their time willingly on a myriad of committees and charities. All part of the diaspora of middle England to foreign lands, gathered here in the winter sunshine.

The choir rose to its feet, no accompaniment for them, no organ, no aged piano – just their own voices, honed by hours of practice, evenings safely in front of the fire forgotten as they turned out to yet another draughty village hall to prepare for this moment.

“In the bleak mid-winter…” a tenor voice reached the rafters and returned to join the sopranos, perfectly in tune. They lifted Holst to unimagined clarity. They filled the soaring limestone nave.

I gulped back tears for an England long forgotten by me. The England of my youth, of a time before I found myself adrift from a family, when I could still count my birthdays on my fingers. Long before the Quakers gave me safe haven. A time when I too knew the words to Holst’s Christmas masterpiece. The Quakers don’t do hymns.

Mr G looked quizzically at me, alerted by my sniffling; as unsure of his ears hearing me singing a hymn as he was by his own presence in a church on Christmas Day. Possibly the first time since he was old enough to refuse to serve as an alter boy any longer.

The Chaplain rose and commenced his service. This I could ignore. Quakers don’t do middle men either. Then a warden, calling for thoughts for those in peril and abroad, and finally for those not well enogh to attend the service today, but still part of the community. A list of names. What names!

Not the names of the BBC evening news. Not a ‘Briton arrested abroad, 36 year old Shaukat Ahmad Khanday’, nor even of the ‘Great Britain’ we have grown up with, of ‘Sian Lewis’, and ‘Robbie Mackenna’.  If there was a stray Jones in that list, I didn’t hear it. These names were of staunch English heritage, the identification marks of men from the days of the Doomsday Book, of occupations carried out in a land of horse and cart, of mud huts and feudal Lords. Perhaps it was co-incidental, perhaps it was fate, but it had a profound effect on me. One that I didn’t expect. I finally burst into tears.

Homesickness is not the right word to describe what I felt. I am not homesick for what Great Britain has become. I am homesick for the England of my childhood, for the land of surety and security. For the land where you could map out your life and expect to work towards that rose covered cottage in Bosham Harbour.  For the Civil Service entrance exams, and the pride that success could bring. For Red Telephone Boxes and pressing button ‘B’. For Bubble and Squeak and Sausages that turned brown when they were ready. For Fish and Chips and a chance to read greasy forbidden newspapers. For Harvest Festivals, and pots of home made jam in the cupboard. For the Easter treat of a real roast Chicken. And for knowing the words in the Hymns Ancient and Modern. And a Mother and a Father.

I think I finally understood why people build Minarets in strange lands. There is something about hearing your own language, in a setting which could have been Walberswick or Mareham le Fen, surrounded by the men and women who used to be the back bone of your homeland, silently mouthing the words of faith you were taught when you first began to speak, that cuts through any desire to integrate, demolishes any belief in multi-culturalism. That reassures and envelopes, placates and encompasses – reaffirms who you really are,  who you wanted to be, no matter how avidly or successfully, you stride the global stage.

It is a sentiment that I am sure is shared by immigrants everywhere. My thanks to my fellow immigrants in Monteton for letting me share a magical morning with them.

© Anna Raccoon