This is a chapter from a book that I did with my late friend Gordon Thorburn. A fine fellow who wrote a best seller about sheds. We collaborated some years ago on a book about people who have become extinct are in danger of extinction. I offered some ideas and he had his own and others, I did the drawings. The book was called "Some Missing Persons" and I thought at the time it was a mistake ( too serious) but it did sort of ok. I've recently revisited, and renamed it "Spotted" and with Gordon's daughters permissions have republished it on Amazon. It's here. It is also featured in Cotswold Life magazine as extracts. I thought this one very relevant to the Cotswolds, and these words below are all Gordon's.
I'm planning a hardback version to be on Amazon, with some additional "Spotted" people, but as with everything these days I've yet to get to the finishing line.
This is the recent Amazon edition cover.
A vacancy has arisen in the post of Honorary Village Figurehead, Titlingham St Margaret. Would suit retired major, colonel or wing commander with wife extant. Applicants must be prepared to chair Parish Council, school governors, et cetera.
Naval officers tended to retire on the coast, so the villagers of Titlingham, deep in the heart of Suffolk, always expected a senior soldier or airforce chap to come and lead them in their battles against the swirling tides of progress, and they were not disappointed.
The wife (extant), who was called Susan or Verity, also did chairing, of the village fete committee and the WI, and organised the flower rota in the church. She bought all her provisions at the village shop apart from, obviously, a few things that had to be sent from Fortnums.
He, known universally as The Major or, at a pinch, The Squadron Leader, drank halves of best, with a handle, three times a week at the pub. He'd hob-nob indiscriminately with the vicar, the poacher, the gamekeeper, the butcher, the horse dealer, the doctor (qv), the goat woman (also qv), the gardener up at the house and the mechanic who looked after his old Wolseley. He'd never tell secrets to the village policeman, not that the village policeman would want to know anyway.
The Major, you see, was not the squire or the lord of the manor. The Major was of the village. He was primus inter pares and most definitely primus, but he clipped his own hedge, grew his own roses, and called all the men (except the vicar and the doctor) by their first names, likewise the daughters thereof. He doffed his hat to the
ladies and never smoked his pipe at the nativity play. His shoes (brown Oxford brogues with leather soles, hand made) were always polished to a mirror sheen. He generally wore one of his collection of six three-piece Savile Row tweed suits but could also be sighted on sunny afternoons, walking his two spaniels, in crimson or mustard cord trousers and cashmere cardigan.
He's gone now. Defeated. Half the village is weekenders and commuters. In any case, retired officers these days don't keep their ranks as titles and move to the country. Many of them didn't even go to public school. Unable to retire gracefully, they write books, join security firms or become pop stars.
The poacher's gone too. Can't afford the house prices. A merchant banker, retired at 45, bought the old rectory the major used to live in and planted Leylandii all around it. The shop has shut, the pub is a restaurant with bar, and the school is struggling for numbers. A doctor from town holds a weekly surgery in the village hall and nobody has seen a policeman for months.
It's sad, really. Very sad.
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