She handed Jennifer a small folder of papers and bustled out of the door without waiting for a response. Emily moved to sit beside her on a small, green sofa covered in cushions and lifted Alex onto her knee.
‘You need to be a good boy while Mummy looks through this lady’s things,’ she told him. ‘If you sit here quietly for a little while, we will go back to the park after this.’
Alex nodded solemnly. ‘Swings,’ he said.
Emily smiled and gave him a hug. ‘Absolutely.’
Jennifer was already lifting a brown envelope marked ‘Amos’ from the folder. Inside was a collection of photographs and together they went through them carefully. They depicted various aspects of the village at different times throughout the twentieth century. Some had dates written on the back but most were unmarked. There were lots of the High Street and the church and some of the village school. There were also photographs of the different pubs in the village – Jennifer counted six in total. They were all fascinating in showing how the village had changed and developed through the years but there were none of her cottage or any of Chalkham’s inhabitants.
The door banged open and Angela clattered through carrying a tray laden with cups and saucers, a teapot, matching milk jug and sugar bowl and a blue plastic mug.
‘There we go.’ She put the tray down on the desk in the corner of the room and handed Alex the mug. ‘It’s orange squash,’ she beamed.
Alex stared at her with wide eyes.
‘What do you say, Alex?’ Emily prompted.
‘Thank you,’ Alex said dutifully and took a sip before handing it to Emily.
‘Don’t you want any more?’ she asked.
He shook his head emphatically. ‘Tastes funny.’
Fortunately, Angela was blissfully unaware of the exchange as she was busily pouring tea. ‘I assume you both take milk. I won’t add sugar. You can help yourselves if you want some. Now, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be back in a little while if you have any questions and if you need anything, just shout. I’ll not be far away.’
‘Thank you,’ Emily and Jennifer chorused to her departing back.
Jennifer smiled. ‘She reminds me of the first headteacher I ever worked for. I was terrified of her!’ she said quietly.
Emily nodded conspiratorially. ‘I can picture her running the local pony club – brilliant with the animals and scaring all the children!’
Jennifer returned the first set of photographs to their envelope and pulled out a second envelope marked ‘Baldwin.’ This contained only two photographs, both black and white and dated 1910, showing the mill. One of them had a horse and cart in the foreground and a young lad in a waistcoat and peaked cap loading a tray onto the cart.
The next envelope was thicker and marked ‘Chapman’. Inside were a number of photos showing scenes from a street party. Long, trestle tables were laden with food and lined with smiling people of all ages. Bunting hung from the buildings and many of the men were in soldiers’ uniforms. The pictures were undated but clearly were taken after the war in 1945.
‘It’s remarkable how little the fabric of the buildings in the High Street has changed,’ Jennifer observed.
The photos were fascinating but ultimately unhelpful so, after taking care to ensure everything was returned in the correct order, they turned their attention to the next envelope. This one was named ‘Evans’ and contained images of a much larger, three storey house. One was a shot of the front of the building, an imposing, eighteenth century house constructed in the Palladian style, but the rest were shots of the rear of the building. Some had groups of servants; some were pictures of stables and other outbuildings.
‘That’s Chalkham Hall,’ Jennifer said. ‘I can see the chimneys from my back garden. It’s just across the fields from me. I would imagine these were taken in the 1920s or 30s, judging by the clothes the servants are wearing.’
‘What a stunning building.’ Emily turned the first photo over but there was nothing written on the back. ‘No date. Do you know who lives there now?’
‘It’s owned by Aidan Armstrong, you know, the lead singer of Fresh, but I don’t think he’s there very much.’
Emily gasped. ‘I love Fresh! I went to see them last year at Wembley with my best friend, Annie. Gosh, I wonder if he’s staying there at the moment. That’s so cool – I’ll have to text her later.’
The next three envelopes all contained glossy, coloured snaps from much more recent times which they quickly skimmed through. Alex was growing restless and Jennifer started to sift through the remaining envelopes to speed things up.
‘This one looks a bit more promising,’ she said, passing Emily a chunkier package labelled ‘Stanhope’. ‘At least, some of the photos are from the right time frame.’
This envelope held a thick wedge of photographs and they rapidly sorted them into two piles, black and white shots and those in colour. The older pictures were mostly of the same family and Emily started to order them chronologically. They were not dated but the earliest depicted a young, good-looking couple with a baby. The man was tall with slicked back hair and a broad grin. By contrast, the woman was tiny but very pretty with hair swept up in a bun and sparkling eyes. She was looking to one side at the baby in a pram beside her, lips curved in a smile, her fingers holding the small hand which was just visible. Subsequent photos chronicled the growth of the family until there were eight children in total, five boys and three girls. In some, they were in their garden and the church was visible in the background. One showed them at the beach in their bathing costumes, sitting
