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The Remarkable Story of J. M. Barrie's Housekeeper at Black Lake Cottage

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN RAINING

by Robert Greenham

with a foreword by Andrew Birkin

Paperback, 130 pages including photographs

ISBN 0-9550502-0-0

Recently Published

price £10.00

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Discover what other books about J. M. Barrie haven't told you!

For example:

Barrie was deceived by his fiancée/wife Mary Ansell about her age and birthplace

Barrie played a game in the woods with his housekeeper

Barrie's housemaid and her fiancé inspired one of his plays

A safe but sometimes chilly way of recalling the past is to force open a crammed drawer. If you are searching for anything in particular you don't find it, but something falls out at the back that is often more interesting.

From Peter Pan, To the Five – A Dedication by J. M. Barrie, 1860-1937

It Might Have Been Raining is the story of what happened to 24-year-old Mabel Llewellyn when, for the first time in her life, she answered an advertisement for a housekeeper and, halfway through the interview with the advertiser, discovered that the other man present was none other than the writer and dramatist J. M. Barrie, and that it was he, and not the advertiser, who required the services of a housekeeper. (Scroll down to read an extract from Chapter 1).

Since his death in 1937 there have been several biographies of J. M. Barrie. This book complements those by introducing an employee's close-up view of life at the Barries' summer home at Black Lake Cottage, Tilford, between 1903 and 1906. During this period, many famous people were guests, including Thomas Hardy, George Meredith and Robert Falcon Scott (Scott of the Antarctic). Other visitors included the Davies family whom Barrie befriended after meeting the eldest boys in Kensington Gardens. It was also during this period that Barrie started writing Peter Pan.

Through his grandmother's story, Robert Greenham reveals some morsels of new information about J. M. Barrie, his wife Mary Ansell and their deteriorating marriage, and he provides some food for thought for students and devotees of Barrie and his works.

Here is an extract from the foreword written by Andrew Birkin, acclaimed author of J M Barrie and the Lost Boys:

“ ... In Barriesque mode, Robert has chosen to act as his grandmother’s amanuensis, allowing her to tell her story in her own words, albeit through the medium of her grandson. This has led him to undertake a good deal of research, which has in turn unearthed a number of hitherto unknown facts, as well as plausible speculations, with respect to Barrie and his creations, not least the possible origin of that nefarious pirate, Captain Hook. ... “

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Elijah Editions was created in memory of 'Elijah' who died on 4 May 2005

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN RAINING

The Remarkable Story of J. M. Barrie's Housekeeper at Black Lake Cottage

EXTRACT FROM CHAPER 1

About a week later I had secured an interview at the Royal Hotel in Winchester, about fifty miles distant. And so, early one Monday morning towards the end of April, I dressed smartly and took the pony and trap and set off down the lane to Winterborne Whitechurch, and then headed north-east, up the hill, past the Methodist Chapel, and on for five miles to Blandford Forum and the railway station, the possibility of a new job lying over the horizon.

The London & South Western Railway took me the greater part of my journey; that and shanks's pony at the other end. The longest part of my train ride was the Castleman's Corkscrew, named after the solicitor who promoted the railway between Bournemouth and Southampton. Then I had to change trains for Winchester. I had travelled on these lines before and knew the trip would be tedious, so I took a book with me. For my birthday in January, knowing my love of books, Granny had given me a popular new novel, J. M. Barrie's The Little White Bird, and my journey provided an opportunity for me to make a start on it.

When I arrived at the hotel, I found two gentlemen waiting for me in the lounge. The taller one introduced himself in a Scottish accent as William Winter and then did all of the talking; he was openly warm and friendly. The other one, having been introduced to me as Mr Winter's brother-in-law, seemed similarly amicable but was quite content to sit back and simply look and listen, eyeing me as he smoked a large pipe. He was of slight build and quite short, maybe five feet two inches, with a pale complexion, and he had black hair and a moustache. His eyes were large and blue and a touch melancholy. Worryingly, he had an occasional but persistent cough, although it was not quite so loud as to interfere with the conversation. I remember wondering if he was ill, but then why would he have come here today? Later, I learned that his cough was a residual effect of his having suffered, almost fatally, from a prolonged attack of pleurisy and pneumonia while on a visit to his mother in Kirriemuir in Scotland.

After a few pleasantries to put me at my ease, Mr Winter invited me to join them both as their guest for lunch and I accepted gratefully, for it had been a long time since my breakfast. We moved to the dining room where I was given a seat opposite the two gentlemen. I placed my handbag on the floor and my book upon the table, still blissfully unaware of the identity of the second man, and the dialogue with Mr Winter continued.

The meal was a leisurely affair, a protracted conversation between occasional mouthfuls, during which I gradually revealed details of my family and my upbringing in Poole and Hackney, my teenage years in Sutton and East Dulwich, and my Salvation Army training at Clapton Training College. I explained that the training resulted in my being commissioned as a field officer and, after a spell at Portmadog, being transferred to a worship centre at Bangor, North Wales, where I was soon given the rank of Captain.

I told my interviewers that my father, James Robert Llewellyn, had been a grocer and tea merchant and also a lay preacher for the Wesleyan Church. He had gone on to become one of the first senior officers of the Salvation Army and worked with William Booth in London, where he helped found the first training college, which was in Hackney. His Pembrokeshire-born father had been a sea captain carrying Welsh slate from Portmadog to Newfoundland, returning with salt cod to Poole, and then taking manufactured goods to Portmadog.

My mother, Bessie, was the daughter of Emmanuel Snook, an evangelist and agricultural worker who was associated with Joseph Arch, the Warwickshire farm labourer who was a Primitive Methodist lay preacher and a great campaigner for rural social justice. Arch started work at the age of nine as a bird scarer and later developed skills in hedging, ditching and mowing. He went on to found the Farm Workers Union in 1872, and later became a Member of Parliament. Emmanuel went with Joseph Arch on visits to almost every town and village in Dorset, and he spoke at meetings. Through this connection, Emmanuel was known slightly to Thomas Hardy who was born just a few miles from Winterborne Whitechurch. Emmanuel's father, also a Dorset farm worker, was a friend and supporter of the Tolpuddle Martyrs; in March 1834 he marched his children down to the main road to salute them as they were being taken in chains from the Dorchester assizes to Southampton for transportation to Australia for seven years.

My family history and connections seemed to be of interest to my hosts, and at my mention of Hardy the smaller man's sad eyes widened slightly and he soon joined in the conversation. It was now evident that, like his brother-in-law, he, too, was a Scotsman. From that moment on, the talk was only of the Dorset author, and Dorset life and Dorset countryside. This gentleman was clearly an admirer of Hardy. My confidence grew somewhat because I was on home ground now, and because I had read most of Hardy's novels and poetry. Our conversation became quite protracted, not at all how I expected an interview should be conducted, and I was asked to describe in detail what life was like on my grandfather's farm.

And then came the revelation. I was stopped short when the smaller man stretched out his hand across the table, picked up my book, pointed to the author's name on the cover and said, quite solemnly, “That's me.”

For what seemed like minutes but, in reality, was probably no more than a few seconds, I could not recall a single detail of what I had said since arriving at the hotel, even though I had done most of the talking. I was dumbfounded. These two had heard a good deal of my life story, yet suddenly I realised I knew almost nothing about one of them, and that the other was J. M. Barrie the writer - the famous novelist and dramatist who lived and worked and socialised in London, and who doubtless moved in the same lofty circles as other famous and wealthy people all the time.

Oh dear! Ought I to have recognised him? Would I now not be interviewed for the job? Or was this the interview, and had I just failed some cunning test? Why hadn't Barrie revealed his identity to me earlier instead of allowing me to ramble on about Thomas Hardy who very probably was a friend of his? What foolish things had I said?

But wait. What on earth was the shy Mr Barrie doing here in this Winchester hotel, albeit a rather grand one, keeping his brother-in-law company while the latter recruited a housekeeper? Surely he had far more important things to do with his time.

Involuntary expressions of puzzlement, confusion and panic must have swept across my face as suspicions of trickery grew within my mind. Mercifully, my agonising was brought to an end by the recruiter almost as quickly as it had been inadvertently initiated by his aider and abetter.

“I'm so sorry, Miss Llewellyn. It is Mr and Mrs Barrie who require a housekeeper. They have a country cottage near Farnham, about fifteen miles up the line from my home, and they had entrusted to me the job of finding a suitable person. As things turned out, Mr Barrie was down for the weekend and then visited his sister and me and, as he didn't have to be back in London until this evening, I asked him to come along today.”

So that was it. I had been deceived, harmlessly but by no means charmlessly, by these gentlemen who at no time had mentioned the purpose of my journey to Winchester. I felt I had no choice but to forgive them immediately and, still wondering whether I had indeed failed their crucial test, seized the opportunity to let Mr Barrie know how much I was enjoying The Little White Bird and to ask him a few questions about it. Then, sensing that I might be in danger of outstaying my welcome, especially as no questions had been asked of me about my qualifications for the post, I explained that I should be going and thanked my hosts for the lunch. They accompanied me to the exit and, as I stood on the steps in the hall, ready to leave, I ventured to enquire of Mr Barrie whether I suited his requirements.

“Oh,” said he, rather off-handedly but not at all unpleasantly, “consider yourself engaged and come to us next week.”

And with that, and a smiling assurance from Mr Winter that he would write confirming the post and enclosing directions, I, Mabel Bessie Llewellyn, shook the hands of James Matthew Barrie and William Henderson Winter, and departed. Clutching my now very special volume, I walked on air all the way back along St Peter Street and up the hill to the railway station. It might have been raining for all I noticed.