The National Trust now hold Dunham Massey, bequeathed to them by the last heir with a will so strict that every single item in the house had to be kept as part of the gift, which means they are still discovering and cataloguing things of all kinds. His car is still in the garage and the bedrooms (behind doors marked private) are filled with furniture items protected by covers lovingly made by the villagers at the time, because they were fond of Sir Roger and wanted to show their appreciation that the old hall would be kept safe. It has an interesting history, where a former heir married a gypsy girl but she was not accepted by the people of the day and so they lived elsewhere, the hall untenanted for over fifty years, only coming back into family use in 1905, when it was last decorated. There are currently exhibits commemorating the former women of the house; the ladies, the housekeeper and the head nurse all working together (for they offered it as a hospital for first World War wounded and many tender letters of appreciation are in the collection). Sir Roger, the last heir, who remained single, spent a lot of time in his later years, we were told, in the butler's pantry with his driver (his only member of staff by then), sipping whisky, finding some company and and no doubt keeping warm in the only really comfortable room available to them by then.
Two teddies are now
Both in my keeping,
Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.
When new, Bruin was purple, larger,
With a deep growl.
My brother's.
Teddy was smaller, fawn,
Mine.
He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall
And a sink bath.
I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.
I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple
And my own ted must never know of that.
I was the oldest but the girl.
Perhaps that played into who got which bear.
Bruin is no longer purple,
Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,
At home and in his flat.
For a few years now, both have looked down from
The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.
They leaned together, slightly forward,
As if wanting to come down.
I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.
Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small
bald patches.
It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.
I felt I had let them down, the two teds,
Neglected while cherished still.
I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet
Of the single bed below,
Where they seem more contented, two old men together.
Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.