One day, when [D’Artagnan] arrived with his head in the air, and as light at heart as a man who awaits a shower of gold, he found the soubrette under the gateway of the hotel, but this time the pretty Kitty was not contented with touching him as he passed, she took him gently by the hand.
Dumas
Guildford was named because of the yellow-gold sand in the ford over the River Wey where the initial settlement evolved.
Wednesday 7th June 2017 - WE ARE IN ENGLAND NOW!
(How did Milady get to England from Calais? Check the ways and means … )
I took the train from Dover Priory through Tonbridge to Redhill, and finally, arrived in Guildford, my place of residence until I was four. I had thought to visit here for my own personal history BUT I discovered that Anne may well have been to Guildford, too. I will get to Dover later. You, Dear Reader, are coming from my later logic, that direction from:
On arrival in Guildford, I had such nice chats and interactions with a lovely train attendant and another lovely woman showed me how to open the door to the shelter on the station. Once transferred to bus, my Airbnb proved to be the wrong end of the street predicted by the cheery driver. I had a good walk, looking at what was once possibly a nice estate half-an-hour’s walk away from the township. Found the address. Knocked on the door. Waited.
Just as I gave up, the door swung out, forcing me to step backwards. A small woman stood on her front boundary. She was not smiling. ‘Hello,’ I said, in my most ingratiating, disarming manner, ‘I’m Victoria, how do you do?’
She looked me up and down, seeing a tramping disaster with backpack and walking boots and said, ‘I know. Can you take your shoes off please?’
After I did that (still bearing the pack) she said, ‘When you’re settled, can I see your passport?’ I had it to hand so I gave it to her to peruse. She looked it over more carefully than a customs officer. While she was examining the passport with forensic attention, I’d been looking around the hall. There was a stair lift, a folded wheel chair, and a commode parked nearby. She looked up at me in surprise. ‘But you are from this country?’ I gave her the short version (born in London, father Oz, mother NZ), smiling happily at her, and then added, with breezy interest, ‘You have an invalid in the house?’ She looked at me, hard, nodded, flicked closed the curtain to the room where a young fellow sat slack-jawed on the couch and said, ‘My son.’
Grim. Tense.
I went upstairs on the soft carpet in my socky feet and she showed me the little room where I would sleep. She revealed she rented out three rooms on this floor. Two other lodgers were registered, Andrea from Italy, and another young student who leaves early and only uses the room to sleep.
There was a long list of rules on the desk. Nothing greatly disturbed me as I skimmed through it. Down to the kitchen, she showed me where I could put things in the fridge and where I would sit at the table. I asked about a load of washing. She said, ‘Not today.’
Then I asked about cooking. She said, ‘Yes’.
I went back upstairs to get ready for a shower, noting the rules about flushing the toilet, disinfecting the toilet and cleaning the toilet thoroughly after every use. When I came out of the room she was there, pumped up like a brave little chicken, and told me that cooking was not allowed. ‘Heat up only in the microwave.’ Jeez, I thought, you poor stressed lady, sure, whatever you like.
Had a shower and read the notice in the bathroom. After flushing, twice if necessary, wipe and spray seat and underside with Dettol and then flush again. So many rules posted everywhere! I was feeling oppressed.
Had my usual type of dinner - some chopped veg and micro rice thing I suppose - chatting with the Italian student who studied civil engineering. His focus had changed to liquifaction after earthquakes. We talked about Christchurch. Apparently his lecturer had been there for veracity.
I cleaned up ready to head upstairs, only to find brave warrior woman downstairs. She shouted at me, ‘Only slippers on the carpet!’ I didn’t understand at first, ‘I beg your pardon? What did you say?’ And, as she repeated, I realised she thought my thongs/flip flops were outdoor shoes and I should leave them with the boots. Oh God, she’s really stressed, poor soul. I did not argue, but just to let you know, I never wore those sandals outside. They had been my slippers for months! I was a backpacker! I washed a shirt, knickers, and socks in the bathtub and hung them in my room, feeling very put upon. I searched Guildford for another place to stay and finding nothing suitable for my budget emailed my Camino friends to see if I could come a day earlier to stay with them in South Downs. Thank you for being there!
In the morning I washed all my other clothes in the bath and hung them outside in the sun. I had to cross through the kitchen. Her husband was there and I had pleasant chat with him. There was a squirrel cavorting up the tree next to the clothes line.
I caught the bus into town. I had visited Guildford with my mother since babyhood. On that day trip from London, she showed me our old house and Charles Dodgson’s grave, familiar childhood landmarks. Perhaps my youthful inner map or that more recent visit caused me to walk, instinctively, to the Norman building where I had been christened, St Marys Church. It had been remodeled since my mother and I had visited. There was a ‘Chit and Chat - practice your English’ conversation group filling the space. I wanted to join but the lady arranging the tea cups was a diffident about my weak offer as an English teacher so I faded away to study the environs. To appease modern-get-together community-building, the pews had mostly been removed and there were conversational tables and chairs and nooks, and a charming exhibition of different shoes. I took ‘Walk a Mile in Another’s Shoes’ as another sign I was on the right track as I continued Searching for Milady.
Hadn’t thought to put Milady here but, as Guildford was a halfway point between Portsmouth and London, it became a bustling place of commerce with many successful coach houses. Ships would call into Portsmouth and the sailors would roll into town flush with all their money and sucess stories. Then they’d walk the rest of the way home with empty pockets!
I feel like I’m fortuitously on the right track, again my life and Anne - now called Charlotte - have intertwined. I think she might have been brought here by some kind of rescuer? Or, could she pretend to be the lad in charge of his mistresses’s trunks at Portsmouth? He’s going to be in all sorts of wicked trouble if he can’t find her in time. If he’s sleeping with all the blokes and someone tries to steal her trunk … She’s bound to have frocks?
Perhaps even stopping at the Angel and ducking her head as they went into the stable yard, if she was riding pillion on the top seat, that was if she was dressed as a boy. She would have been put in a single room if she came in as a lady - if she had been made a Countess by then. If she remained disguised as a boy she would have slept top and tail with all the other men. It would be so difficult to disguise her radiant beauty - that’s why she really does need some kind of protector - her ‘brother’ may be dead by then - so who?
The Red Lion Hotel was just up the road from the Angel, where powerful men met to block the Royalists - after Milady’s time but Guildford was certainly on the map if only as a spot on the way somewhere else. If Anne was pretending to be a boy when she stayed at the Angel Posting House and Livery (smallest room one night £103 - one hundred and three pounds - in 2017) everyone would have kept all their valuables near to hand. It was said that whoever got up first got the best boots. Which reminds me of Barry’s boots - when I met Barry and Rowan on the Camino de Santiago they were waiting for our host to recover Barry’s boots - stolen - shall we say inadvertently - taken from the albergue! Even though they were a different colour and size. Boot stealing still goes on.
My Airbnb host drove a BMW.
The day of leaving my Airbnb couldn’t come soon enough. I was thrilled my Camino friends Barry and Rowan were happy to supply a tent for an extra day so I rose early, slunk around the kitchen preparing breakfast and packed, ready to go.
As I put my boots on by the door, I called out goodbye and thanks. My host appeared, slightly flustered, ‘Oh, is it checkout day? I didn’t know.’ And she nodded. And she went into the kitchen. I opened the door. She returned and gathered up her strength. ‘I’d like to say one thing before you leave my house.’
I turned back, bringing the door with me, and she added, ‘No, open the door.’ Then she served it up. ‘I’d like to say when you come into my house you said my son was in-valid. He’s not in-valid. He has cerebral palsy and that does not make him in-valid. That’s what you said, in-valid. Now you may go.’
I stared at her in shock. As she was turning to go, I blurted out, ‘I’m so sorry. That’s not … ‘ But she had already entered the kitchen. I raised my voice, ‘There’s two meanings to the word!’ Silence. She’d gone. And then, I couldn’t help myself, I added, ‘Well, that explains why you’ve been so rude!’
And I shut the door and left. I felt so sorry for her, brave, and sad and mistaken. If only she’d said something at the time instead of brewing up this awful tension between us. I wept on and off as I walked towards Guildford Station for the next 50 minutes. If I’d felt low before, I really felt low after being taken for an evil selfish rude woman who sneers at people with disabilities. Still, even being ignored by my Australian connections and belittled by those who could speak to me, I still felt that something urged me onwards, onwards towards a better time. I kept thinking, if I felt isolated and ignored in Australia then now I really know the meaning of lonely. The only problem is that here I had no safe place, no bolt hole and I wouldn’t for some time.
I supposed Milady also felt like this. She had no-where to go. Or did she? I’ve been thinking about her little English nun friend. Or what about a gentleman she’d met in France? Rochefort? Richelieu?
I do think the host might have taken advice on the meaning of an unfamiliar English word. She might have checked my references. She was odd to start with. The passport check, the rules, the judgements; all came from her. I don’t have to feel so bad. Even though I lost money I feel so much better for being out of there. The continual Dettol spray around the toilet was dreadful. The smell of the family room where they all clustered together and hid her son. Not in-valid. Not even an invalid. Why should she be so ashamed of him? She’s known him all his life. He could get some fun and interaction from the students staying there.
I don’t think I should take on so much guilt. Keep bouncing along.
As I write now, in 2024, I do wonder about my own validity. After I revealed that I had already finished the novels about Milady, I had a couple of people ask how they could read the book. Unfortunately, it has not quite found publisher, nor agent.
BUT HEY!
You’re reading this on Substack!! Place of serialised novels! Would you read the story of a seventeenth century survivor if it were behind a paywall? Currently unemployed, slicing historical novels into chunks for your perusal and enjoyment would give me a nice learning/earning curve and could, quite possibly, validate my publication. Finding readers for her story could give Milady the validation she’s been waiting for ever since I first heard of her plight.
What do you think? Do you think charging money for my writing is valid?
And Milady? Is her existence valid?
I suppose every airbnb is a throw of the dice. I wonder what kind of reviews this one gets?
Enjoyed reading about Guildford and catching up with Milady, Victoria.
Thank you and Merry Christmas from Royal Tunbridge Wells!! Xx