A Family Celebration

An extract from Barnhill A Novel by Norman Bissell

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September 1944, Canonbury Square, London

’I’d like to propose a toast to my namesake, young Richard here. May he be happy and healthy all his life.’ The plummy voice of the balding and stubble-bearded Sir Richard Rees echoed round the living room as he raised his wine glass to the assembled company. George and Eileen had invited some close friends and relations for a celebration in the top flat they had rented in a Georgian terrace in Canonbury Square, Islington.

‘To young Richard.’ George, his younger sister Avril, known in the family as Av, his friend Paul Potts and Eileen all joined Sir Richard in clinking glasses.

‘Well, he looks darn healthy to me,’ said Paul, George’s younger, but also balding, bohemian pal whose North American twang betrayed his Canadian upbringing. How come so many of his left wing chums were going bald? George wondered, just one of the many strange thoughts that kept popping into his head.

They all looked round from the table to where the baby lay contentedly in his wooden cot. Adopted when only three weeks old, with his chubby cheeks and tufts of dark hair, he looked big for four months. The table groaned under the weight of the many prerequisites of high tea at the Blairs. A plate of kippers, toast, piles of crumpets, jars of jam, marmalade and, of course, a pot of Gentleman’s Relish. In spite of their habit of giving away some of their rations to those in greater need, the Blairs believed in putting on a good spread. They’d put away some of their rations for this special occasion. Adding to the general feeling of good cheer, a huge fire blazed in the grate in the otherwise dark and rather spartan, low-ceilinged room. George looked round the table with a feeling of quiet satisfaction. It reminded him of high tea at Southwold after his father had returned from India and how he would sit at the head of the table with him, along with his two sisters and his mother. Happy days long gone, but this was as near as he could get to them.

‘He’s a sturdy looking lad, alright,’ added Sir Richard.

‘Thank you, Richard. I certainly hope Ricky will be healthy.’ George had named the boy after both his late father and his well-heeled best friend. ’After this beastly war’s over, I’d like us to bring him up as far away as possible from the city.’

Five years younger than George, Av had a tiny mouth and big round eyes a bit like a Dutch doll’s. She glanced at Eileen to check if this was news to her, but she was giving nothing away. ‘Yes, it would be nice to get away from all the smog and the doodlebugs one day,’ was all she said in response.

‘Will you go back to Wallington?’ asked Richard.

‘Perhaps. Keep it under your hats for now, but David Astor has suggested I go and visit Jura where his family has some land,’ George replied.

‘I’ve never heard of Jura, whereabouts is it?’ asked Av.

‘It’s an island off the west coast of Scotland, Av. It might be a good, quiet place for Ricky to grow up and also for me to write my next book.’

‘What’s it about?’ asked Paul.

‘You should know me well enough by now not to ask,’ George replied.

‘Well, this Jura sounds rather remote, what about Ricky’s schooling?’ Av seemed slightly disapproving.

Eileen looked uncomfortable. ‘Of course, it’s still at the recce stage. Eric’s going to take a look quite soon. We haven’t decided anything yet.’

‘And, of course,’ Richard suggested, ‘your little Wallington cottage would also be a good place to bring up the boy and still within reach of what passes for civilisation these days. And now that you’ve found a publisher for Animal Farm at last, its sales should help matters along rather nicely.’

‘It certainly wasn’t easy,’ said George. ‘I sent it to eight or nine of them and Gollancz and the rest were terrified in case it offended our gallant Soviet allies. André Deutsch loved it but was overruled. Even Eliot at Faber wasn’t interested. He seemed to think all the animal revolution needed was more public spirited pigs,’ he laughed. ‘But then politics was never his strong point.’

Paul spluttered, ‘They were the pigs if you ask me. It’s a real masterpiece, the best thing you’ve ever written. You know, things got so bad at one stage that I was going to bring it out from my Whitman Press and flog it round the pubs along with my poems. On the train on my way to the printers I burst out laughing when I read it. It was dynamite. I took a look under the seat in case there was any more hidden there.’ Now they all laughed. ‘I’m darn sure we coulda sold plenty.’

‘I’m glad it never came to that,’ Eileen sighed. ‘Now that Fred Warburg’s taken it up, I hope it’ll sell. I know his office got bombed but the sooner he gets hold of some paper to bring it out the better. The girls at the Ministry couldn’t wait to hear all about it when I worked there.’

‘It sure will sell,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve another toast. Here’s to Animal Farm!’

More clinking of glasses, ‘To Animal Farm!’

*

George Orwell’s Animal Farm: A Fairy Story was published in London by Secker and Warburg on August 17th 1945.