A Tale Of Valentines ( VILLAGE TALES EP. 31 )

When a villager who is known as a hoarder, suddenly disappears it sparks all sorts of rumour. 

When his house is put up for sale and all the contents are to be cleared surely he must be dead. 

When something is found in a piece of furniture the mystery is solved and a love story is revealed.

If you are familiar with the novels of Thomas Hardy, you may remember in ‘Far from the Madding Crowd’ the problems that arose when Bathsheba Everdene sends a Valentine’s card to William Boldwood as a jest, with the comment ‘Marry me’. It’s a juvenile prank but Boldwood, a mature single man of a certain age takes it seriously and becomes obsessed with Everdene after he is able to identify her as the valentine’s sender. Without a good measure of believability fictional stories can remain distant and the reader disconnected and eventually disinterested. We know the story to be ‘fantasy’, but most of us are prepared to ‘suspend our disbelief’ for the sake of entertainment. There will always be those who tell us, this or that would never happen, or he or she would never do that, until we are told, that’s exactly what did happen or exactly what she or he did do. Not in the same circumstances perhaps, but the same human frailty reveals itself in reality, generation after generation.

I have mentioned Sally Pemberton who moved from Shaftesbury and bought Dan Forder’s place near the village shop. When she was telling me about the woman in the green shawl, I happened to mention that I had been asked by Dave at the pub whether I knew anyone who could clear Dan Forder’s place. Ever the ‘snapper up of unconsidered trifles’ I suggested he leave it to me, but I had no idea what I was letting myself in for.

It’s a legal requirement these days that when a property is sold that all rubbish and possessions belonging to the previous owner have to be removed, unless other arrangements have been made with the purchaser. Someone called Michael had contacted Dave asking him if he knew anyone that could carry out the task as there was nothing there that Dan wished to keep, and the contents of the house had to be cleared prior to the new owner taking possession, who happened to be Sally. Dan had moved out before an ‘under offer’ sign had been put up, but nobody knew to where. It seemed a hurried arrangement and although not one of the ‘inn crowd’, in this case ‘inn’ referring to the the Old Drum and Monkey, we thought there may be some farewell organised, but no, Dan was there one day, and gone the next. Illness was favourite, though other reasons ranged from being wanted by the authorities to winning the lottery, and anything in between. As I have said nothing is better grist to the rumour mill than a lack of information. 

As soon as I had opened Dan’s front door I was confronted with another reason for his disappearance. Some years previously a neighbour had referred to Dan as ‘Forder the hoarder’ but because she was the only one with the knowledge it hadn’t caught on, but she was right. It wasn’t like the hoarders one sees on TV, bin-liners stacked on each other up to the ceiling, food packaging overflowing from bins and the evidence of rodent invasion, well, you get the picture, but this was not like that. The opened door revealed the stairs, on both sides of which were piled books up to a couple of feet. On them were tins and on them cardboard boxes all of which were labelled with what might be the contents, or a date. Everything that could be collected, seemed it had been. Fifties and sixties cigarette cards, breakfast cereal plastic toys, free gifts that you got from petrol stations and one box labelled ‘GSS’ was full of Green Shield Stamps, several thousand pasted into the books. Of the two bedrooms one was full of furniture, book cases full of books with more piled to the ceiling. One wall was almost covered with lines of video cassettes, audio cassettes, racks of CDs and  DVDs. In general both bedrooms were clean but what I thought to be Dan’s bedroom was little used. It was spotless in comparison to what I had seen elsewhere and the bed was neatly made perhaps in preparation for someone staying. Along with other furniture it would have to removed with the wardrobe and a dressing table on which was carefully placed a silver hand mirror brushes, comb, and powder. I thought it must be his aunt’s room and Dan had created a shrine to her memory preferring it to remain exactly as it was when she died, perhaps in the bed I would have to remove.

Downstairs was a similar story looking like an over-stocked charity shop, well organised but without any continuity, every space taken up with unconnected finds. There might be two or three of a particular kind, ceramic dogs, Toby Jugs, copper or brass dishes, figures made out of nails, or souvenirs from Spain or Italy. On the stairs there were collections, all sorted and labelled. That had given way to just surrounding himself with objects, only he knew why, or what the attraction was. 

Hoarding is an interesting personality trait, some might say a psychological problem, and it might depend on how you define hoarding. A cursory glance around my cottage, to some it would be borderline hoarding, to me it’s the  home of a collector of fine furniture and precious object d’art, I wish. I do have a collecting gene, if I have two of something it can be the start of a collection and if you have the space, why not. I consider it harmless, but then I live alone and can please myself. The same could be said for Dan Forder, but his ‘collecting’ had no focus or limits. As I began arranging things to be removed, and of course ensuring anything of value found a caring home for the appropriate remuneration, I wondered what it was that had happened to allow Dan to just walk away from what he had spent his life ‘collecting’. The  thought occurred that he hadn’t, he was taken in an ambulance. 

I had to report to Dave at the pub so he could let this ‘Michael’ know how things were going. We shared some experiences regarding collectors, and indeed some clearances we had both handled.

‘I think it’s a diversion,’ said Dave, and I suggested he explain.

‘Well, it’s a need isn’t it? A want, like as compensation for a loss or something.You can’t have that, but you can have that instead. Course it depends what it is, if you collect vintage cars it could be you just like vintage cars, or you want to let people know you an afford to collect vintage cars. See, which ever way you look at it, its a need.’ 

Need, want, compensation, loss? Dan had been left the cottage by his aunt where he had lived on and off nearly all his life. Both his parents had died during the London blitz while he had been evacuated to our village to stay with his mother’s sister when very small. So was it that loss that triggered collecting as a compensation. Was it his aunt who encouraged him to collect all those breakfast serial toys, or cigarette cards as a diversion from the loss of his parents. What happens in our ‘formative years’ can dictate what happens in the rest of it.

Once Dan’s house was cleared there were several pieces that remained with me. One piece was a small spelter angel and the other was a brass banded writing slope. I have a fondness for boxes, perhaps an echo of my unsettled past. In the box I found tied in red ribbon a bundle of what I thought were letters, some of which were pink. It was thought the only female connection that Dan had was his Aunt, so I presumed they were hers. I was wrong. There were about twenty of them and when I removed the ribbon I could tell they were not letters as such but were Valentine’s cards. They were all addressed to the same person and all returned un-opened. This must have been expected otherwise why would you put a return address on a card? 

When I returned the key to Dave at the pub and mentioned the cards that I have found. I don’t think I have ever seen him wear such a broad smile,

‘Well well, well,’ he started, ‘the crafty old blighter.’

After a pint or two I had the story. Dan had met Claire in the eighties and fallen in love. His aunt had become possessive and had prevented any association, but there was only one thing that Dan had ever wanted and he had sent Claire a Valentine every year which had always been returned. A year before Dan sold his house, Claire, and we don’t know how or why, had become free. It was her son, Michael, who had arranged Dan’s house clearance after Dan and Claire had decided that they were both free to be together at last.

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Written and read by Barkley Johnson.