BY STEWART SLATER
There is something about the country house which speaks to the British soul. The National Union of Students may be the largest membership organisation in the land, but add together the National Trust and English Heritage and you comfortably top it. Indeed, the former has more members than all the trades unions affiliated with the TUC combined – thanks, Maggie. Millions of viewers tuned in to watch Downton Abbey, period dramas being one of the areas in which Blighty can still, legitimately, claim to be world leading.
As leisure destinations, country houses have a lot going for them. The buildings are generally nice. They often have great art in them. The (usually extensive) grounds provide an opportunity for urban and suburban moppets to work off the additives they have consumed. They cater to the desire of a curtain-twitching nation to see how the other half lives. But there is, I think, more to it than frazzled parents and nosy neighbours.
For, as it was to the country as a whole, the 20th century was not particularly kind to the great estates. The wars left many of them heirless, while death duties made many of the rest unaffordable. As a result, many passed into the hands of bodies such as the National Trust to be turned into tourist attractions. The bodies lived on, but the soul had long since passed.
Those which did remain in private hands often became a shadow of their former selves. Land and furnishings were sold off to pay the bills but in the many cases where this proved inadequate, owners down-sized without moving, wings being progressively closed off and repairs progressively being put off.
The aristocracy may have lost its political power, but it had not lost its cultural power and in tribute to the new found dishevelment of the great houses (and the reduced circumstances of the nation), the middle classes invented “shabby chic”, consciously avoiding glitzy perfection in the way their ancestors had avoided fish knives. Not having it all was, Britain told itself, a sign that actually it had all that mattered. In contrast to the arriviste opening of Beijing Olympics which told a long (and slightly dull) story of China’s power, Britain (more secure in itself in this telling), showcased Mr Bean and the NHS. Less, it proclaimed, was actually more.
Well, up to a point. For, however exciting it may be to know that one’s ancestor was chums with William the Conqueror, that fact will not keep one dry if there is a hole in the roof.
And it may not have escaped your notice that there are quite a few holes in Britain’s roof. And roads.
And beyond the fixtures and fittings, there are existing commitments to the nation’s elderly retainers, shuffled off to cottages on the estate, which become more expensive every year. As do the commitments to the estate workers. Like an aristocrat who has “won” his family’s inter-generational game of pass the parcel, the last layer has come off, and the “prize” is a load of bills. Bills he cannot pay. He still has the necessary kit to be able to put on a show when required, but it is increasingly a stretch and rings increasingly hollow given his clearly reduced circumstances.
Those in need of funds often sell off their assets but, to follow the line of a previous family member, the Georgian silver has gone, there’s no more nice furniture in the saloon, and the Canalettos are out on long-term loan.
But if Britain increasingly resembles an impoverished aristocratic family, it is unusual in that, from time to time, control of the estate passes from one branch to another. The current incumbent seems reasonably content with the status quo, stick to the plan being the message. As long as the elderly retainers are looked after, all is well with the world. This is funded by raising rents on the current estate workers but every year they get a Christmas present (what had been a goose is now a turkey and may well become a chicken), so he hopes they won’t notice. The estate is not as productive as it was and, as a result, essential repairs are increasingly put off. The workers are increasingly unhappy too, but there is always labour to be imported from distant, currently even more impoverished estates.
If the incumbents are keen to ignore the holes in the roof, their rivals are keen to point them out. And keen to say that they will fix them. Quite how, they are less keen to say. For they too want to look after the nation’s elderly retainers and, to keep them onside, are keen to dole out more presents to the estate workers – not just a turkey for Christmas, but an egg at Easter too. They are happy to say these plans are fully costed, but they are less keen to say how they will be paid for, save for raising some of the rents on some of the richer tenants (or kulaks as others used to call them). They are certain that these plans will raise the income from the estate, but no-one else understands how, particularly since, in the way of the over-educated and under-occupied, they have fallen prey to the latest fashions and wish to restrict many of the traditional activities on the land and add more regulations to others.
Decline is not, as some have it, a choice – few if any ever choose to become weaker and poorer. But it is the product of choices. And it is the family’s choices which have brought the estate to this pass. And it is the choices it makes now which will dictate its future. For all is not lost. The land is still productive and many of the tenants skilled. As the Duke of Richmond showed, estates can be turned around with out of the box thinking. But neither of the rival branches of the family offer that, preferring instead to accept the decline but try to make it a bit more palatable in the short term – spending the money that could stop the roof collapsing on umbrellas to ward off the rain already dripping through. The only difference is who gets an umbrella and who pays for it.
For, in contrast to the great estates, there is no National Trust or English Heritage to bail us out if it all gets too much. Nor even any rich Russians. The only options are change or decline, the tenants being worked progressively harder while more rooms of the main house are closed and more bits of the roof fall in.
We visit National Trust properties and watch Downton to avoid confronting the fact that we are The Monarch of the Glen.
Stewart Slater works in Finance. He invites you to join him at his website.