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368 pages, Paperback
First published October 26, 2022
What should it be called, this special place? You might have thought, for the people who named it, that with its almshouses and playing fields, its miniature boating lake and white-flannelled cricketers, the village was built as an archetype - a parody, almost - of a certain notion of Englishness. The little stream which wound through its very centre was called the Bourn, and many expected that Bournbrook would be the chosen name. But this was a village founded on enterprise, and that enterprise was to sell chocolate, and even in the hearts of the Cadburys, these pioneers of British chocolate manufacture, there lurked a residual sense of the inferiority of the native product, compared to its Continental rivals. Was there not something quintessentially, intrinsically European about the finest chocolate? The beans themselves had always come from the far corners of the Empire, of course - nothing unBritish about that - but the means of turning them into edible chocolate had been invented by a Dutchman, and it was a truth universally acknowledged - if for ever unspoken - that it was the French, and the Belgians, and the Swiss, who had since brought the making of chocolate to a pitch of near-perfection. If Cadbury's chocolate was ever truly to compete on this field, it would have to be branded in such a way that it trailed in its wake an overtone of European refine-ment, Continental sophistication.
So Bournbrook, they decided, would not quite do. A variation was chosen. Bournville. The name of a village not just founded upon, and devoted to, but actually dreamed into being by chocolate.
Standing on the front doorstep with her broom in hand, listening to the distant sound of children's voices, [Doll/Shoreh] felt that she was at once inhabiting the past, present and future: it reminded her of her own childhood, her own schooldays, more than twenty years ago, the little school in [Wellington Shropshire/Hamedan], an ancient but vivid memory, but it also reminded her that these shouting and singing children would be the ones carrying the next few years on their shoulders [rebuilding the country after its six year battering, laying the memory of war to rest]. Past, present and future: that was what she heard, in the sound of the children's voices from the playground at mid-morning break. Like a murmurous river, like the incoming wash of the tide, a distant counterpoint to the swish, swish, swish of her broom on the step, a disembodied voice whispering in her ear, over and over, the mantra: Everything changes, and everything stays the same.