Monthly Archives: September 2006

I do enjoy an auction

An evening out at Shrublands. This has been a well-known health clinic for the last 40 years, beloved by those who visited for their annual pick-me-up, but which has now been closed and sold, and of which the contents, family silver, furniture and china, is being sold by Sotheby’s next week.

We had an invitation for the private view. As did most of the poshenista of Suffolk. Lots of ‘Darlings!!’ of greeting to be heard. “Do you know D.? He and L. have only just got engaged.” “Oh! That is the best thing, the very best!!” We arrived early and hung around for a while before the doors opened. A delightful lady engaged me in conversation. She was most upset at Shrublands closing so abruptly, depriving her of her annual visits after 20 years. We met lots of people we knew. Lots of mwahs – though I am oikish enough to actually kiss those I like. I’m not much of an air-kisser.

We were parted for some time. Then met by chance, going in opposite directions. “See you at the top of the stairs in a few minutes.” Yeah, right. We did meet again, eventually. I overheard one lady “Oh, I’ve lost my husband! …………. Oh, there he is!” “You’re luckier than I” I remarked, “I haven’t seen mine for half an hour.” “Could be, you’re luckier than me.” The Sotheby’s girl and I laughed. Later, I passed her again – “Found him!” I said.

There was one woman wearing a covetable suit. Brown, discreetly checked, the jacket’s checks going straight and the skirt’s diagonal. Just right. But so was she, half my age and slenderer – I was that size ten years ago. Won’t be again. Don’t aim to be, everything would droop horribly.

Wine flowed. I drove there. We accepted second glasses of wine. “Who will drive home?” I asked. “I will, you finish mine.” And so I did. And a very nice canapé, fillet steak on a bit of toast.

I’m too busy to go back next week for the sale. But the Sage isn’t, and we’ve registered. There is one lot we are really interested in, and a couple more that I would frivolously like, but we won’t really go for. Keep your fingers crossed. We have decided on a price to go up to.

the Family story, Part 4 – The Thirties

After leaving school, my father went to Oxford, where he read Natural Sciences at University College. Apparently, he was one of the first group to study Biochemistry. He loved academic life – my mother always said that, if it hadn’t been for the war, he would probably have returned to Oxford and ended up as a don. He also enjoyed the social life of a wealthy young man.

He had the sort of well-rounded education and interests that are less common now than then, and the money to practise them. He was a scientist and mathematician who also read widely on all sorts of subjects, both factual and fictional. He enjoyed music, jazz and classical. He loved the cinema and had, at home, his own purpose-built cinema, where he hired films and, acting as projectionist, showed them for his friends. There was a separate projectionist’s room, though it was just used for storage when I was a child. It was, overall, a large building and would have easily seated 80 or more people, though I don’t know how many came – it could have been that part of it was used for dancing or eating and drinking. Why does one never think to ask these things when there’s someone alive who would know? Although my father died relatively young, he had lifelong friends who lived into their 80s and they would have told me, if only I’d asked. He must have been much wealthier than them, but I’m sure that was never an issue – we were still comparatively rich when I was a small child (though death duties had already made large inroads), but I was completely unaware of that and my father would certainly have spoken in exactly the same way to anyone, whatever their background or income, and treated them the same too.
He also enjoyed speedboat racing and we have several pewter, stoneware and silver tankards which he won as prizes. The large stoneware steins were won in Germany. His own boat was called OverWeGo – I have seen one photograph of him racing in it, but that was a long time ago. It must be around somewhere, probably tucked into a book. His enjoyment of speed extended to his cars too and once he was summonsed for speeding. His father was a magistrate and it was Malcolm’s fate to appear before him in court. He was fined half a crown, which his father paid on the way out. Indulged? Well…….could be.

But the family didn’t entirely live for pleasure. The Major had become a town councillor and then Mayor of Lowestoft, as well as a magistrate and a member of Suffolk County Council. He was extremely concerned about the high level of unemployment and he arranged for elaborate gardens to be laid out in South Lowestoft near the seafront. If ever you visit Kensington Gardens (the Lowestoft version!), my grandfather was responsible for its construction, with its many little beds and elaborately intertwining paths, which gave the dignity of a job to a good many men. We still have the gold key he was presented with when he performed the opening ceremony. I have the feeling, though I don’t know for sure, that he helped pay for it – maybe by providing the Westmorland stone of its construction, possibly through helping to pay the building costs; it seems an extravagance for a town in an age of recession. At home, he had a similarly designed rock garden laid out, on a smaller scale although it was still a quarter of an acre in size, with a waterfall at one end and little streams running through a succession of ponds, finally ending at a large round pond with a fountain.

Helen, my grandmother, supported the Major in his public works, although she suffered, at some stage, from cancer in her cheekbone. The early radiotherapy of the time cured her, but she was left with a wound in her face and she unselfconsiously wore a scarf tied round her head. Not a beautiful, draped scarf, just any old scarf tied like a bandage. She still drank a lot and was certainly an alcoholic by this time. She had an acid wit, I’m told, but I’ve never gained much inkling of her as a person. My father was never close to her, probably because she had left him as a small child, and he didn’t speak of her much.

When I was growing up, on hearing my surname people would say to me hopefully “any relation of the Major?” and usually there was a story to be told. He certainly accepted the social order and his place in it (quite a long way up it) but with it came responsibilities. One story was of a man who heckled him as he left the council chamber, ready to get into his chauffeur-driven car “You rich bugger! All right for some, what about those of us who can’t get a job” “What’s your name, my man?” boomed the Major. Unafraid and aggressive, the man told him. And the next day, a ton of coal was delivered to his house, with a letter offering him a job. This man told the tale to my mother thirty years later. The Major was respected and loved, and he certainly loved Lowestoft and its people.

Life as a granny

We were on grandparent duty this afternoon. Since Dilly finished work in late July, we haven’t looked after Squiffany regularly and so it was a particular treat.

And we’ve had a lovely afternoon. She did some colouring and a jigsaw, and then we went outside to pull grass for the chickens. They have scratched up all the grass in their pen and they do love having greenery to peck. Then Squiffany asked to go on the field with the cows.

The cows looked at us in a friendly sort of fashion, but didn’t approach and we pottered around on the grass. I pointed out a cowpat to her and explained what it was, and that she shouldn’t walk on it. I described how it was produced; “ppthreow.” We came upon another cowpat. “Ppthreow” said Squiffany, pointing. Then we bent to examine rabbit droppings. I explained about those. “Yuck” said Squiffany. Later, we found a molehill. That needed no sound effects, I’m glad to say.

The field is called the Ups and Downs, because that describes it. There is one particular Down, where a good deal of gravel was once extracted. She hadn’t been there before and found it very exciting to totter unsteadily down the steep incline and then toil up again. There was a blackberry bush at the bottom and we went back for containers and Grandpa, and picked a pound and a half in a few minutes.

Later, she spent a considerable time going up and down stairs. She and her parents live in a bungalow, and our front door, hall and stairs are divided from the downstairs rooms by a door. In country fashion, we rarely use the front door and she has hardly seen our stairs. She likes them. She also found bouncing on our bed was excellent sport.

Eventually, after sharing a biscuit with the dog and being read several stories, she tired. And cried. I sometimes take her out in the car to get her to sleep, but this time, encouraged by Mary P,, decided she should fall asleep naturally. It didn’t take long, though I stayed with her until she stuck her thumb in her mouth and nodded off, still hiccoughing through the last of her tears, as she can get back on her bed but ours is too high.

That was two hours ago. It’s her teatime now, but she’s still asleep.
—————–
Update at 8.30

Her mother came and carried her home, still asleep, at 5.45. She did wake up and have tea eventually.

The day deteriorated after that.
Al had a flat tyre (a nail, we suspect foul play (cf Top Boy’s event related yesterday) but I will say no more as it can’t be proved. It was an absolute bugger to change the wheel though.

And Tilly (that’s the dog) decided to roll in a cow pat. But why? Why? General joie de vivre I suppose. I’ll give her joie de vivre. In fact, I gave her a bath. Daft dog.

Fortunately, I was given some really good chocolate for my birthday. And a blackberry crumble is in the oven, and crème frâiche is in the fridge. And half a bottle of rosé is in me.

Today, I’m mostly……

gardening. Hacking away at the weeds with a scythe. I like using a scythe, but the Sage doesn’t trust me not to cut my feet off so I’m only allowed to use it if he’s within shrieking distance.

It is very hot. But there are satisfying swathes of recumbent greenery where there had been malevolently threatening nettles (previously left, I pretend, for the sake of the caterpillars).

And I picked the morning’s crop of figs. The highest-up ones are being left for the birds; there are enough to share.

I’d wanted to plant a fig tree for ages, but didn’t have anywhere suitable. Then my husband built a new workshop and it gave me a south-facing wall. We dug out a 2 foot cube and lined it with 5 x 2 foot paving slabs. The reason for this is that a fig tree is vigorous and you need to restrict the roots, otherwise it will grow huge, take longer to fruit and the figs will be too high up to reach. We refilled with lots of manure and compost and firmed down the soil hard after replanting. We do water it once in a while, but it’s pretty good-natured and needs no work at all. Though I might have to prune it eventually and I’d have to look up what to do.

It’s a Brown Turkey fig and it’s been there about 6 years I should think. It started fruiting within a year or two and now has loads, although it depends on the season. It isn’t actually in full sun as there is an ash tree a few yards away. The figs are gorgeous, juicy and delicious.

the family story, Part 3 – Remarriage

To round off this part of the story, I should describe my paternal grandfather. But I realise that I know practically nothing about him at this stage of his life – about 1910-1920.

His name was Selwyn, poor chap, and he was about 20 at the turn of the century. He was educated at Glenalmond College in Perthshire (his mother was Scottish, his father English, and so the elder son went to Winchester (I think) and the younger to Glenalmond) and then Oxford. He became an electrical engineer.

During the course of the Great War he became a major, and that became the name he was called by for the rest of his life. One can hardly blame him; Selwyn does not trip off the tongue.

At the time of my grandparents’ separation, a divorce was not that easy to obtain. There had to be a guilty and an innocent party, usually of adultery. Sometimes, the husband offered to ‘provide the evidence’ so as not to blacken his wife’s name by an accusation of unfaithfulness, but there had to be no hint of collusion, nor an indication of guilt on both sides as the one cancelled out the other and a divorce was not granted.

However, in this case, I imagine that it was a clear case as Helen had run away with her lover and the Major divorced Helen. She went on to marry Colonel Wake and had two more sons, William and John. She was, of course, cut off from her considerable inheritance by her horrified parents and so, when the Colonel became ill with cancer and died, she was left very poor – presumably the Colonel didn’t have much money himself.

The Major was a gentleman and could not see his former wife destitute. He and Helen had kept in touch for their son’s sake – how much affection was still there I don’t know, but forgiveness there must have been. They remarried and he brought up her sons as his own.

the Family Story, Part 2 – The Bolter’s Child

Oh crikey, I have a decision to make. Run with Helen or stay with the little boy?

The child wins it. It’ll save backtracking.

Malcolm was just 4 years old when the First World War broke out, and a year or two later, his mother left him for her lover, Colonel Wake. His father (who, from now on, I will call the Major) was still away in the war, so Malcolm was sent to boarding school in Oxfordshire when he was only 6.

During the holidays he either went to stay with his grandparents in London or Lowestoft, or with his godparents in Wallingford. They had two daughters who were a little older than he and so at least he had playmates and a family life there. I used to visit the house when I was a child, it had a lovely garden running down to the River Thames. The sisters used to call him by the nickname of Coney (a country name for rabbit).

I wonder how he reacted to the loss of his mother. Like most children of his social class at that time, he would have been brought up by his nanny; maybe he didn’t miss his mother too much on a day-to-day level. The only little snippets of tales I have from that period, however, seem to me to indicate a withdrawn, but strong-willed little boy, but then I don’t know other stories to counterbalance that.

Once, at his godparents’ house, he locked himself in the loo. But he didn’t know how to unlock the door and refused to answer to the calls of the anxious family outside, who tried to explain how to work the latch. Eventually, the gardener climbed a ladder to the window. Malcolm has spent the past hour or so whittling away at the windowsill with his pocket knife. There wasn’t much left of it……
Their own faults I reckon, for giving a little boy a knife.

On another occasion, when newly at school, he was unable to eat his pudding with a spoon and fork. Just out of the nursery, he was accustomed to using a spoon only. He was not allowed to leave the table until he had eaten his bowlful with a fork. It took a long time. I have no idea how long. But, for the rest of his life, he never used a pudding spoon; he could only use a fork.

My mother once found a copy of a letter, among old papers. It was from his father (who had a secretary, who kept copies of letters) and said that his mother asked to know what present he would like for his birthday. The reply was “please tell my mother I want nothing from her for my birthday.”

In London he spent most of his time with the servants and returned to school speaking broad Cockney, which was soon put a stop to by the ridicule of the other pupils. He played with a splendid methylated spirits-powered steam engine, which his grandfather remembered playing with as a little boy in the drawing-room of the Mansion House, when his own grandfather was Lord Mayor of London.

Birth days

Al and Dilly’s baby is due the week after next. We have said that we will take care of Squiffany while she is in hospital, as Al will want to be there of course. He has put up a sign in the shop, to apologise in advance if he has to close at short notice – he has staff in the morning but is alone in the afternoon. The sign has a photo of the baby scan; infant is curled up in the usual foetal position. In its little hand it clutches a banana.

Poor Dilly, I don’t know how she puts up with Al.

I have just checked my diary for that week. It is rather full, mostly of social commitments, which I can, of course, cancel but which I certainly can’t take a toddler to. It would be much more convenient if the grandbaby arrives next week instead. Or not until after the 24th.

Tomorrow it is my own birthday. Ooh, that’s exciting. Squiffany can sing ‘Happy Birthday’. None of the other words, but she can manage the essential ones.

I do appreciate an interesting number. A square is particularly good. I’m not due for another of those for some time but then, of course, it will be both a square and a cube. This year’s number is not particularly noteworthy except for one detail; that is, my age will be the same number as the final two digits of the year in which I was born.

I’m always following Geena……

she’s my favourite girl, and so is How Do We Know? .

You Are 15% Angry

You’re so laid back, no one could ever accuse you of getting angry.
While there are a few little things that may annoy you, you generally play it cool.
In fact, your calm attitude tends to provoke people with anger problems.
They may think you’re screwing with them, but that’s just the way you are!

I’m so sorry if I have ever annoyed anyone by not losing my temper. I don’t do it to irritate.
Actually, I’m not that calm, I’m quite excitable. Just not in an angry way. Usually.

You Are From Mercury

You are talkative, clever, and knowledgeable – and it shows.
You probably never leave home without your cell phone!
You’re witty, expressive, and aware of everything going on around you.
You love learning, playing, and taking in all of what life has to offer.
Be careful not to talk your friends’ ears off, and temper your need to know everything.

Ah. Lessons to be learned there. I’m a loud-mouthed, smart-arsed, show-off. Though mind you, I put £20 on my mobile phone around Christmas and I haven’t used it up yet.

You Should Drive a Saturn Sky

You’re sleek and smooth, and you need a car to match your hot persona.
Besides, sometimes you want your top up – and sometimes you want it down.

I like this one so much that I am going to claim that it is true.

Writer’s blocked

I think I’ve been blocked. I’ve tried a few times to leave a comment on someone’s blog and it won’t go through. Was it something I said? I can’t think of anything. But if I have, tell me – (email address on my profile) and I’ll see if I can put it right.

No, not all of you. Blimey. This is not an open invitation to the world to point out my faults.

Of course you (you know who you are) might just have had enough of me. Fair enough. Thanks for all the fish.
xx
z

p.s. – Problem solved. Such as it was.