The Young Chevalier

Tags

Allan Ramsay, Archbishop of Bordeaux, Bendor Grosvenor, Bonnie Prince Charlie, Camlachie, Charles Edward Stuart, Clementina Walkinshaw, Duchess of Albany, Fiona Bruce, Glasgow, Gosford House, manflu, Meaux-en-Brie, Philip Mould, The Young Chevalier, Walker's Petticoat Tails

So, that would have been one of your ancestors then? teased Brassie.

We were sitting, not ‘sat’, in Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe now

that half-term was over and we could have the place reasonably to

ourselves.

What do you mean? I parried.

Charles Edward Stuart.  His lost portrait has been found.  Didn’t you watch

the programme?

It wasn’t that lost, Carrie chipped in.  It was safely hung, if not displayed, in

a dingy corridor in Gosford House, but catalogued in the inventory there.

Yes, but it took a man in biking leathers with the name of a Derby winner

to have it authenticated, Brassie continued.  He asked a woman whom I

supposed to be the Dowager Countess if he could take it away and, just

because he shares a name with the Duke of Westminster, she immediately

let him take it off the wall, without batting an eyelid.

Maybe it wasn’t because of his name, I speculated.  Leather seems to be

persuasive. They’re all into it.  Fiona Bruce has several leather jackets in a

wide spectrum of colours and she is all over works of art nowadays.

Brassie became enthusiastic: I know, but when Bendor got his leg over..

..his motorbike- I defused her instantly.

Who’s Bendor? asked Carrie.

Duh! We both looked at her incredulously.

Don’t let’s lower the tone.  We were talking about Scottish Art

and Allan Ramsay, weren’t we?  Or should we talk about Philip Mould?

He’s more age appropriate, but not so fetching in hide, I agree.

I can see Bendor in a blue sash and cockade, sighed Brassie.

Never mind ‘Charlie is my Darling’.

Yes, but as a Sassenach, he’s not strictly entitled to wear tartan, I

reminded her.  And no one is going to put Mr Grosvenor on a packet

of Walker’s Petticoat Tails, are they?

I suppose not, more’s the pity.  She looked disappointed.  I‘d probably

buy some if they did.  He’s better looking than Rabbie Burns.

Carrie tried to change the subject.  Actually, they thought that there

might have been a portrait of Charlie’s mistress, Clementina Walkinshaw

too, but the one in Derby, or wherever, was discredited.

Now there was an interesting woman, I jumped in.  Glaswegian, one of

ten, from Camlachie.  I don’t believe that she nursed him through manflu,

though. No woman from Glasgow is that sympathetic.  Eventually, fed up with

his drunken antics, she re-invented herself, as many a Glesca girl has done,

and styled herself Countess Alberstroff. She went off to Meaux-en-Brie.

Sounds cheesy, remarked Carrie.

Not as cheesy as what Charlie did next.  He married a nineteen year old

princess.

Didn’t he have a daughter with Clementina?  Wasn’t she The Duchess of

Albany?  It was all coming back to Brassie.

Yes.  Poor Charlotte died young after becoming the mistress of the Archbishop

of Bordeaux, I explained.

Did she have kids?  Brassie couldn’t remember the details.

Yes, but they couldn’t be royal as Henry, Charlie’s brother-who was a Cardinal

by the way- made Clementina sign a document of renunciation of any rights.

There might be a lost portrait of Clementina as a nun in one of the French

convents she took shelter in, suggested Brassie.

Or one of Charlotte as the Virgin Mary at a Bishop’s Palace in Bordeaux or

Cambrai, I added.

Should be good for a motorcycle trip to Aquitaine through the French

vineyards, Carrie concluded.

Perhaps he will need an assistant, Brassie said wistfully.

I’d better buy myself a leather jacket.  Fiona’s too tall to fit in a sidecar.

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Cretans/ Cretins

Tags

Bellarmine, Civil War, codicil, Cretans, demesne, free lunch, Laocoon, metamorphic, Phuket, priest hole, recusancy, The National Trust, Vergil

Recusancy, said Dru.

Sonia looked blank and Ginevra said, An aversion to authority.

It runs in our family, Diana.

I detached myself from that particular set of genes.  They weren’t

part of my DNA.  Actually, they weren’t anything to do with us at all.

Not Dru, Augustus, nor myself.

It was the family who owned the Wyvern Estate who were recusants.

That’s why they had a priest hole, Mum, Dru commented, as she read the

rest of the tale of the missing boy from Ginevra’s tablet.  Anthony Revelly

had a brainwave. He had been teaching the boys about The Civil War and

he suddenly thought that Lionel might have found the idea of a secret hiding

place exciting.

Was Lionel the nasty boy? I asked.

Yes.  Anthony told the estate staff to knock along the panelling in the library.

The walls were so thick that no one had heard Peregrine’s frantic tapping.

They were able to find a hollow sounding area and then they discovered a

section of book shelving which was metamorphic and turned around.  The

poor child was shocked and dehydrated.  He had been in darkness and the

only bottle he could find was a Bellarmine which contained bones and nails

and nothing else.

Ginevra looked stunned at the thought of a bottle which contained

no liquid.

How had he become trapped?  I asked.

It says that Lionel had deliberately enclosed his brother, or immured him,

to be precise.

How awful!  What happened to him?  How was he punished?  He was old

enough to know better.

I think his mother sent him away to a boarding school.

Well, that explains why Peregrine’s mother thought so much of Anthony,

Sonia stated.

Yes, she would, wouldn’t she? observed Ginevra.  I hope she disinherited

that awful elder son.  I know I would have.  I wouldn’t even have left him

my empties.

I wonder what happened to the two boys in later life? I deliberated.

We had some drinks and Dru continued to search while the tablet’s

battery was charged.

Oh, that’s sad, she said.

What? we all chorused.

Lionel amassed gambling debts, dropped out of university and went

to Phuket.

What? said Ginevra.

It’s a place in Thailand, Dru elucidated.  I’ve just called up his obituary. 

He seems to have developed a drug habit and died in his early thirties.

His mother must have passed away by then as it only gives Peregrine as

kin. It says an estranged brother was resident in Vancouver.  The boys

were designated ‘of Wyvern Mote’, before its gifting to The National Trust.

I wonder if Peregrine is alive? I ventured.

Apparently not.  There is a eulogy to him in his old school magazine,

under ‘Old Boys’ which says that he perished in a ski-ing accident and

left no issue.

So, how was Anthony able to remain in the stable block apartment for

life?  I mean, the family had revoked any right to ‘demesne’, I think it’s

called, I enquired.

Their mother must have arranged a codicil or something which gave him

the privilege, in recognition of his outstanding services as a tutor, said

Sonia.

And all I ever got was someone’s mother’s bath oil from the previous

year, I protested.

Well, that’s one more votive offering than I ever got, replied Dru.

But anyway, one should beware of cretins bearing gifts.

Cretans, I corrected.  Honestly, my daughter’s Classical Education

leaves a lot to be desired.  She only did Class Civ.  It’s as well Gus

didn’t hear her.

Actually, if my memory serves me right, it is timeo Danaos et dona

ferentis. 

So, that would be a warning against Greeks.  The Cretan admonition is

about lying, I think.

Mum! Are you paying attention? Dru brought me back to earth.

Yes, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, nodded Ginevra sagely.

Not even a free drink!

And she looked somewhat downcast at this reflection.

I’d better go, said Dru.  I’ve got such a backlog of marking to deal

with before Monday morning.  Dad’s floated away, but mine is very

present and unless I hide in a Trojan Horse, or a priest hole, the girls will

be after me first thing to know if they have got stars on their A’s.

We used to have stars in our eyes, said Ginevra.  Now they only have

them on a piece of paper.  How sad.

And we all agreed.

I was so pleased that Dru HAD got the Classical reference after all.

Thanks, guys, she said as she rushed off. I appreciated the hospitality.

I bet Anthony Revelly appreciated his too.  Only he had it for a good few

years longer and the accommodation did seem to be rent-free, lucky man.

I wonder who is paying his nursing home fees?  Probably you and I, if he

has no savings.  Some people do get free lunches!  But it is never likely to be

Dru or myself.  We just get snarled up in bureaucracy like poor old Laocoon

and his snakes, so it isn’t worth the struggle.

Wyvern Mote

Tags

Alan Titchmarsh, Alexander Armstrong, Antiques Roadshow, Boris Johnston, Bunny Campione, Bunny Guinness, Cavalier, clay pipe, Gertrude Jekyll, Grinling Gibbons, Henry Moore, herbaceous border, Inigo Jones, King Charles Spaniel, linen fold panelling, Lulu Guinness, Pointless, Pomeranian, pre-nuptial, pre-prandial, Prince William, pug, Rokeby Venus, Roundhead, Songs of Praise, Strictly, stump work, sundial, William the Conqueror

Hi!  It’s Diana again. I’m still here in Suttonford. Sonia had taken us to

Ginevra’s house, as the nonagenarian was allowing Dru to use her tablet

to Google ‘ Wyvern Mote.’  (I must say that a lot more goes on here than in

Bradford-on-Avon.)  That’s why I am moving back to these airts and parts,

I suppose.

Magda, the Eastern European carer, brought tea in for Sonia, Dru and

myself, but not for Ginevra.

She was having something a little stronger.  Early in the day, I thought.

Tell me about your Aunt Augusta, she commanded Dru.  I think that she and

I would have a lot in common.

You do, replied Dru, without taking her eyes off the screen.  You both like

Dewlap Gin for the Discerning Grandmother.

But she isn’t a grandmother, is she?  I am.

Nevertheless.. Dru’s voice trailed off and then she exclaimed excitedly:

The original earls had Wyvern Mote decorated by Inigo Jones.  There’s a

photo on this site of a portrait of a rather pink and billowy-or is that ‘pillowy’?-

female called Lydia Van Druynk, who is recumbent on some kind of a divan,

like the Rokeby Venus.  She’s surrounded by King Charles Spaniels.

I prefer pugs, or Pomeranians, opined Ginevra.

Dru ignored her as far as she could, considering that she was

borrowing the old girl’s tablet.

It says that the spaniels are significant, as the langorous lady, far from

being inactive, set the said dogs on a Civil War unit, thereafter influencing

and modifying the motto on the Van Druynk coat of arms, which then read:

Begone vile blusterers!

I take it she was on the side of the Cavaliers? said Sonia.  I know all about

that contingent.  As you recall, I have to live with one of them occupying

my attic.  He doesn’t even pay me rent.

And would you call him a considerate house guest otherwise? asked Ginevra.

Not too bad, but I wish he’d take off his boots, as I can hear him pacing up

and down the length of the attic.  He’s a bit of an insomniac, as I am.

I’m surprised that you haven’t exorcised him, commented Diana.

Well, in a funny way he keeps me company, said Sonia.  But I wish he

wouldn’t smoke all these clay pipes and leave the broken shards in my

herbaceous border.  I wrote to Gardeners’ Question Time, but Bunny

Campione just said that the clay detritus probably helps with drainage.

She could have put you in touch with one of those bee keeper types and

they could have smoked him out, suggested Diana.  Like the way they

fumigate greenhouses.  They use a puffer thing.  By the way, I think you

mean Bunny Guinness.

Sonia looked horrified.  But I like my Cavalier, she protested. He’s got

attitude, as they say.

She continued, You know, I always thought these two Bunnies were the same

person- just one amazingly talented woman who knows everything about

groundwork AND stump work. 

Doesn’t one of them make designer handbags as well? Ginevra chipped in.

That’s Lulu Guinness, interposed Dru, who was becoming slightly rattled,

particularly as she couldn’t afford one of these desirable accessories, yet

most of her boarders could.

I’m not criticising gardeners, clarified Sonia.  Gertrude Jekyll is a bit of a

heroine of mine, but nowadays they are not of the same ilk, to use a clan

reference.  I mean, Alan Titchmarsh may be compost mentis, but he simply

doesn’t have such a breadth of cultural knowledge as the two women, even if

he does present Songs of Praise, in my opinion.  They could have that

programme fronted by a Singing Snowman; it’s not particularly challenging.

I don’t think it is meant to be, Diana tried to point out.

(Which Bunny?)

Dru tried to keep the peace.  The motto proliferated onto stair newel

posts, shields on the linen fold panelling and was featured on a particularly

fine lead sundial which was regrettably stolen from The White Garden in 1995.

It was recovered three years later when some idiot brought it to an Antiques

Roadshow and one of the experts remembered its loss had been reported in a

professional journal.

Why was the person who brought it an idiot? asked Diana.

Because he had been the gardener at Wyvern and someone recognised

him, according to this article.  He was put away for a couple of years.

Well, at least it wasn’t melted down for scrap value like some of those

Henry Moores probably have been, ventured Sonia.  Where is all this

information published?

It’s from a Newspaper Archive site.  The article came from ‘The Rochester

Messenger’..Hey! There’s an earlier headline from 1946 which says:

‘Missing Heir Found Safe and Well.’

Read it out, ordered Ginevra.

Dru scanned the front page.  There had been a supposed accident. 

Peregrine, the younger son of the estate had been thought drowned. 

He’d been missing for nearly a week. Estate workers dragged the moat

and searched surrounding woodland.  His mother was frantic.  She had

questioned Lionel, the older boy, but there was something evasive in his

replies.  He had been known to bully his ten year old sibling.

The tutor testified to the police that he had observed Lionel engaging in

what the nasty child called ‘giving the little sprog a good trouncing’ and

the teacher had endeavoured to enlighten his charge regarding his abusive

behaviour. He found the boy intractable.

Lionel even jealously tortured his mother’s favourite pet, a spaniel that was

directly descended from one of the dogs who had sent off the Roundheads and

whose life-like ancestor featured in a lozenge-shaped cameo carved by Grinling

Gibbons over the mantel in the Red Sitting Room.

Sounds like that awful boy that everyone talks about at St Birinus, Ginevra

butted in.  There’s nothing new about bullying.

Dru screeched suddenly: It says that the boys’ mother had no husband to

support her in her grief, as she had been widowed.  She turned to the boys’

tutor, a young man called Anthony Revelly!  He seems to have saved the day.

He is called a hero.

I need a drink, said Ginevra.  Let’s all have a break and you can tell us the

rest after I have had my pre-nuptial.

Prandial, corrected Diana, before she remembered that she was the guest.

Then, Yes, Dru, she advised.  Let’s have a hiatus while we take all this on

board.

Anyway, Ginevra stated.  I want to watch ‘Pointless’ just now.  Magda and I

always like that Armstrong chap.  I wish he’d do the stupid dance though- the

one he did with his friend on his comedy programme.  You’d never think that

he was related to William the Conqueror.  Not when he wore a tank top.

I didn’t know they had tank tops in 1066, said Sonia.  I don’t think they

even had tanks.

Somehow you’d expect someone of that stature to be able to dance more

elegantly, Ginevra persisted.

Who? William the Conqueror? asked Sonia.

Well, him as well, now you mention it.  Mind you, Boris Johnston isn’t that

great a mover and he’s more royal than Prince William and the whole bang

shoot of them.

Boris was jiggling around at the Olympics, if my memory serves me aright.

Not a pretty sight.  Mind you, some of those big ones can be light on their

feet. You see it time and again on ‘Strictly’.  But I don’t think Boris would do

an appearance .  I mean, who would be his partner?  Poor Alyona has had

enough of the weaker candidates. It’s time she was given a winner.

Top me up, Magda!

The rest of the article would have to wait.

Papier Mache

Tags

grape hyacinth, gypsophila, Natioanl Trust, necrophilia, papier mache, predicted grades, snifterinos, Wikipaedia

Diana, I said to myself, you must keep up your diary, even if you

are out of your own house and staying with someone else. 

So, Dear Readers, here I am again.

I couldn’t believe it when Drusilla dropped in to Royalist House to

tell me the latest news.  Sonia, curious as ever, kindly invited her to

stay for a couple of days, rather than having to return to the school

boarding house early.

Poor Gus, as Acting Head, had to go back to St Birinus’ Middle, a few

days before the start of the next half term, the reason being that the

lower corridor, which has shelving where staff collect prep and return

it, was awash in about a foot of flood water.

The only positive that arose from the situation was that several classes’

unmarked homework had mulched into a pile of paper mache- every teacher’s

dream!  The staff can easily predict grades and so on.  I know I used to take a

class in at a glance and could have- and frequently did- assess individuals

instantly. I was rarely far off the mark.  Nowadays it is even easier: everyone

gets an A*, or the teacher’s name is mud.  Any child who receives an ‘A‘

probably has had parental involvement, so it serves them right!

Anyway, St Vitus’ is on higher ground- topographically, and in their own

sociological estimation, so Dru will have no option but to go in at the

weekend and make inroads on the academic slush pile, or is it guilt pile?

Sonia thought Dru’s account of her sleuthing in Snodland was

amazing.

We all agreed that there was no point in approaching old Revelly with the

information gleaned thus far.  The poor old boy has some kind of Alzheimer’s.

Neither did we feel that it would be helpful to inform Aunt Augusta of Revelly’s

relationship to Gus- after all, she only knew of his existence through Berenice,

her sister and all of that is water under a very ancient bridge.

The fact that the old devil had hopped between the sheets with Augusta the

other week was neither here, nor there.  Well, he was there, but not in any

meaningful way, let’s confess.  It was a case of mistaken identity. At

some subliminal level, however, he recognised the family features.

Gus would like to explore Revelly’s missing years from the 1950s.  He now

knows that his father was allowed to remain in the converted stable block

after the house and estate was gifted to The National Trust.  Revelly came to

Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry directly from there, according to

the garrulous receptionist.

What Gus would like to unearth is whether his father married, or whether he

had any other children.  At present, Hugo de Sousa, Gus’ Venezuelan half-

brother is a sufficient revelation!

Ginevra says that Dru can use her tablet to Google some information on

Wyvern Mote.  We are going over to see the old girl for snifterinos later this

evening.

Sonia believes that it is all written in the stars, but we just have to uncover

the facts on Wikipaedia.

My darling daughter is so thoughtful.  She brought me a lovely bowl of grape

hyacinths from the garden shop at Wyvern.  Ginevra is going to be given a pot

of crocuses and, when Sonia was given her bunch of spring flowers, she made

both of us LOL by thanking Dru for the necrophilia.  She said it brings the other

flowers to life in a vase.  (She meant gypsophila, but apparently had confused

that term with an aversion to the creation of travellers’ sites!)  Not in her back

yard, she avowed!

.

Family Resemblances

Tags

Aylesford, Cognac VSOP, galanthophile, Hengist, sepia photo, The Daily Mail, Tulip Fever, Valentine's Day

Did you have a good day? asked the receptionist, as they checked Aunt

Augusta back into Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.

‘Good’ if you were a galanthophile, piped up the aged one, who couldn’t

have been so tired after all.

The receptionist looked puzzled.

Snowdrop lover, explained Gus.  Ignore her.

Oh, replied the receptionist.  People have been rooting up snowdrop bulbs

and selling them for vast amounts of money.  I read about it in The Daily

Mail online.

Gus was blissfully unaware that such a fount of information existed.

They- the thieves- probably got the idea from that book I borrowed from the

library trolley, commented Aunt Augusta.  That is, if thieves read.

What book was that? asked Dru as she settled her back in her room.

Tulip Fever, her great-aunt answered, looking as if her niece was

illiterate.

But that was surely about tulips? replied Dru.

Same principle, said Augusta, having her bed socks rolled on.  Greed!

Augustus and Drusilla felt that they might have overdone things with their

aunt, so arranged to see her later in the week.  They were hungry and

tired, so set off for Hengist, a restaurant in Aylesford which was in a

converted 16th century town house.

Who was Hengist? asked Dru, back behind the wheel.

Some Viking chap who landed in the area in the fifth century, replied Gus.

I hope rotten fish and putrescent reindeer aren’t on the menu, said Dru,

with feeling.

They managed to secure a table, even though it was nearing Valentine’s Day.

The waitress gave them a funny look.

You know, Gus said, talking with his mouth rather full, which was not his usual

wont.  You left me rather a long time with the old girl.  What was so riveting?

Dru looked round the room.  Well, when I went to the Portrait Gallery, I could

only see representations of all those fair-haired, rather effeminate types in

velvet knickerbockers.  None of them looked remotely like us.

Oh…  Gus was disappointed.

No, wait!  Then I passed the old schoolroom and there was a sepia photo of

the two boys who had lived in Wyvern Mote with their mother in the late

1940s.

Did they look like us?  Gus brightened up.

No.  But the weird thing was that their tutor looked exactly like us around the

chin.  And, weirder than that, his name was Anthony Revelly.

Should I know him?

Didn’t I mention that that was the name on the door of the geriatric molester

who pestered Aunt Augusta the other night?

The one who called her by her sister’s name?

‘Berenice’- yes!

How could he have known…?  Oh, my goodness- yes!  I see what you are

saying.  He must have been my mother’s lover, the man we used to visit

at Wyvern all those years ago.  In fact, ..

He is your father and my grand-father, supplied Dru.

He mistook Augusta for her sister, Berenice.

Too many missing relatives turning up, said Gus.  Order me a Cognac

VSOP asap.

I’ll order two, said Dru.  It’s been quite a day.

By Jove! She’s Got It!

Tags

aconites, anacondas, Candle in Wind, dogwood, faggots, hellebores, Lancashire Hotpot, Lemon Drizzle cake, National Trust, Portrait Gallery, Rain in Spain, Spotted Dick

Drusilla had practised folding and unfolding the collapsible wheelchair

and she had borrowed a tartan travelling rug to drape over her great-aunt’s

knees.

Augusta was strapped into the front seat of Dru’s tiny car.  Gus had elected

to drive, so Dru was relegated to being squashed in the back of her own

vehicle.

At least the weather was dry for once.

So, I’m going home, Aunt Augusta declared.

Dru met her father’s eyes in the mirror. We’re going to see the aconites

first, she side-stepped.

You used to be an aconite, didn’t you Gus?  You used to look so nice

with your little cassock, carrying the candle in the school service,

Augusta reminisced fondly.

No, I was an acolyte, corrected Gus.  Quite different.

Dru found herself droning:

You had the grace to hold yourself/

While those around you crawled..

La la la.. like a candle in the wind..

It was going to be a long day.

Parking at Wyvern Mote was difficult because of all the mud. Dru

heaved the old lady into the wheelchair and tried to push it through

the ruts.

The wheelchair tyres were coated with filth.  It would have to be her car

they were using! (She had just had it valeted by the girls in her boarding

house in aid of their favourite charity: Anacondas in Adversity!)

Gus managed to purchase a ‘Family‘ discounted entry ticket, but he was

peeved as, in the past, he had marched into the grounds with his

mother, before the estate had been handed over to The National Trust. 

There had  been no turnstile then.

Aunt Augusta wasn’t terribly interested in the fiery dogwood, nor the

stinking hellebores.  She was cold and so they made for the tearoom.

I’ll have a glass of champagne and some Lemon Drizzle cake, she

announced.  I always have those at this time of day.

What about lunch? queried Dru.

Oh, well, I’ll have oysters.  There’s an ‘r’ in the month, isn’t there?

Dru ignored her request and bought her a child’s portion of Lancashire

Hotpot.  Gus had wanted faggots, followed by Spotted Dick, but he had

to make do with Hotpot as well.

Frankly, my dears, Dru didn’t care what she had.  She was dying to take

her turn of being let off the hook, so that she could wander up to the

Portrait Gallery, in order to check out any family resemblances.

Gus said he would wait with Aunt Augusta.  He had had his solo fifteen

minutes.

Dru examined every portrait intently, but could see no familial similarities at

all.

Disappointed, she followed the arrows which led her back to the tearoom

via the servants’ staircase and kitchen.  A door was ajar and she peeked

in.  It was the old schoolroom.  On the wall, there was a sepia photograph

of the two boys who had lived there in 1946.  The label informed her that

the sneering and robust of build elder boy was called Master Lionel and the

pale, rather sickly-looking younger one was Master Peregrine.  Alongside

them, leaning rather louchely against his desk was their tutor.  No!  It couldn’t

be!  He was the spitting youthful image of that demented old boy who had

invaded Augusta’s bed the other night.  The label said:…with their tutor

Anthony Revelly, in 1949.

How could she not have noticed?  He had the same jowly features as herself

and her father.

She took out her phone and..

No flash photography! reprimanded a voice from a chair in the corner.  Dru

thought that she had activated some kind of waxwork.  Maybe the wizened

woman was Madame Tussaud herself!

But it was too late.  She had already taken the photo and, if the volunteer

wanted to look as if she was sitting on a holly leaf out of some kind of

masochism, then that was her own lookout.

By Jove! Dru whooped as she made her way into the tearoom. I think I’ve got

it!

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain, sang Augusta.

Time to take her back and then have a consultation!

Are we going home? Augusta demanded.

In a manner of speaking, replied Dru.  I’ll drive!

Chance Would Be A Fine Thing!

Tags

Lothario, revels now are ended

Don’t interrupt!

Aunt Augusta was concluding a game of cards and was on a winning

streak.

Once her opponents had been wheeled away, Dru and Gus sat

opposite her table, sitting on velours winged armchairs.

What’s kept you?  the curmudgeonly one rasped.

Just the insignificant matter of having to earn our living, Dru

said sotto voce, then volunteered with added volume, We had to

wait till half term, Aunt Augusta.

Well, now you are here, you can take me out, ordered their feisty

relative.  Monday I’m having my corns done and my hair set, but..

We thought Tuesday, Gus interjected.  If the weather is clement.

Did you bring my mink coat?  She sounded petulant and peevish.

No, aunt.  It’s a bit heavy.  We’ll fetch a travelling rug for your

knees.

I want to go home, stated Augusta.  Last night that young whipper-snapper

came into my bed, if you please, and tried to give me a squeeze.  I ordered

him back to his billet in no uncertain terms.

You mean one of the residents was wandering about at night?  Dru was

stunned.

That’s what I said.  It was him over there.  She indicated a red-faced man

in his late eighties.  Cheek of him!  His feet were freezing and he called

me ‘Berenice’.

The unlikely Romeo was being assisted into a wheelchair.

How did he know your sister’s name?  Gus was astonished.

Dru wandered off to find someone in authority, so she could register a

complaint.  When she did report the bed-hopping incident, the

receptionist merely put it down to wild fantasy, either on Dru or her

aunt’s part, or owing to change of medication, and remarked

unprofessionally: Chance would be a fine thing!

Dru was shocked at this and decided to snoop around to see to which

room the aged Lothario had been wheeled. She trod on the slightly stained

carpet lightly, in case the whole of the male corridor was a warren of

Bluebeard’s chambers.

One door was ajar and she could see the same elderly man that Augusta

had indicated being eased into his chair.  The name on his door was

‘Anthony Revelly.’

Well, Dru mused, Your revels now are ended, my old son.

Half Term

Tags

DEFRA, hellebores, Hugo Chavez, invasiones, lasiocampidae, malandro, National Trust, V-sign, Venezuela

Lasiocampidae, Gus said.  DEFRA identified it.

What?  replied Drusilla.  That weird insect thing?  Was it the same as a

Poodle Moth?

She was trying to concentrate on avoiding being cut up on a

roundabout.  The satisfying thing was that the rude guy who

overtook her then had to wait in front of her at the next traffic

lights.

Yes, said Gus.  Watch out- they’ve turned green.

Drusilla didn’t appreciate his front seat driving.

They were on their way to visit Great Aunt Augusta who was a

resident of Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.

I’ve been reading about the difficult times my mother must have lived

through in Venezuela, he commented.  There were riots in 1989 and

high inflation in the Nineties.  People experienced shortages in the

basics, such as toilet paper, milk and flour.  Hugo Chavez died in

2003.

If she was living with a musician, they probably didn’t have a lot of money,

Dru stated.  Oh, for Goodness’ sake, stay in your lane!

She tooted her horn and made a gesture which no one at St Vitus’ would

have recognised.  It was her personal-she thought- toned-down-version of

a V-sign, but, utilising only one digit, it turned out to be much more graphic,

though she was blissfully unaware of its significance.

Sorry! she said.  Where was I?  Hmm..this Vasco de Sousa, her partner,

must have been your step-father.  The son didn’t give the impression that he

was still alive, though?

He didn’t say, but I doubt it.  I hope he wasn’t a malandro.

Sounds dodgy.  This Hugo is a kind of squatter, though.

One of the invasiones, yes.

So, how are you going to break all this to Aunt Augusta?

She’s pretty robust, replied Gus.  But I have a bottle of her favourite tipple

in the boot.  We must remember to take it in this time.  That should oil the

wheels of any discussion.

This Wyvern Mote place you are taking me to..what exactly is it?

It’s a National Trust property that I used to visit years ago, with my mother.

But it won’t be open at this time of year, will it?

I’ve checked, said Gus.  There is a Hellebore Open day on Tuesday.  All

kinds of spring bulbs will be out.

We could borrow a collapsible wheelchair and take her out, suggested Dru.

Let’s just see what the weather does, reflected Gus.  Look!  Next left.

Snodland: eight miles.  He twisted the ring on his little finger.

Poodle Moths and Other Matters

Tags

Furbies, Gran Sabana, Grana Padana, invasive species, JNCC, Peterborough, Pizza Express, Venezuelan Poodle Moth

Drusilla was sitting in her father’s study.  She picked up an exercise

book from his desk, in order not to spill tea on it, but immediately

recognised the name on the label, as she was responsible for the boy’s

sister.

Yuck!  What’s that stain on the back? she exclaimed.

Her father, the Acting Head, glanced at it and said, Oh, it must be that

large moth thing that flew out of the parcel that I was telling you about.

I swatted it with Boothroyd-Smythe’s unmarked prep.

It must have been huge! commented Drusilla.

No, he doesn’t tend to write enough, frowned Gus.

I meant the insect.

Oh, emm..yes. I looked it up on a JNCC website, which represents a centre

at Peterborough. They like you to send specimens to them so they can

check on invasive species.  I peeled it off and sent them the remains.

Did you look it up?

No, I asked the biology lab technician and he said that it was probably a

Venezuelan Poodle Moth.  Makes sense.

The outline looks like one of those furbies that people used to collect.

Furbies?

Oh, never mind. I wonder what the experts know about it? Drusilla

mused.

Very little.  It’s found in the Gran Sabana, Gus expatiated.

Ooh, that sounds as if it might emerge from Pizza Express’ latest

line! Dru grimaced.  I wouldn’t want to find that in my lettuce.

That’s a Grana Padana! said Gus.  That was the only pizza he would

have, as he had been forced into ingesting fast food on an outing

with the boys and, once he had found a flavour he could tolerate, he

stuck with the relatively safe and familiar.

Anyway, he continued, we have to go and see Aunt Augusta.  She needs

to know about her sister and her new nephew.  We need to visit Wyvern

Mote and you may want to reflect on the fact that you have a Venezuelan

half-uncle.

Revelation

Tags

Ancient Mariner, Bourbon biscuit, Purgatory, seamed stockings, St Birinus, St Vitus

Virginia, PA to the Acting Head of St Birinus Middle School, was curious.

A woman had just gone into Snod’s study and she wanted to know the

reason. She could have sworn that it was that Welsh woman who had

played the harp in the end of term concert.  When Virginia went in with

tea and biscuits, silence descended until she had shown herself out

again.  Still, she had taken a closer look and it was that woman from St

Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl after all and she was wearing a

lovely gold necklace with a harp charm , so she must be Welsh.

She had just sat down at her computer when Nigel Milford-Haven, Junior

Master, knocked on her door.

Excuse me, but is Mr Snodbury free at the moment? he asked, his face, as

usual, pale with stress.

Regrettably not. Virginia loved blocking ordinary staff’s access to the highest

authority.  He is in consultation with that Welsh teacher from the girls’ school-

the one who played the harp in the concert.

Welsh?  Nigel expressed his confusion.  She’s not Welsh.

Virginia wanted to interrogate him as to how a minion such as himself

could be privy to information about the ethnicity of his betters, but she

restrained herself and restricted her reply to: Well, why else would she be

wearing a harp round her neck? It would be like the Ancient Mariner being in

denial about his particular cervical-was that the right word?- decoration being

a proclamation that he was not the world’s biggest lover of all things

ornithological.

Nigel was hyper-aware that his form class would be destroying the room, so

he nervously answered quickly, before shooting off back to Purgatory: No, she

is Mr Snodbury’s daughter.

What?  Are you certain?  I didn’t know he was married!  Virginia was seriously

discomfited.  She had thought that she knew everything.  He doesn’t wear a

ring.

Nigel flushed, partly with pleasure, now that he knew his anonymous present

of jewellery had been accepted.  Well, please could I send John Boothroyd-

Smythe to stand outside your office?  He is being unusually, or, to be more

truthful- usually-disruptive.

Virginia nodded, not taking in the information.  She was shell-shocked.  She

would never have sought to ingratiate herself with a married man, seamed

stockings or not.  Hers, I mean.

Mr Snodbury, married!

She knocked and went into the study to clear the cups and tray. Yes, he

was wearing a ring.  Why had she not noticed this before?  She stole a

sidelong glance.

They both had the same jowly profile and looked annoyed at her interruption.

As she used her elbow to exit the room, since neither Gus, nor Drusilla

offered to open the door, so deep were they in conversation, she collided

with a boy that she recognised all too well.

Not you again! she shouted.  Don’t you understand in that infantile brain of

yours that we are all heartily sick and tired of your puerile and selfish

behaviour? Get back to your class and apologise to your teacher and if I ever

see you here again, I will personally not be responsible for what I do to you!

The semi-permanent smirk was wiped off John’s face and he fled with his tail

between his legs.  No one had ever spoken to him like that before and he

immediately got the message.

Yes, Ms Fisher-Giles, he whispered, awestruck, and ran, practically wetting

himself.

Virginia’s seamed stockinged legs almost gave way under her and she

collapsed into her chair.  Before she knew it she had eaten three

Bourbon biscuits.

Married, she muttered.  And I never knew.