Metete En El Carro, Chamo!*

Tags

Caracas, cascaras, Cedula Id card, cowbell post, De Sousa, disambiguation, Eguie Castrillo, hip-hop, jam blocks, Maiquetia airport, One Direction, Sabian cymbal, Salsa, snare drum, Stars and Stripes, timbales, timpani, Tito Puente, Tower of David, windsurfer

(* get in the car, my friend!)

The secretary at Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil had typed a label

and was sticking it on an envelope.  It read:

Hugo de Sousa

19 Chavez Road

Ciudad Zamora…

As her brother was a keen windsurfer, she had read some

of his magazines and thought she recognised the name.

However, she rationalised that it must be a case for

disambiguation.  De Sousa was a fairly common name.  There

was a Portuguese footballer so-named and a bandmaster who

had written The Stars and Stripes and so, this must be yet another

of the tribe.

But, Dear Reader, you remember who Hugo is, don’t you?

Yes, he is/was the blood nephew of Great-Aunt Augusta,

whereas Gus was only an adopted nephew.

Snod had supplied the address, glad that Hugo had sent him

new contact details after his eviction from The Tower of David,

some months previously.  The squatter had been able to rescue

his timbales, cowbell post and other percussive instruments,

without any of them sustaining damage.  He would put the tools

of his trade in storage, as Mr Poskett had written to assure

him that the school had plenty of timpani and snare drums.

Hugo was to receive the largest portion from Great Aunt Augusta’s

will. Gus had paved the way for him to come over to St Birinus’ in order

to take up a temporary teaching post.  The school would sponsor him,

but Gus would stand guarantor.  Virginia, from the School Office, had

spent quite a bit of time researching work visas, restrictive foreign

exchange currency controls and Cedula ID cards.  She was becoming

familiar with the girl on the end of the phone at The British Embassy,

Caracas. She received advice to the effect that Hugo should not take

more than 10,000 dollars out of the country, unless he declared it to

customs officials.  He would need to remain calm as his flights may be

cancelled at short notice, or the price might increase rapidly.  He should

pay for his flights in pounds sterling- the school would help with this-

and he should be discreet lest someone find out that he was going to

inherit some money.  Kidnapping was a serious hazard.  An armoured

car was the recommended transportation to Maiquetia Airport.

Until 1983, a child born to a British mother and a foreign father outside

the UK, had no claim to British citizenship.  But, if Hugo registered and

paid £540, things might be arranged, eventually.  Actually, the

extortionate admin. fee had been abolished, as of 2010, Virginia was

told subsequently.  She now understood it to be £80.

The Willoughby twins, Castor and Pollux, were becoming excited.  They

had been listening to Eguie Castrillo and Tito Puente, when most of the

rest of the class had been listening to One Direction.  A new percussion

teacher was good news.  They were keen to learn some Salsa, whereas

the other boys thought that was something to pour over salad.  They

unwrapped their hickory timbale sticks, took out their mambo bells,

Sabian cymbals and cascaras and plagued their parents for jam blocks

and mounted tambourines.

Hugo and hip-hop were going to receive a wonderful welcome.

Bucket List

Tags

Angel Falls, Babelfish, Bolivares, boy racer, bucket list, Caracas, Father Gabriel, Guarani, Mendoza, Orpheus, Robert de Niro, Spanglish, Teach-it, The Mission

Querido amigo,

Apologies, Hugo, for not having written for a while.  It is the end of term

and I have had to compose my speech and report for Prize-

giving.

I will send you a transcript and maybe you can subject it to Babelfish.

So sorry that I had to disillusion you as to our kinship, but am glad

that you understand.  Your mother, Berenice, was a great old girl and

such a ‘goer‘! Her sister, Augusta, is very much of a similar cast.  In fact,

you could say that they broke the mould once those two came on the

scene.

The news from Caracas is fairly dire, so we hope that you are safe amid

all the violence and mayhem.  Having cheap petrol is no substitute for a

peaceful existence and, unless one is a boy racer, it can’t

be much fun.

How I would have liked to have invited you over here to meet Aunt Augusta

and to have taken a trip to Wyvern Mote with you.  Alas, it is not possible

at this juncture, but perhaps one day, when your political situation has

thawed, calmed and resolved itself into a dew, your dreams can be realised.

I expect that I will not be able to visit The Angel Falls with you any time soon,

though in retirement, it was on my -ghastly phrase!- ‘bucket list’.  I always

empathised and identified with Father Gabriel in The Mission, who could calm

the Guarani by playing his oboe, like a latter day Orpheus.  Sadly, in school,

discipline is very much more difficult and madness is not so easily subdued by

creating recorder groups.  Believe me.  The natives are very much revolting

and I don’t need to tell you what that is like! We need Robert de Niro types

to come and work some Mendoza magic.  I suppose Teach-it won’t

necessarily attract such heroes, not even for shedloads of golden

Bolivares.

Maybe the power of the closing words from the film could be applied

universally, to our present global woes: The light shines in the darkness

and the darkness does not overcome it.  (I prefer ‘comprehendeth it not’,

but nowadays no one comprehendeth that.  I blame their education.)

Se muy valiente my amigo!  Forgive my Spanglish. Whatever the language,

the sentiment is the same.

Sinceramente,

Gus.

 

Snod’s Law

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, Caracas, crystal ball, DNA analysis, Elgin marbles, exhumation, Katherine of Aragon, kinship, Lady of the Bedchamber, perjury, St Birinus, Tindall, Tyndale, Wyvern Mote

Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe was open on the Bank Holiday and, the

weather being clement, Sonia, Diana and Dru were sitting in the courtyard,

out of earshot, they hoped, of the other customers.  Snod came in, looking

ill-at-ease in this bastion of good taste.  He was probably the only

customer who could have explained what a ‘bastion‘ was.  Most would

have thought it a term of abuse.

I just want a simple coffee.  Why does life have to be so complicated? he

grumbled.

Diana cleared her jacket from the spare chair that she had been reserving.

I’ve been studying the paperwork from Aurelia, she began.  The Tindalls of

Coquetbrookdale!  Quite a family.

Not related to that rugby player with the smashed nose who married Zara?

queried Sonia.

No, not the same branch. Elizabeth Swan married John Tindall and this was

how the- here Diana lowered her voice and looked around furtively – the

Tindall jewel came into Elizabeth’s possession.  It had been handed down

from generation to generation, from mother-in-law to daughter, or daughter-

in-law.

A relation of Sir William Tyndale, who was knighted at the marriage of Arthur,

Prince of Wales to Katherine of Aragon, originally seemed to have acquired it,

possibly from a royally-esteemed Lady-of-the-Bedchamber.

Whose bedchamber? asked Sonia, forthrightly.

Ah, that might have been telling! said Diana, coyly.  No, it might have

come into the family through a marriage.

Which leaves the problem of what you are going to do about it, said Snod,

nodding to Dru.  The letter says that it comes to the wife, or daughter of any

of her sons.

I’m definitely out of the picture, said Diana.  But what if you were to marry in

the near future?  Would that rule Dru out?  She was desirous of protecting

her daughter’s interests.

And can we be sure that Lionel and Peregrine did not have any illegitimate

daughters? asked Sonia.  They would have entitlement.

I suppose Bunbury et al will advertise in the press in Thailand and Canada for

any claimants to come forward within a certain period of time.  They might

have to be subject to DNA analysis, said Snod.

I might have to give a swab too, interrupted Dru.  They might want to check

your paternity.

Diana blushed and her chin disappeared into her collar.  Shhh! she hissed.

I might have to have a DNA test, agreed Gus, not relishing the idea,

as he confused it with sperm banks for some reason.  After all, my father is

not named on my birth certificate and my mother is designated as Berenice. 

Just because Lady Wyvern, er.. Aurelia, paid some school fees and confessed

to perjury in her letter, it might be seen as the ravings of a madwoman and

Anthony being dead too, how can we prove kinship?

There could be a hair on Aunt Augusta’s sheets, suggested Dru.

Don’t be silly, laughed Diana.  I expect that in an establishment as genteel

as Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry, they have probably

changed the bedding since Anthony’s last nocturnal perambulation.

Dru looked sceptical.  From what I’ve read, it’s a miracle if the sheets

are laundered at all on some of these premises. But, seriously, DNA

is pretty resistant material.  It survives washing machines, apparently.

Sonia said: Washing machines have inbuilt obsolescence nowadays,

so it wouldn’t be difficult to outlast them.  I only had mine three years.

Yes, but you don’t use de-calcifiers, reprimanded Diana.  That’s why

your towels are brick hard.

Sonia shot her a look that might have been interpreted as inviting

her to lodge elsewhere if she had any further criticisms.

Well, I am not going to sanction any exhumations, avowed Gus.  And

that includes Berenice’s.  It’s rather extreme to rule out a blood

relationship.

You wouldn’t have to, clarified Sonia.  You could get a sibling swab from

Aunt Augusta which would disprove your relationship to her entire family.

Not by stealth, Diana countered.  Only by informed consent and the

authorities might think she is too confused to comply.

Nonsense, said Sonia.  From what you’ve told me-here she nodded

towards Dru- she has all her marbles and it wouldn’t surprise me if she

had some of the Elgin variety too, stashed in her bedside locker, alongside

her gin.  Anyway, you could ask that De Sousa chap in Caracas to supple a

hair.  That would disprove that he is your half brother.

Oh, I’d forgotten about Hugo, said Snod, a trifle guiltily.  I’d better write to

him to disabuse him of our familial ties.  He will be disappointed.

Well, you asked me what I was going to do, Dru finally chipped in.  And I have

already decided.  If the lawyers are satisfied that Dad is Aurelia’s son and I am

offered the jewel, I am going to say that I want it to remain on exhibition at

Wyvern Mote.

These things can bring a curse on families and I don’t want Mum to regret

that she should have had no stake in it. Nor do I want to alienate any future

step- mothers. (Here Gus flushed deeply)  And, anyway, what would I do

with it?

It’s probably uninsurable in private hands. I don’t need the money.  I am more

interested in my career and this seems as good a time as any to announce

that I have been short-listed for the post of Head of St Birinus Middle, with the

blessing of its finest Master, my father!

And she raised her coffee cup to her lips in a loyal toast.  I wouldn’t need

any treasures, as there is accommodation provided and, without having to

worry about a mortgage, I would be well provided for and would have an

adequate salary and pension.

That’s my girl! Gus flushed with pride.  He could only hope that she would

be successful.

He had declared his affiliation and conflict of interest to the Governors and

had stepped down from the interview panel.  He had yet to be informed of

the other candidates.

But what about your parentage? Sonia challenged Gus.  Don’t you want to

have everything cleared up?  I know there is no inheritance involved, since

Wyvern is now National Trust, but aren’t you a teeny bit curious?

I thought you would have taken out your crystal ball and enlightened me,

teased Gus. But, I’ll take Aurelia’s word for it. As far as I am concerned, at my

time of life, I am grateful to one parent alone and he is the one who has

perpetually looked out for me through thick and thin..

And that is..? they all asked simultaneously.

St Birinus. And Snod twiddled the ring on his little finger and drained his

cup of basic filter coffee with satisfaction, even though there were no

accompanying Bourbon biscuits on offer.

So, you don’t mind the uncertainty? Sonia probed a little further.

No, Gus shook his head. It’s just like many of life’s vicissitudes: an

exemplification of Snod’s Law!

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, Caracas, cri de coeur, Cumbernauld, De Sousa, Elastoplast, Gregory's Girl, Ipostel, lime tea, madeleine, Philately, seamed stockings, Telegraph, wyvern

Virginia Fisher-Giles, The School Secretary and PA to Acting Head,

Augustus Snodbury, was reluctant to sign for the rather shabby parcel.

It was postmarked ‘Caracas‘ and she didn’t recognise the name on the

sender label: Hugo De Sousa.  There was an Ipostel label still hanging onto

it.  Clearly addressed to Mr Augustus Snodbury, St Birinus School, Suttonford

etc., she decided that she had better take it in and check the list of new

boys’ guardians.

The postman said that he had rattled it and smelt it and it seemed all right.

Nevertheless, Virginia had read, only the previous week, about a nineteen year

old diplomat’s son in South London, who had innocently and altruistically signed

for a neighbour’s parcel, and who had ended up being arrested and his parents’

home and garden being turned over for several days by police in bio-hazard

suits, before being issued an apology.

The Head, who was on sick leave, never received odd mail such as this.  She

wondered what on earth Snodbury was up to.  Unless, of course, it was some

kind of jape organised by that pest, John Boothroyd-Smythe.  He had once

offered her a nut from his cylindrical tin and when she removed the lid, a cloth

snake on a spring had leapt out at her and had given her the shock of her life.

As for ‘Caracas’..wasn’t that the ultimate destination those two teenage idiots

had misspelled on their placard, when they were trying to hitch a

lift from rainy Cumbernauld, or wherever, to an exotic land of allegedly

compliant girls, in the opening sequence of that coming-of-age classic

Scottish film, Gregory’s Girl?

Virginia simply had to know everything that was going on in St Birinus.  After

all, she was the PA and this whole episode was too, too intriguing.

Gus had a free period and was opening his Telegraph, ready to dunk

his Bourbon biscuit into his tea, when he noticed the package in his in-tray.

His first emotion was pleasurable, as he realised that the stamps would be

educational for his lunchtime Philately Club.  But this was followed by

puzzlement.  He didn’t know anyone of the surname on the label, except for a

composer of brass music, which was not really in line with his preferences.

He held the box up to his rather hairy ear.  No, there was no ticking.  Gingerly,

he tore off a corner of the brown paper and shook the parcel over his tray.

No white powder came out.

He decided to live dangerously and ripped it open, in the way one deals

with an Elastoplast that simply has to come off.

A small box fell out onto his desk.  He opened it.  It contained a gold

signet ring with a strange crest.

Snod might as well have dipped a Madeleine into some lime tea, rather than

a Bourbon into his builders’ variety, for, all at once, the years rolled away

and he could remember things past.  The mythical winged creature depicted

a dragony-type beast with a barbed tail.

A wyvern! he exclaimed.  And he could see the hand that had worn the ring

in his infant memory.  A stab of emotion that he thought he had suppressed

for over fifty years clutched at his entrails.

There was an accompanying letter.  As he read its contents, his tea turned

cold and he forgot to eat the second Bourbon.  This, in itself, would have

enlightened any observer as to the significance of the impact he had

received.

However, there was no voyeur, except for Virginia, who, unable to contain

her curiosity, barged into the study, without the usual courtesy of a knock,

and interrupted with:

I say, Mr Snodbury, you haven’t drunk your tea!  Did you get your parcel? 

Was it anything of interest?

But Gus was sitting expressionless and scarcely seemed to hear her.

Virginia, brought up short, revised her behaviour and, apologising, merely

took the cup away, along with the first uneaten biscuit that she had ever

had to retrieve and prepare for disposal.

How very strange! And, like Mary, she pondered all these things in her heart,

as she bent down and followed the trail of rubber bands from the school foyer

to the spot where the mail van parked every day.

Really!  She was tired of picking up the detritus scattered by that buffoon

whose ridiculous semi-uniform of baseball cap and unseasonable shorts

was a disgrace to civilised society.  As for that trolley thing that he pushed,

it was completely wimpish.  How she longed for a real man that she could

respect.  But what was the chance of her meeting one in this limited scenario?

The seamed stockings that she wore were a cri-de-coeur.  If the true princess

could spot a pea, then, surely, a real prince would notice her stockings!  And,

oh, how she longed that one day he would come!

Repeating History

Tags

agapanthus, Bosphorous, Bradford on Avon, Caracas, City of Eternal Spring, dianthus, Dux, emporium, entomology, flying carpet, grandiflora, Istanbul, Iznik tile, Jesse Tree, kelim, National Trust, Panama, Simon Bolivar, Turkish Delight

Great-Aunt Augusta unwrapped the Turkish Delight as she sat

in her velours recliner in the private area of the Recreational

Room of her Care Home.

Now, are you sitting comfortably? she addressed her great-niece,

Drusilla Fotheringay.

The exophoric reference wasn’t entirely lost on Dru, so she nodded

and gave the signal for the old bag to commence on the veritable

Jesse Tree of the family genealogy.

(Jesse Tree Chartres: Wikipaedia)

Now, your great-grandmother-also Augusta-was a bit of a goer, or

a flibbertigibbet, as I told you before.  She bounced around the

Bosphorous with her rug seller for a number of years, before settling

down in Istanbul and establishing a kitten sanctuary, once her partner

had flown off on his flying carpet, to that large emporium in the sky.

Your great-aunt Berenice, my elder sister (God Rest Her Soul!), was a

bit of a gadabout too.  In the genes, clearly.

She used to go to parties almost every weekend, in big, country

houses.

In Turkey?  Dru looked confused.

No.  We had both been sent to boarding schools over here.  She used

to frequent the Wyvern Estate and that was her downfall.  She GOT

INTO TROUBLE.

Difficult in these days, no doubt.  Dru sympathised, as well she

might, given her own personal history.

Not difficult at all.  It happened all too easily. They were pressurising

Berenice to get rid of the ‘problem’.  They offered her a lot of money and

a contact in Knightsbridge.

‘They’?

The family of the alleged father, of course.  Augusta looked at

Dru as if she was somewhat dense.  But I persuaded her to have

it- your father, I mean.

But who was..?

No proof, but someone with an interest in entomology.

Ent..?

Yes, Berenice was a social butterfly and he netted her.  But he couldn’t

pin her down!  None of us could.  She wanted her freedom and so our

mother took the baby for a while, but she felt her own style was being

cramped, so eventually I arranged for your father to start prep school over

here as a full boarder, at St Birinus.

So, Father has spent his whole life at St Birinus?

Except for when he was at University- yes!  He’s completely

institutionalised.

What happened to Berenice?

We don’t know.  She’s one of the disappeared.  The last we heard

of her she was in Caracas, City of Eternal Spring.  El Libertador

was one of her heroes.

El..?

Simon Bolivar.

Ah. Dru’s South American historical knowledge was rather

vague. Who paid Dad’s fees?

The Wyvern Estate and, once my mother passed on, her demise

hastened by an infected feline scratch, I inherited all the antique

kelims and sold them off, as and when, along with some Iznik tiles,

to cover his ‘extras’.

Fascinating.  Did Berenice ever reveal the paternity of her son?

Not exactly, but she did take Gus to the estate very early on,

before she ran off, to meet some gardener or other.

Gardener?!

He lived in a converted stable block at Wyvern Mote.

But that’s National Trust, surely?

Ah, yes, but I suspect that it was grace and favour ‘accommodation’,

in both senses of the word.  He wasn’t much of a horticulturalist; didn’t

know his dianthus from his agapanthus, from all accounts.

Maybe he was a natural son of the old duke?! Dru’s eyes burned with

revelatory fire.

Peut-etre, surmised her great-aunt, who now looked more favourably

at her visitor.  Look, she said, rummaging in a shoe box.  Oh no,

that’s your father aged six months, lying on a sheepskin in his birthday suit.

Dru averted her gaze.

No, here it is!  Augusta produced a faded sepia image of a man remarkably

like Gus.  He was reclining in a striped deckchair, wearing a Panama hat and

he had a glass in his right hand.  There was a large mansion behind him.

So this is possibly my grandfather?  Dru scrutinised the photo. I wonder what

his name was.

Oh, I call him Eamonn Teabag Grandiflora, Aunt Augusta scoffed wickedly.

All these men in Panama hats look the same- ie/ better when they wear

one.  Compare that Kermit MacDulloch who presented a ‘History of

Christianity’ and then the latest posho who is following him around,

probably with the same camera crew.  They visit the same graffiti and

make identical comments. They are all clones!

Grandiflora?

Well, Seaweed Millefiore, or Hymen Montezuma.  Whatever.  Anyway, your

possible ancestor, whom I call Grandiflora, almost certainly spread his seed

around.  Perhaps like the old duke himself.

So perhaps I have links to aristocracy?

Well, Miss Grandiose, I’d let bygones be bygones, if I were you.

But may I ask you one final question?  Dru was conscious that a storm

was predicted and that she had a long journey back to Bradford-on-Avon.

Fire away! replied the elderly one, nibbling on a cube of Turkish delight and

not offering to share any from the box.

What boarding school did you and Berenice attend? Dru asked.

St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl, of course.  But in those days

it was just St Vitus’ for anyone who could pay the fees.  My name is on the

Dux Board over the main stairwell.  Surely you have seen it?

Strange.  ‘Augusta Snodbury’.  Why had she never noticed it? And was there

something in her own genes that constrained her to repeat history?  She

hoped not.

And the way things were going, there may be a future titular amendment

to the establishment at which she earned her crust:  St Vitus’ School might

end up as an Academy for the Academically-Challenged.  Qui sait!