Land Girl

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allotments, Cotswolds, Filkins, Land Girl, NGS, Oxfordshire, scarecrow

In Filkins Allotments, Oxfordshire

Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart

RIP Aunt Augusta

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Black Widow Spider, Bonnie Prince Charlie, bun fight, encomium, Eulogy, Existentialist, Hegel, John Fowles, Land Girl, Life of Pi, Lyme Regis, Meryl Streep, Richard Parker, Simples, Sliding Doors, Snodland, St Birinus, Steelite, The Cobb, The French Lietenant's Woman, Tupperware, Venus Flytrap, Wyvern Mote, Yann Martel

Augustus Snodbury rose to his feet in the Recreation Room of

Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.  He was about

to deliver the meconium, nay encomium to his ‘Aunt’ Augusta.

Her commital was over and everyone had gathered for the

‘bun fight’, or, to clarify the matter, the sausage rolls and cups

of builders’ tea, stewing in institutional Steelite crockery.

Murgatroyd Syylk had donated the sausage-meat from his best

two porkers, but it had not seemed appropriate for him to slay

The Emperor, since, before the re-sexing of the animal had

taken place, it had been named after the venerable lady herself.

There hadn’t been sufficient time for Gus to read his eulogy-cum-

end of life report at the crematorium, as the coffins had been

stacking up like planes at Heathrow.

It had been agreed that he would present the paeon back at

the nursing home.

Thankfully he and Dru were still on half term.  The old girl had

been remarkably considerate in her timing of clog popping.  The

mourners really only amounted to two: Drusilla and his good

self.

Berenice, Augusta’s younger sister had pre-deceased her and

was buried in Venezuela, leaving a son, Hugo de Sousa, who

unfortunately was not in a position to leave the country.

That meant that it was only themselves and the staff and

residents of the home who had to be counted for catering

purposes.

Gus had rehearsed and re-composed his tribute over and over

as Dru drove down to Kent.  He thought he would write an

introduction, followed by the development of a thesis and

antithetical redress, in the manner of a discursive essay.

Perhaps he could throw in a couple of anecdotes- the episode

of her involvement in the missing Bonnie Prince Charlie chalice;

some wartime Land Girl reminiscences; some of her pithier

comments and so on?  Then he should sum everything up and

make an evaluation of her life.  Simples, as that annoying

furry animal says.

No, that sounded pompous.  Who did he think he was- the

Recording Angel?  Title of speech?  ‘Augusta Snodbury- kindly

maiden aunt versus Alpha female?‘  Ambivalence was surely

of the essence.  Quintessence, even.

He thought about the woman behind the mask of nonagenarian

vulnerability.  They had been asked to instal a surveillance

camera in her room, after she had made accusations about

a male resident whom she alleged had tried to climb into her

bed.

She should be so lucky! was the only comment from a lady in

the adjoining room, when she had been interviewed as a

potential witness.

The cameras had shown evidence of shocking abuse, albeit

only of a verbal nature.  They could never have believed that Aunt

Augusta was capable of such bullying behaviour to a young carer,

whose only crime was to have reduced the amount of gin in her

charge’s tonic.

His ‘aunt’ reminded him of a Black Widow Spider; a Venus Flytrap…

something female and venomous.  That was the antithesis.

The thesis was that she had supervised his education and been

in loco parentis, when his supposed mother, her sister Berenice,

had vamooshed to Venezuela, renaging on her paid agreement

with Lady Wivern: to wit that she, Berenice, should state that

the child was hers, the product of a liaison with Anthony Revelly.

This was a credible version of events, as Berenice had had a fling

with the tutor at Wyvern Mote, from 1945-7.  However, Anthony and

Aurelia, Lady W, had commenced their affair thereafter.  Although Lady

W was a widow, and technically a free agent, she did not want to

complicate matters for her two legitimate sons, Lionel and Peregrine.

Therefore, a deal had been struck. A monetary one.

And so it was that Augustus had been enrolled at St Birinus’ Prep

School, at a very tender and impressionable age, by his ‘Aunt’

Augusta.

Had she latterly discerned that he had discovered the truth?

Maybe he should expatiate and wax philosophical about alternative

narratives?  Why shouldn’t he present varying outlines?  After all,

John Fowles had done so at the end of his novel, The French

Lieutenant’s Woman. (Gus blushed as he recalled how he had really

fancied Meryl Streep.  He used to go down to Lyme Regis and hang

about The Cobb, until one blustery day, he had nearly been swept

out to sea.  That had taught him the valuable distinction between

Art and life)

Yes, he could construct an Existentialist Sliding Doors type of

scenario.  Like that boy, Pi, from the eponymous Life of, he could

persuade the inmates to choose whatever biographical version they

preferred.  How very Post-Modern!  He hadn’t seen himself in that

light before.

I mean, he mused,  am I Augustus Snodbury, the bona fide nephew

of the deceased? Or am I -say–a ‘Richard Parker’-type of clerical error?

Certainly, I am not using my real name.  What constitutes identity?

As Yann Martel said: ‘I live in a society of ‘unpalatable realities, but

realities I prefer to face.’  So, maybe I should face them down now.

After he had uttered the bombshell that Augusta was not actually

his aunt, but that Revelly was his father, Matron’s jaw dropped at

the revelation.  She had only recently taken delivery of Revelly’s

urn which was taking up an inordinate amount of space on the

mantelpiece in her office, along with other unclaimed remains of

yesterday and yester-year.

Gus concluded: I make no apologies for quoting Martel a final

time- ‘Life is a story…You can choose YOUR story.’

It could be argued that I became the man I am today as a result

of a synthesis.  (He was pleased at this Hegelian transition.)

Unfortunately no one else noticed the logic of his coda, as

they were mostly asleep, except for one old chap who was

hoovering up the remaindered sausage rolls that Gus had

been hoping he could ask to be reserved in a doggy bag for

his return journey.)

C’est la vie, was all that Dru could comment.  He thought that

was a trifle unsympathetic.  But ‘trifle’: yes, Matron did put some

of the leftover pudding into a Tupperware bowl for him.

It would be strange not to be coming back to Kent.

They went out to the car park, carrying two clinking bags

containing bottles of Dewlap Gin for the Discerning Grandmother.

Both were filled with empties.  They would have to find a bottle

bank en route to the motorway.

Did I do her justice? Snod asked as Dru pulled out of the

grounds.  He wiped a greasy palm on his best suit

trousers. I missed out all the stuff about when she

was Hamish Diecast’s Muse on that island in The Inner

Hebrides.  Did I dwell overly on her failings?

Let the enigma be.  Perhaps all our lives are illusory. 

We could all have been otherwise. All that remains of

us is love, Dru replied.  I think you conveyed that

sentiment.  Let them choose the better story and…

For Pete’s sake, don’t eat trifle in my car!  She braked

suddenly, on seeing a re- cycling bank, and the custard

landed in his lap.

He could hear Aunt Augusta cackling: Serves you right! 

Surprise Guests

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Bonnie Prince Charlie, Burns' Night, Caligula, Commonwealth Games, D-day celebrations 2014, emoticons, Eskdale Hotel. Langholm, Glasgow School of Art, Henry Moore's King and Queen, incontinence pads, Kagyu Samye Ling, Land Girl, portable catheter, Sauchiehall Street, Snodland, Tibetan Centre, Usain Bolt, whippersnapper, Willow Tea Rooms

It’s gone!  It’s gone!  Murgatroyd’s face was ashen.

Calm down, dear!  Diana took control.  She was used to his

histrionics.

But it was here last night when we had the post-concert

drinkies.  And the glass hasn’t been smashed.  We didn’t hear

the alarm. I don’t understand it.

The niche where Bonnie Prince Charlie’s chalice had been

displayed was now empty.

What a shame!  The concert had been a triumph and there had

been some surprise visitors.  One, in particular, had caused

consternation and a re-shuffling of the sleeping arrangements.

Aunt Augusta had shown up in a taxi, gleefully proclaiming, Have

portable catheter.  Can travel!

The taxi driver sheepishly unloaded the packs of incontinence pads

from the boot and waived the tip of an obsolete half crown.

When reprimanded about the staff at Snodland Nursing Home for the

Debased Gentry being frantic with worry, the rogue aunt merely

shrugged and said: That old chap escaped for the D-day celebrations

in Normandy, so, as a Land Girl, I wasn’t going to be trumped by some

whippersnapper of a male.  You can phone and tell them I’ll return

after I have heard my great-niece in concert.  I’ll be back on Wednesday

as it’s the day I have my corns done.  Tell them not to strike a medal; I

have enough of them at my age.

The other unexpected members of the audience were Maxwell

Boothroyd-Smythe and his delinquent, but artistically-talented daughter,

Juniper.  Thankfully her pesky little brother had been taken to some kind

of trendy boot-camp by his mother.

Juniper had been photographing the burnt-out Glasgow School of Art, where

she had been promised a place if her predicted grades were achieved.  Her

father found that checking out possible accommodation for the Autumn term

was nigh-on impossible, as The Commonwealth Games‘ crowds in Sauchiehall

Street were overwhelming.  The chance of having a cup of tea in The Willow

Tearooms was as slight as Usain Bolt failing to win a gold medal.

Finding the city too crowded, they had set off for The Borders, hoping to see

Henry Moore’s King and Queen sculpture and to visit the Kagyu Samye Ling

Tibetan Centre which Juniper had been harping on about for months.  Goodness

knew, her father had been seeking inner peace for some time.  So, he agreed.

They had been eating a bar snack in The Eskdale Hotel, Langholm, when

Juniper’s observant eye focused on a flyer advertising a clarsach concert.

Dad!  Let’s go to that!  It’s that form teacher of mine.  She’s playing at some

kind of a tower house near here.  That nerdy guy who’s John’s form teacher-

the one they all call Caligula- is singing.  It should be a laugh.

When is it?

Tonight.

But won’t you put them off?

No, Miss Fotheringay is well-used to me surprising her.

Maxwell studied the mini-poster.  He recognised the woman.  She had scrubbed

up quite well.  Probably Photo-shopped.  Yes, he had danced Strip the Willow

with her at the PTA Burns’ Night.

Okay.  Okay.  But I’m not phoning ahead for tickets.  We might get lost. 

Probably hardly anyone will turn up, so we can buy tickets on the door.

I knew there was something going on between those two, whooped his

daughter.

Juniper was already texting her friend Tiger-Lily, using a full range of

emoticons.

 

 

Resume

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Bonnie Prince Charlie, Bosphorous, clarsach, communion chalice, Head Teachers' Conference, hypogonadism, Inklings, lacrosse, Land Girl, lost Faberge egg, model railway club, National Trust, Pele Tower, seamed stockings, Simon Bolivar, Snodland, St Birinus, St Vitus

Candia: You think it would be useful?

Brassica: Well, a lot of people have come in on the action

mid-plot, so-yes- why not offer them a synopsis?

Candia:  Okay- they can skip it if they have been following

since Snod’s story took off.

Here it is, folks:

SYNOPSIS: Snod’s Law

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master and Acting Head of St Birinus’ Middle School

is ripe for retirement. He loves comfort food, the Model Railway Club and Latin.

He is a role model for Junior Masters, but a bête noire for other staff.

For his entire life, he has taken for granted that he was the product of a liaison

of socialite and erstwhile Land Girl, Berenice Snodbury and A N Other.

Berenice’s sister, Augusta, took on responsibility for the child when her sister

ran off to Venezuela, following romantic dreams inspired by her hero, Simon

Bolivar.

The original Augusta, the girls’ mother. had not set them a terribly orthodox

example, as she herself had run around the Bosphorous with an itinerant rug

seller.

Snod’s lonely, institutionalised existence is interrupted by a climactic revelation

that an affair which he conducted with the ‘lax’ (lacrosse) mistress of a

sister establishment many moons ago engendered a child. That ‘child’ is now

a Housemistress at St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl, the school

in which her mother originally taught. (In fact, Gus has unwittingly met his

daughter on a number of occasions, at joint educational functions.)

The reason that his relationship broke down was owing to a Hardyean

twist of fate. A missing communication which contained his marriage

proposal now re-surfaces during re-furbishment for a school let. Diana,

the retired lax mistress, is exposed as having been deceitful.

She married ‘on the re-bound’, foisting her child on Murgatroyd-Syylk,

picture dealer and restorer. The pair subsequently divorced and now

Syylk is completing a restoration project of a Pele Tower in the Borders.

Drusilla, the Housemistress, attempts to encourage her parents to meet.

Will their romance re-ignite? Initially, it is a damp squib.

On Berenice’s death, a mysterious package arrives at school. It contains

a signet ring which Augustus’ apparent half-brother was asked to send

over to England. It bears an insignia associated with Wyvern Mote, now a

National Trust property.

Drusilla and Gus visit Great-Aunt Augusta and take her out of Snodland

Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry for the day, partly to introduce her

to her great-niece, and partly to investigate Wyvern Mote. There they see

a photograph in the schoolroom of two of the original heirs, with their tutor,

Anthony Revelly. The facial resemblance is clear: Gus is his offspring; Revelly

his father, rather than Lord Wyvern.

Lady Wyvern had had the child by her sons’ tutor on the death of her

husband. The tutor was permitted to live in a grace-and-favour apartment

in the stable block, for life, when the property was handed over to The

National Trust.

Berenice, who had been a Land Girl in the vicinity, had been paid an

undisclosed sum to acknowledge the child as being her own. A good time

girl, Berenice had tired of the responsibility, eventually absconding and

leaving her sister to arrange his schooling at St Birinus. Augusta had

once been Head Girl of St Vitus’, so knew of the boys’ prep school

establishment and its reputation.

Now Hugo, in Venezuela, has to be disabused of his belief in his

relationship to Gus.  They decide to leave Aunt Augusta in the dark.

The latter gave her ‘great-niece’ a present of what resembles one

of the famous missing Faberge eggs.  It turns out to be a fake and

yet, Dru’s visit to her step-father in the Pele Tower makes up for her

disappointment, as she is promised a communion chalice which Bonnie

Prince Charlie used before his fateful final ride south, on Syylk’s decease.

(The Pele Tower turns out to have been in Lady Wyvern’s family in the

past, so there is a neat circularity about Drusilla’s future inheritance of

the restored property, as Murgatroyd’s sole heiress.

The Head Teacher of St Birinus’ had an unfortunate ‘turn’ at the Christmas

Eve Midnight Service and was diagnosed with hypogonadism. His mid-life

crisis leads to him taking time off in order to make a motorcycle trip across

The Sahara, much to his wife’s relief. Unfortunately, Gus has to ‘stand in’,

but when his previous boss decides to abdicate, he does not apply for the

permanent post. Nevertheless, a position of Deputy Head is created for him,

in order to boost his pension. Poskett, Milford-Haven and Drusilla Fotheringay-

Syylk apply for the Headship, but are unsuccessful. Will the latter two decide

to throw over their careers and try to make a musical success of their lives

together?

Drusilla has shone in various musical concerts, by playing her harp for both

schools. She has been the focus of attention from Nigel Milford-Haven, the

rather wimpish Junior Master who is beginning to sing solo tenor in some

school productions and Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster. She seems to favour

Nigel, since she has asked him to come to the Borders with her in the school

holidays, to stage a concert for clarsach and voice.

She hopes to raise money for Murgatroyd’s roof repairs. Nigel is nervous, as

his mother usually draws on his decorating expertise in the school holidays

and she is not going to be too pleased at his bid for independence.

Meanwhile ‘Snod’ has settled into a friendly relationship with Diana, the mother

of his child, who has sold her cottage and moved back to the Suttonford area,

in which both schools are situated. However, his attention has been attracted

to Virginia Fisher-Giles, the widowed seamed-stocking-wearing PA. An invitation

for coffee chez elle after she has run him to a Head Teachers’ Conference

turns out to be more intimate than either anticipated.

Will he succumb to a projection of future domesticity with Virginia? Will he

resurrect the corpse of his relationship with Diana, or will he continue his

‘Inkling’ existence of bachelor bliss?

The lure of retirement is like an ever-receding pot of gold. He has a year

or two to serve as Deputy Head under the new regime. Will he be able to

preserve the old ways, or will the introduction of a new system create a

tsunami of bureaucracy that will threaten to engulf him?

Wish You Were Here!

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Bisto, Clegg, Conversation box, Del Monte, dildo, Dress up as favourite Character, fire extinguisher, fire watch, Fruity Friday, hand blender, hand-bell, induction loop, Land Girl, latex allergic, Mindfulness, Miss Havisham, Onward Christian Soldiers, Pele Tower, Rummikub, Songs of Praise, T-switch, Tea dance, Thine Be the Glory, Wear a Hat and Tell a Story

Aunt Augusta wasn’t as devastated by Drusilla’s letter as her correspondent

had anticipated.

Dru had written to her so-called ‘great-aunt‘ to explain that she would be

unable to visit Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry at Whitsun,

as she was planning a trip ‘oop north‘ to visit her step-father, Murgatroyd

Syylk in his renovated pele tower.

She received a reply by return of post:

Dearest Dru,

Although naturally disappointed that you are unable to visit, I have to advise

you that things are very hectic down here at the moment.

My co-ordinator has drawn up a tailor-made activity programme, or should I

term it a regime?- for me.  She hopes to boost my cognitive skills and minimise

potential depression.  It is supposed to heighten my sense of achievement.

I informed her that I already feel a high level of satisfaction at having out-lived

most of my peers.

On Mondays I have to reminisce, using a Conversation Box.  It is a chair-based

activity and the only reason that I co-operated was that it is preferable to

playing Rummikub with a bunch of old codgers whose flies are undone.  I pulled

out a hand blender, but shocked the woman by identifying it as an electric

dildo. Well, they didn’t have these things in my day- blenders, I mean.

On Tuesdays I have a Mindfulness session where we are encouraged to live

in the moment.  Well, I don’t think I will be too present in the future, if you

see what I mean.  As for the past, who said it was another country?

On Wednesdays I am moved to the television room where most of the

aged programme presenters seem to be standing trial for their behaviour in

the Seventies.  Someone once tried to put his hand on my adolescent knee,

but that was where my grandmother’s hat-pin came in very handy.  There

was an example in the Conversation Box and I think the co-ordinator woman

was shocked when I told her where I’d put it in a darkened cinema.  I tried to

demonstrate, but she said it was a bit of a dangerous weapon and shouldn’t

have been in the box.  She found a cork and embedded its point safely.  She

wouldn’t tell me where she got the bottle.

Songs of Praise is full of goody-goodies and you can’t hear the hymns properly,

as our resident hand-bell ensemble always strike up in an accompaniment to old

favourites, such as Thine Be The Glory or Onward Christian Soldiers.  I turn off

my T-switch and then I don’t have to be bothered by the induction loop.

Wednesdays are devoted to Wear A Hat and Tell a Story.  I wound a scarf

round my head like a turban and entertained the troops with a few saucy

tales from my Land Girl days.  The spoilsports wouldn’t give me a cigarette

for verisimilitude and I got into trouble for introducing the ladies to gravy

browning faux seamed stockings.  The laundry couldn’t get the stains off

the sheets and they thought it was something else.

My packet of Bisto was confiscated from my locker.  They’ve no right to

go poking around in there and they took my gin as well.  Killjoys!

Fruity Friday isn’t what its title promises.  It isn’t exactly The Man From Del

Monte He Say ‘Yes!’  It’s just an idea of the co-ordinator to put lots of exotic

fruits in front of us, as if we don’t know what a Kiwi is.  You can be sure

that they haven’t had the wit to read my medical notes first, or they would

know that I am latex allergic and will peg it pronto if a fruit with the latex

protein comes anywhere near me.  I suppose you could sue them and make

a bit out of my demise when the time comes.  (I blame all those rubber

suspenders.)  We never had tights.

So, you can see that I have to be on my toes and on the alert constantly,

or they may inadvertently kill me.  It’s so tiring.  Like being on fire watch

during the war. You never know when an incendiary incident might break

out.

At least things have been quieter on the nocturnal admissions, not to say

emissions, front.

That old gent who tried to get into bed with me seems to have disappeared.

Perhaps he had latex allergy too and they gave him banana custard.  I

wouldn’t put it past them.

At least I won’t be partnered with him at the next Tea Dance.  He would never

have been my choice of beverage. He looked like one of Berenice’s old flames.

If he’d come near me once more, I’d have sprayed him with the fire

extinguisher.

Have a lovely time and do send me a postcard, so I can look popular with

those on the outside.  We have a bit of a scoreboard here.  The resident

with the least postcards in any month is called a Clegg.

Just going off to my costume fitting for next week’s Dress Up as a Character

from Your Favourite Novel.  I’m going as Miss Havisham, so I need to collect

a few cobwebs.  I suggested that there might be some in the cellar, but

they won’t let me be wheeled there. They thought it was an excuse for me

to go looking for drink.  They might have been right!

Have a lovely time.  Wish you were here- instead of me!

Augusta xx