Palm Sunday in Salisbury

Tags

Arundells, Babel, Bishop's Stall, Chapter House, Constable, Creme egg, Dom Perignon, Easter, Jobseekers, Julian of Norwich, Living Water, Mammon, Mocha, National Trust, New Sarum, Old Sarum, Palm Sunday, patens, Pontius Pilate, Salisbury, Simnel cake, Ted Heath, University Challenge, Yasser Arafat

A re-blog as it is timely:

I can’t believe that it’s nearly Easter, shivered Carrie.

Quick! let’s go in and bag a table, I said.

Costamuchamoulah cafe was still doing a brisk trade, even on this

grey day.  Amazingly, the smokers were still prepared to sit outside.

We have the routine down to a fine art now: one gets into the queue while

the other nabs a table, much as the disciples snatched a colt.

Yes, Easter’s early this year, I commented, watching a child stuff its face with

a Creme Egg in advance of the Christian calendar.  It’s amazing how such

diminutive creatures can incorporate a whole orb of sickly chocolate fondant

into such a tiny aperture.

I bet they don’t know what Simnel cakes represent, I mused aloud.

What do they stand for? queried Carrie.  Then, seeing my expression, she

added, I’m sure I once knew.

That’s what I say during University Challenge, I replied.

Then I sipped my Mocha, getting a chocolate powder moustache.  You know,

it’s Palm Sunday tomorrow.  Are you going to go to a service? 

Try persuading that lot to get out of bed, she sighed. They used to like to see

the donkey coming into the church, though.  Sometimes they were convinced

that The Dean, giving his dramatised reading, was Pontius Pilate and it scared

them.

Yes, we used to go to Salisbury for the service.  That was when Ted Heath

lived in The Close. In fact..

..you have a poem about it, she smiled.

How did you know?

PALM SUNDAY IN SALISBURY

Polythene wraps New Sarum like an egg.

The sky above The Close is Constable’s.

Cream-robed clergy congregate in cloisters,

bespectacled, brandishing dried gray palms,

under a spire as tall as Babel’s own,

while new choristers mouth All glory, laud

and honour.. without comprehending laud.

The tallest lad hopes that his voice won’t crack.

Girl choristers have not been asked to sing today.

Some miniature Yasser Arafats

in tea-towels and trainers coax an ass

from a spreading cedar into the nave,

where all present pray for its continence.

True blue glass provides a continuo.

Ted Heath’s Jaguar, also blue, is parked

on a reserved space outside Arundells.

What if one should loose its handbrake

and say, The Lord has need of thee this day?

Meanwhile we make intercession for all

unemployed, under and over-employed,

while carefully noting the advertised

champagne breakfast on our service schedule.

Dom Perignon: a foretaste of glory.

The Jobseekers can sip Living Water.

Coffee will be served in the Chapter House

among the exhumed coffin chalices,

patens. The bookshop is doing business

in postcards of Julian of Norwich:

All manner of thing shall be well. Mammon

hasn’t felt stings from His whip of cords-yet.

The head which indicates the Bishop’s stall

has a triple face of circumspection.

The Dean and his ordained wife wear the same

as they stand on repro medieval tiles,

trying not to worry about their lunch.

In the cloisters a chill wind chafes faces.

A chair is overturned, but no tables.

Although we have received the sign of peace,

our palm crosses seem ineffectual.

We stick one on Ted’s windscreen, just in case

his residential permit cuts no ice

with the flaming Being at the Close gate,

who curiously doesn’t wear a badge,

but bears authority from Old Sarum.

He tends to let the backpackers pass through,

like Christians, still bearing their large burdens,

or as camels accessing a needle.

But Tory Faithful have to wait in queues,

backs turned to the Celestial City,

while Peter checks their National Trust cards

and the very stones cry, Glory! Glory!

Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil Re-visited

Tags

cheek swab, milk teeth, National Trust, Roadside Recovery, She'll be coming round the mountains, The American Songbag, Yorick

They were off!  Praise be for Roadside Recovery!

Just thinking…, said Snod, once they had reached

the motorway and he felt that Dru could concentrate.

Mmm?

You never did go into Bunbury, Quincunx

and Quatrefoil, to arrange to inspect the rest of the

jewellery deposited for you in the bank vault.

I know…It’s just that circumstances changed.

What do you mean?  How?

Well, now that you are seeing Virginia, I thought, if you

two get hitched, spliced, or whatever, well…

Snod coughed.

…well, she would be the due recipient of the legacy, being

your- em- wife and therefore Lady Wivern’s daughter-in-

law.

The bumf said it was for your wife, or daughter.

Well, I don’t have a wife and you are my daughter, so, at

the point of Lady Wivern’s death, you were the only valid

beneficiary.  It couldn’t even be argued that Diana was my

common-law-wife, as we never lived together and she was

espoused to Murgatroyd.   I suppose you could give her a

token from the hoard…something you are less keen on,

if you feel you must.  And, if you give Diana a little

something, I will give you the heart-shaped diamond ring

I kept all those years for her.  I don’t think Virginia would

appreciate jewellery bought for someone else and it is

inappropriate for me to give it to your mother now she is

back together with Murgatroyd.

 

 

The only thing that truly interested me was The Tindall

Jewel and, as you know, I signed for it to be left on

permanent display at Wyvern Mote.  At least they verified

my genetic credentials fairly discreetly in order for me to 

assert ownership and do that.

Yes, The National Trust soon co-operated when they

got wind that you were going to be Lady Bountiful to

them, Snod agreed.

I must say I was impressed when the curator came up

with Lionel and Peregrine’s milk teeth in the schoolroom

drawer.  It was so lucky that the little yellow stumps had

been kept in labelled drawing pin boxes, along with their

other childhood treasures.

Yes, my half brothers… A lifetime ago, said Snod sadly.

It certainly saved any ‘Alas poor Yorick!’ exhumations.

All we had to provide was that cheek swab and-hey

presto!-proof of identity for both of us.  That’s Modern

Science for you. And Modern Life.  Somehow spoils the

mystery, though… No, things can’t be changed

retrospectively.  Anyway, even if Virginia and myself do…

Father!  Dru pulled into the inside lane.  Are you telling

me there is a possibility??!

She hasn’t asked me yet, Snod prevaricated.  What

about you and Nigel?  You don’t give much away yourself.

Maybe we will, if you will.

Sounds like that song from The American Songbag, Dru

laughed.  Then she started singing:

She’ll be coming round the mountains when she comes…

She stopped: Who was ‘she’?

A locomotive.  It’s a railroad song.  Let’s just hope we

avoid a train crash in our relationships!

Oh, don’t be so gloomy!  Let’s just hope that she’ll be

wearing silk pyjamas when she comes!  I wonder if

Virginia does?

No, she doesn’t, commented Snod, without thinking.

Neither does Nigel! Dru giggled.

They both burst out laughing and continued lustily:

I will, if you will, so will I!

 

Resume

Tags

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?

Land Girls

Tags

Angouleme, carpet bag, Cinderellas of the Forces, Circuit des remparts, Concours d'elegance, Delahaye, Freedom of Information Act, General Registrar, Her Majesty's Passport Office, Istanbul, Land Girls, National Trust, Ouspensky, perjury, Pierre Loti, release certificates, Rumi, Russell Square, Simon Bolivar, Snodland, Sufi, T S Eliot, theosophical, Women's Land Army

Sonia said, Yes, I’ve heard of Ouspensky.  He was theosophical, was he

not?

I died a mineral and became a plant

I died as plant and rose to animal

I died as animal and I was Man.. 

-sort of Sufi-inspired Rumi concepts..

Something like that, said Dru.  She had dropped in at Royalist House

to see her mother and to discuss the latest proceedings.

I had a look at some newspaper cuttings which were in the envelope that

Bunbury, Quatrefoil and Quincunx, Solicitors gave us.  There were some

leaflets for a series of lectures that Ouspensky gave at Lady Rothermere’s.

I think that Augusta- she of the Bosphorus- attended when she came over

to London to arrange the birth of her first child.  It was all the rage to go

and hear him at the time. I think T S Eliot and other literary figures went

along.  Augusta had heard him first of all in Istanbul.

So, Diana tried to keep on track, she gave birth in London to Augusta 2?

Yes, said Dru. She had  taken a room in Russell Square, near to

Ouspensky’s lodgings.  Lord Wyvern arranged it.  I think it was in his

town house.  Some of her letters were on his notepaper.

Lord Wyvern?  How did he come into it? asked Diana.

Well, she had had a fling with him a good few years before, but they had

parted amicably, before he married Aurelia Tindall.  Augusta’s baby wasn’t

his; it was definitely the rug seller’s; his name was on the birth certificate.

She popped Augusta 2 into a carpet bag and bounced back to the Bosphorous

to live the female equivalent of a Pierre Loti dream.

How had they- I mean Lord Wyvern and Augusta1- come across each

other?

I think Aurelia’s mother and Augusta worked on the land during

World War 1.  Lord Wyvern’s first wife and Aurelia’s mother had been

friends at a London Finishing School. The Land Girls used to hang about

The Red Lion Pub, spending some of their 18/- a week.  Because Augusta

1 used to nostalgically talk to her daughters about the rural idyll that was

Kent, they developed a fascination for it and, after Augusta 2 left St Vitus’,

having been Head Girl, she went to join the WLA, as one of the Cinderellas

of the Forces and headed for the hop-picking. She didn’t want to live in

Istanbul.

WLA? queried Diana.

Women’s Land Army, Sonia butted in.

She wrote to Berenice and told her what larks she was having and

Berenice got herself expelled and, once she was seventeen and a half,

she signed up too.  Wearing breeches appealed to her. She had an

affair with Anthony for a couple of years.  Of course, her mother hadn’t

given her any moral compass.

So, that’s why he recognised the family resemblance in Augusta 2 in

Snodland Nursing Home?

Yes, I suppose so.  The sisters were alike.

When did he take up with Aurelia?  Sonia was a stickler for detail.

Oh, not till about 1948 or 1949-after he rescued Peregrine.

And Gus was born in 1950, added Diana.  She had always

remembered his birthday, if only to supply him with socks.

Correct.  Aurelia paid Berenice to pretend that the baby was hers,

but Berenice took Father to Istanbul.  Her mother wasn’t interested

in him and so Augusta 2 eventually arranged his enrolment into St

Birinus’ pre-prep department, Dru explained.

And Berenice took the money and ran off? Sonia frowned.

..to Venezuela, to follow romantic dreams about Simon Bolivar, taking

after her vagabond mother, Dru clarified. The sisters had received

their release certificates from the WLA in 1950.

But Berenice was born in Istanbul? Diana probed.

In 1923. Lord Wyvern married Aurelia in 1934 when he was

fifty-four.

How old was she? Sonia asked.

About eighteen, Dru looked disapproving. Some of her girls in the

boarding house were of a similar age.

And when did he die? Sonia was analysing every detail.

Well, the boys were born in 1935 and 1936..

Lionel and Peregrine? Diana checked.

Yes, in quick succession! But Lord Wyvern died on his way to the

Circuit des Remparts, in Angouleme, in 1939.

Angouleme?  Sonia couldn’t quite place this French city.

‘Monaco without sea’, as it was known.  In the Charente.

He was travelling in a Concours d’Elegance and he got a flat

tyre. He jacked up his Delahaye, but it collapsed on top of

him and crushed his chest.

So Lady Wyvern had been a widow for six years when Anthony

arrived to tutor the boys?  Sonia was on the ball.

She was thirty-six when Father was born.  By 1955 she was dead and

the house and estate given over to The National Trust.  Except for

grandfather being allowed to remain in the stable block apartment

until his decease, by special arrangement.  Lionel had gambled away

most of his inheritance.

What I can’t understand is why Berenice, or the others, were not

prosecuted for perjury on the registration document? said Diana.

Mum, there may be a warning about criminal offences and falsification

on the certificate itself, but no one has been prosecuted for the last

thirty-five years for faking parentage.  Under The Freedom Of

Information Act, I checked all this from her Majesty’s Passport

Office.

So, there isn’t much incentive to tell the truth? remarked Sonia.

‘The Registrar General does not routinely investigate the

circumstances in which erroneous information came to be given

at registration’ were the exact words, as I recall, said Dru.  And,

anyway, there is a time limit of three years to report suspicions

to the police.  You would need DNA from all involved and Anthony

and Aurelia are dead, as is Berenice.

So, the records are not likely to be changed?  Diana said.

You’ve got it! replied Dru.

 

Coffee?

Tags

baobab, Bedouin, Bentley, Beuys, Bourbon biscuits, felt suit, Freudian slip, Gertrude Jekyll, Gold Blend adverts, National Trust, Piper Cherokee, rehydration techniques, St Exupery, Tate Modern, The Little Prince, Timex

Would you like to come in for coffee?  Virginia asked Snod, just before

jumping out of the driver’s seat of his car and handing him his own

keys.

He really needed to get home to work on some feedback documents,

but, since he had not had such an invitation in over thirty years, he

said: What the heck! to himself.  Emm, well, yes, why not?  Just a quick

one.

Virginia gave him an odd look, but led the way nevertheless.

Lay on, Macduff, he joked, to hide his slight unease.

Oh, I thought it was ‘Lead on..’  She rummaged around in the bottom of

her handbag for her keys.  Then she blushed.  She didn’t want him to

think that was a Freudian slip.  Coffee was such an embarrassing

invitation nowadays. When she invited someone in for coffee, she

meant just that.

It was all the fault of that series of Gold Blend adverts in the 80s.

Some men in the past had been rather surprised when she had

shown them the door after one drink.  Not even a biscuit.

Snod sank into Virginia’s comfortable sofa and looked round the room

while she filled the kettle.  Interesting old fireplace.  He had almost said

‘foreplace‘.  Why was that?

There were some photos of children- presumably her nieces and

nephews.  There was a faded wedding picture.  He would have liked to

go over and take a closer look, but Virginia came in and put two coasters

down on the coffee table.  She moved a large Gertrude Jekyll Gardens

book.

She returned with two National Trust mugs.  They featured Wyvern Mote.

So, she must have visited on some occasion.  He’d ask her about that later.

Sorry, no Bourbon biscuits, she apologised.

He was strangely touched that she had remembered his predilection.

Eh, how long have you been here?  he asked, sipping his drink.  He’d

have preferred tea, but no matter.

We bought it in 1987, she said.  It’s too big for me on my own, but useful

when the family come over.  And, of course, I love the garden.  William

loved the outbuilding.  He kept his old Bentley in there. He was away a lot,

so, he decided that he didn’t need a house on his own. We bought this place

together as a joint investment.

William? Snod looked faintly puzzled.

My elder brother, she replied, going over to the mantle-piece and taking

down the wedding photo.  Sadly they got divorced. He died of pancreatic

cancer in the 90s.

The groom looked very like Virginia.  Good-looking bride too.

I’m sorry, said Snod most sincerely, but oddly glad that William hadn’t been

her husband.  After an awkward pause, he continued.  And do you have any

other siblings?

Well, my sister who lives in New Zealand.  She tries to come over every

few years so that I can see the children.  That’s when this house comes

into its own.  And, of course, I love the garden.

I see.  Snod noticed that she still hadn’t mentioned a man in her past.

He picked up a little book before placing his mug down on the coaster.

The Little Prince, he smiled.  It was one of his favourites.  Augusta had

given it to him one Christmas when he was nine.

Yes, Arnaud gave it to me.  He was a pilot.  He crashed his Piper

Cherokee when we had just been married a year or so.  Some Bedouin found

him, but even their rehydration techniques failed.

So, now the tragedy was out.

Yes, what St- Exupery says is true: one characteristic can recall your

love and pain.  The colour of wheat evokes his hair.  He was only twenty

nine when he died.  I suppose that I have been widowed almost as long

as he was alive.

I rate this house because of the garden.  I don’t care about its financial

value.  When I smell the roses that we planted together, my heart fills

with sweet pain, if that makes sense. There’s no point in allowing the

bitter experiences to destroy you.  You have to feel the pain and

embrace life.

Snod remembered that Exupery had said one must root out the seeds

of the baobab.  They must be destroyed immediately or they would take

hold.  He decided to remove one little seed of resentment against Diana

and her lack of amatory interest.  Here, on the other hand, was a woman

who would recognise a drawing of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant

and wouldn’t, in a matter-of-fact way, put it down to being a side elevation

of a hat. Here was a potential soul mate who did not talk about golf, bridge

or politics.  She understood primeval forests, stars and she might appreciate

a sunset.

But the mythology of her life was striking him very powerfully.  A husband who

had parallels to St-Exupery and even that artist chap whose work he didn’t

make much of- Joseph Beuys, wasn’t it?  That awful school trip to Tate Modern

with the disappearing Boothroyd-Smythe!

Hadn’t Beuys come down in a desert too?  Or had he made the whole thing up?

Maybe Boothroyd-Smythe had his particular facility for mendacity encouraged by

contact with the work of such modern cultural role models?

The only thing Snod could relate to had been Beuys’ felt suit and he wouldn’t

have minded getting a tailor to run up a similar one for himself.  Apparently it

had been a symbol of social isolation and imprisonment.  But maybe he, Augustus

Snodbury, no longer needed such a layer of protection from the world- not if

Virginia..

He looked at his Timex.  Gosh, is that the time?  I’d better be going.  Thanks

for the coffee.

He shook her hand and as she opened the door to let him exit, she leaned

forward and kissed him very gently on the cheek.

Sleep tight, Gus, dear, she whispered.

He turned back and, before he could stop himself, they were locked in a

passionate embrace, indulging in what Boothroyd-Smythe et al would have

termed a snogging session.

Snod had snogged after thirty odd snog-free years.  He had forgotten how

good it was.  Mehercule!  So this was what was meant by coming in for

coffee.  It beat filling in feedback forms no end.

 

 

 

 

Time Spent in Reconnaissance

Tags

Forge men, Garibaldi biscuit, General Custer, Ha-ha, moniker, Monte Cassino, Montgomery, Napoleon, National Trust, Royal Fusiliers, Royal School of Church Music, stirrup cup, time spent in reconnaissance, Vickers machine gun

Sonia brought in a box of Kleenex which she had foreseen they would

need.

Dru unfolded the obituary and passed it over to her mother.

Diana looked over the top of her bifocals:

It’s very comprehensive, she said.  It covers his detective work in the

discovery of The Honourable Peregrine Wivern who was trapped in that

awful priest hole and his war-disrupted degree from Durham University,

not to mention his service with The Royal Fusiliers at Monte Cassino.  He

was sent back to Blighty with some wound from a Vickers machine gun,

but it can’t have been too disabling, given his subsequent fertility.  So young

to have experienced all that by the time he took up tutoring at Wyvern

Mote.

Bet it beat Teacher Training!

How did he pass away? asked Sonia, munching a Garibaldi biscuit a shade

too heartlessly.

It seems to have been linked to a fall which he had a couple of years ago,

which literally precipitated his admission to Snodland Nursing Home for the

Debased Gentry.  He stepped backwards, indicating some special

architectural feature on the roof to some visitors and fell down the ha-ha.

Not funny, sympathised Sonia and then wondered why Diana stifled a

giggle.

I think it was all downhill from then on, stated Dru and then smiled

broadly, before checking herself. I mean, once the connection with

Wyvern was severed, he seemed to lose his marbles.

Did it say where he was from originally? Sonia enquired.

Northumberland, I believe.  Dru was trying to recall the details.  It

mentioned his favourite saying which was: ‘Time spent in reconnaissance

is never wasted.’ His nickname was ‘Iron Sides’, which even his charges

adopted, but it must have come from his military background.

Oh, that’s an old saying, supplied Sonia.  People have attributed it to

everyone from Napoleon to General Custer and Montgomery.

Diana wasn’t listening:  It mentions that his family were forge men,

some of whom went to Virginia.

Ties in with his moniker very neatly, Sonia commented.

Monica? Dru looked puzzled.

Sonia didn’t elaborate.

He has left large bequests to The Royal School of Church Music, whose

patron in HM, the Queen..

Why? Sonia was curious.  She should have known.

Dru broke in to the conversation:  Because he had a very fine baritone voice

and he was a church warden.  He’s left the rest to St Birinus Middle School to

endow a music scholarship and his entire collection of antique silver stirrup

cups will be placed in Wyvern Museum.

Yes, clarified Diana, but it says here that if anyone thinks they have a claim,

then they are to contact Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil, Solicitors

in Rochester, who are administering the estate…  Oh, within six months.

I don’t see the point, said Dru.  The apartment would have been grace-and-

favour for life only.  It will revert to The National Trust.

Sonia took a second Garibaldi and came up with a revolutionary thought:

Suppose there are some papers which should be retained in the family?

Gus had better ring them up.

Dru replied, We can talk business after we have broken the news to him.

It’s all so cataclysmic.  I mean, Dad would have to have a DNA test,

probably.

There’s no point in upsetting Aunt Augusta, as she did not remember him

as being connected to Wyvern in any way.  She just enclosed the cutting

because we had been told of his nocturnal escapade in the home. 

Berenice is dead and Anthony was nothing to do with Hugo de Sousa.

 So, let’s be discreet and break it to Father over a meal, if he can get away

from school for a couple of hours.

You can ring from here, Sonia suggested.  It’s more private than speaking

from the boarding house, or on your mobile.

Thanks, Sonia.  I’ll try him now while I’m feeling brave.

Diana squeezed her hand.

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!

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.

New Year Resolutions

Tags

doolally, incontinence pad, lacrosse, Land of Nod, Mons Meg, napery, National Trust, novella, Pet Shop Boys, psycho-geriatrician, Raj, redcurrant sauce, snifterino, Sondheim, Tea Tree Oil

When Sonia woke up at lunchtime, the day after she had indulged herself

with a surfeit of snifterinos at Ginevra’s son’s cottage, she resolved never to

let a drop of that dreadful Dewlap Gin for the Discerning Grandmother pass

her lips again.

Ginevra, totally accustomed to downing the firewater, was more inclined

to chastise herself for not sticking to her writing schedule of 1,000 words a

day, on her work- in-progress, the e-book entitled ****in the Park with***.

This was not a x-rated title: it was just that it had been pointed out to her

that ‘Sunday’ had already been taken by Sondheim for a musical and ‘George’

had been used in the eponymous title.  So, Ginevra hadn’t quite decided on

the day of the week that her novella would focus on for its unity of action.

She was also toying with the forenames ‘Gregory’ and ‘Gordon’ for her

romantic hero.  Suddenly, on Hogmanay morning, she stopped swithering

and was resolute that it should be Saturday in the Park with Gregory.

(See 26th Nov 2012: Who Do I Think I Am? for link)

Meanwhile, in Bradford-on-Avon, on New Year’s Eve, Diana Fotheringay,

retired lax (lacrosse to the uninitiated) mistress from St Vitus’ School for

the Academically-Gifted Girl, was adamant that she would never again bring

out her family’s antique linen napery, to dress the festive groaning board,

as long as the head of the table was to be graced by the messy Augustus

Snodbury, who had spilled indelible redcurrant sauce on the pristine, nay

virginal, tablecloth.

And, talking of intactae, Drusilla had determined that she was going to

visit Wyvern Mote, just as soon as The National Trust opened their

aestival portals, in a bid to resolve the mystery of her father’s

parentage.

She had discreetly opened the subject with her mother as they were

washing up – Gus had made himself scarce at this point, as many men do.

However, she had drawn a genealogical blank.

Frankly, Diana was looking forward to retrieving her own space.  She had been

terrified that she was going to catch Snod’s end-of-term cold- the one he

always succumbed to when the adrenalin level subsided.  He had kept making

the excuse that his sonorous sternutation was provoked by the resinous fir

she had decked in the corner of her tiny sitting room.  She remained

unconvinced and liberally sprayed the room with Tea Tree oil.

Gus resolved to return to school early, in order to adopt The Headmaster’s

mantle and Diana secretly was glad that her choice television programmes

would not, therefore, be disturbed by the school secretary’s frequent relaying

of 24 hour reports, in the manner of an insomniac news anchor.

Everything seemed to revolve around some troublesome boy called

Boothroyd- Smythe,  Drusilla recognised the name as she had his sister in

her boarding house.  She resolved to pay attention to how the seasoned

educator, ie/ her father, dealt with such delinquents.

She overheard him say: Don’t worry!  I’ll fix the little blighter good and proper

when I get back.  He may give his parents the run around, but he’ll have ME

to contend with in the Spring Term.

Drusilla made a point of trying to remain unsceptical as to any projected

behavioural success.  She must endeavour to be less smug in the New

Year.

And she must also be more tolerant of old people such as Great-Aunt

Augusta.  In fact, she should give the old bird a call, so long as the

residents of Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry hadn’t been

packed off to The Land of Nod by 8pm, for the convenience of staff who

wanted to follow the pyrotechnic displays from Dubai, London and Edinburgh

on the telly, without the inconvenience of having to change an incontinence

pad at the very moment when the fuse was ignited on Mons Meg and the

sparks began to fly to a discordant backdrop provided by The Pet Shop Boys

and a massed pipe band.

Drusilla supposed that the old biddies- she must stop referring to them as

such- would probably not know what day of the week it was, let alone

what moment of portent they were missing.  She reflected on the questions

that psycho- geriatricians ask aged people to determine their marbles’ level:

Who is the Prime Minister?  What date is it?

Actually, she herself often had difficulty in remembering what day it was in

the school holidays.  That was worrying!  What year was it again?

When she had been with Aunt Augusta in the Recreation Room, some

official had approached the old lady and asked:  Who is your visitor,

Aggie?

Augusta had waved the troublesome inquisitor away with an imperious

hand, such as the wife of some Indian Governor might have dismissed a

fawning minion in the days of the Raj, with a flick of a tasselled fly

swatter.

The name-badged auxiliary had persisted, nodding towards Dru, but

continuing to address the increasingly agitated one:  Do you know who

she is?

Augusta scowled:  Do you know who she is?

Of course, the young woman replied, somewhat puzzled.

Well, in that case, Dru’s Great-Aunt was triumphant, you don’t need

to ask me!

She returned her attention to her great-niece:  Ignore her, Doolally, or

whatever it is they call you.  Now what was I saying?

Drusilla resolved there and then, never to grow old.

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!