Wyvern Mote

Tags

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

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

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

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

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

I suppose.

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

myself, but not for Ginevra.

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

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

I would have a lot in common.

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

Dewlap Gin for the Discerning Grandmother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I prefer pugs, or Pomeranians, opined Ginevra.

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

borrowing the old girl’s tablet.

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

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

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

Begone vile blusterers!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

mean Bunny Guinness.

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

attitude, as they say.

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

person- just one amazingly talented woman who knows everything about

groundwork AND stump work. 

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

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

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

most of her boarders could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Which Bunny?)

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

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

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

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

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

professional journal.

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

Because he had been the gardener at Wyvern and someone recognised

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

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

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

information published?

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

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

‘Missing Heir Found Safe and Well.’

Read it out, ordered Ginevra.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the teacher had endeavoured to enlighten his charge regarding his abusive

behaviour. He found the boy intractable.

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

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

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

Gibbons over the mantel in the Red Sitting Room.

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

butted in.  There’s nothing new about bullying.

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

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

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

He is called a hero.

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

rest after I have had my pre-nuptial.

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

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

board.

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

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

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

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

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

even had tanks.

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

elegantly, Ginevra persisted.

Who? William the Conqueror? asked Sonia.

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

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

shoot of them.

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

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

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

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

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

Top me up, Magda!

The rest of the article would have to wait.

Sekentei (-of you all!)

Tags

amae, Djokovic, Hikikomori, Ibasho, Neet, Roundhead, sekentei, street art, Walker Art Gallery, Yarn bombing

Gisela Boothroyd-Smythe was becoming desperate.  It was only the first week

of the holidays and she had been unable to persuade her pre-pubescent son,

John, to get up in the morning.  She had called through the door of his

bedroom: Don’t be so monosyllabic!  She had just about heard the reply:

Wot? 

Today she had heard nothing and was becoming concerned.

She had come across an article which stated that a million young people-

and some not so young- remained holed up in their bedrooms, sometimes

for decades at a time.  They slept by day and stayed up all night, in a

withdrawn state known as HIKIKOMORI.

Gisela was afraid that John might be lapsing into such a condition.  She

checked the article again.  It commented that the youngsters often

exhibited infantile behaviour and could have violent outbursts.  But, as

the French would say, for teenagers: C’est normal! 

Was she worrying inordinately?

The Japanese feared loss of face, she’d read.  Maybe if the children didn’t

do well in their exams, they and their parents, would experience SEKENTEI.

This might lead to AMAE, a kind of extreme dependence.  In bad cases,

sufferers would have to be re-introduced to society through a halfway house,

or IBASHO.  But when she had tried to discuss her worries with her soon-to-

be ex-husband, he had only scoffed:  I’m already sekentei of you and the

children.  Why do you think I left?

She hadn’t known that he took an interest in global culture.

It would be all too easy to become an over-pushy parent, like so many others

who sent their offspring to St Birinus’.  It was just that she didn’t want John to

end up a NEET-(Not in Education, Training or Employment.)

It was so difficult as a virtually single parent and she was trying to be both

mother and father to her children, during the divorce period.  They, of course,

were running rings round them both.

She returned to the article.  Goodness, in Japan some parents approached an

agency which sent round hired, not assassins exactly, but strong persuaders,

who basically broke down the doors and hauled the hermits out, gave them a

severe dressing down and then took them away to a dormitory.

Well, she had already done something similar by sending him to boarding

school. But what was she to do in the holidays?

Maybe she should phone the mother of those twin boys who were in John’s

class- the ones with the ridiculously over-pretentious names.  They seemed

quite nice and couldn’t help their parents’ labelling choices.  A rose by any

other name would smell as sweet.

But they might not want to come round as John often teased his peers.  This

verb was a euphemism and she knew it.

Just at that moment, with Gisela’s hand hovering over her mobile, her daughter,

Juniper sauntered into the kitchen, opened the fridge door and proceeded to

drink pure orange juice straight from the carton.

Gisela refrained from expressing her outrage and casually asked: When did

you last see John?  She felt a role reversal, as if she was a blue satin-suited,

ringleted child being asked by a committee of Roundheads for information as

to the whereabouts of his Cavalier father.  Wasn’t there a famous painting

of this subject?  Her mind began to wander through Art History.  Wasn’t it in

The Walker Art Gallery?

Ha!  I was wondering when you would notice that little darling was missing,

sneered the evil Juniper.  I yarn-bombed his door handle and connected it to

his window catch, so he can’t get out of his room.  I’m writing it up for my

Street Art Project and it can go into my portfolio for A2.  I’m calling it

‘Prisoners For Art.’

Mum! groaned a shaky voice from behind the door.  Let me out!  I’m hungry!

Clearly he had finished all the food stashes under his bed.

Juniper!  You’re grounded!

But Juniper was already halfway down the street, having performed a Djokovic

slide on the kitchen tiles which continued down the laminated hallway, until she

laughed and ran out of the front door.

Chelsea Flower Show (Not)

Tags

Alan Titchmarsh, Bank Holiday, Ben Weatherstaff, Chelsea Flower Show, Cromwell, Dadaism, Diarmuid Gavin, dogulator, Existential, FT, geometrie vegetale, Hans Arp, How To Spend It, leaf spreader, leprechaun, mauvaise foi, NGS Garden scheme, Nihilism, pension forecast, pikestaff, Poundcafe, Roundhead, Secret Garden

Depressing news.  Depressing weather for the Bank Holiday.  Diarmuid Gavin

even pronounced the hundredth Chelsea Flower Show unimaginative and

somewhat disappointing.

Chlamydia looked out at the rain-soaked patio of Costamuchamoulah

must-seen cafe.  Leaves swirled around and became mulch on the

flagstones.

She picked up an NGS brochure which was advertising various local gardens

which were to open in Suttonford to support the Anacondas In Adversity!

charity: a cause which she and her daughter, Scheherezade, fervently

espoused.

She prayed for a meteorological change while stirring her Mocha, thus

destroying its award-winning fern imprint in choco-powder.

How much had she paid for this caffeine indulgence?  As much as could have

bought her three houses in Stoke-on-Trent. Really, social and even solitary

caffeine was becoming a luxury she could ill afford.  If her pension forecast

was anything to go by, she would be better supporting a Poundcafe

expansion from Kirby.

She flicked through last week’s FT supplement, How To Spend It.  Maybe

someone could publish a spoof version and add a final ironic Not to the title.

She picked up a less pretentious publication and started to read an article on

dogulators.  This had nothing to do with the abominable practice of dogging,

but was concerned with the various means and strategies for calculating

one’s canine friend’s true age.

Clammie thought that the formula was fairly simple: multiply by seven.

Apparently, like pension forecasts, it was a lot more complicated and involved

the recognition that some breeds age at different rates and that there are

periods when the pace accelerates and then slows.  No wonder she was so

confused about how her age of receipt of pension contributions kept varying

and she found it hard to focus on the ever-receding pot of gilt as it miraged

out of sight under the insubstantial rainbow of her transient life.

She would have to do some work to increase her contributions.  Maybe she

could create a garden design and take it to next year’s Chelsea show?  It

couldn’t be so hard to gain a gold medal.  There seemed to be a plethora of

them.

She had heard Alan Titchmarsh, no doubt irritated by Gavin’s criticisms, use the

terminological inexactitude: iconoclastic, in reference to some of the designs.

She had conjured up the image of a Cromwellian regiment of out-of-control

Roundheads smashing up garden gnomes with their pikestaffs.

Hey! What if she created a moving installation using such a – she hesitated to

adopt the over-exposed abstract noun that had broken out all over Chelsea-

using such an innovative concept?  She was sure that Diarmuid would be up for

a bit of Celtic licence as long as no one smashed a fibreglass leprechaun.  An

art garden would be the answer to her spiritual stagnation.  No- wait!- an Arp

garden.  Now she was really feeling her creative sap rise!

Yes, Hans Arp had made woodcuts of leaves and forms and had just thrown

them together at random.  She could imagine sitting on that elevated bench

with Alan T, discussing her concept.  She would refer to Dadaism and

geometrie vegetale and might even call the plot an Existential Garden for an

Age of Nihilism.

It would be a space where she had lost the plot!  She would have at its centre

two huge sculpted dice which would turn on an axis, like swivel-headed loons.

People might have to return a six to enter; or not.

She would impress Titchmarsh by echoing Arp: My garden represents a

secret, primal meaning slumbering beneath the world of appearances.

Chance points to an unknown but active principle of order and meaning

that manifests itself in the garden’s secret soul.  Alan would be blown away

as if by a giant leaf vacuum.  And the non-existence of any supporting

rationale would contain the ambivalence of the aforesaid appliance, as it

would contribute to a kind of chaos theory that, just like the leaf blower,

moved concepts around rather than forming them into a neat structure

and creating something useful, such as a compost heap.  The leaf vacuum-

a metaphor for our time.

Secret Garden?  She could place a rusting metal outline of a Ben

Weatherstaff figure leaning on a spade at its centre and a robin

could buzz around on elastic over an empty wheelchair.  That might

suggest hope.  On alternative days she would replace the wheelchair

with a vandalised shopping trolley, representing mauvaise foi.  Brilliant!

Next year Diarmuid would not be bored, she could assure him.