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!

What is the Subtext?

Tags

Blighty, Bradford on Avon, Caligula, Edward Pevensie, fauns, Laocoon, Lapland, Narnia, Queen of Narnia, sheepskin rug, Turkish Delight, White Witch

Drusilla was back in Blighty after her week in Turkey.  Now she

had to post last minute cards and mark a load of mock papers.

Thank goodness her mother was doing all the Christmas cooking

down in Bradford-on-Avon.  She was enjoying being looked after by

Diana, and her father, Augustus, would arrive for Christmas in a few

days, bringing a goose, apparently, as his festive contribution.

Added to the seasonal burden of activity, she had to make a visit to

Great-Aunt Augusta in Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.

She had let her father off the hook, as far as accompanying her,

as he had a prostate appointment, but the demanding self-appointed

materfamilias really preferred to have a one-to-one session with her

new-found female relative, Dru suspected.

Dru telephoned the care home beforehand, to check that the old

battleaxe was still in the Land of the Living.  No use in wasting petrol.

She spoke to switchboard and was connected to her aunt’s room

straight away.

Aunt Augusta?

Yes, dear.  Did you get that money?  I never trust postmen nowadays..

Yes, thank you. I’ll be down on Tuesday afternoon.

You bought the Turkish Delight I asked you to get me?

Of course.

Good.  Edward Pevensie’s favourite!

Who is Edward..? (Maybe it was some old codger she played

at Bridge.)

Haven’t you read the Chronicles of Narnia?  her aunt broke in.

I give sweet things to the staff here.  That’s what The White Witch

did.  Good for controlling minions.

Drusilla began to have serious doubts that she should have indulged

the old bat’s whims, especially if she was going to be manipulative

with the spoils.

Like The Queen of Narnia, her great-aunt had no children of her own

and was probably making a move to adopt her grand-niece.  Great-Aunt

Augusta seemed to share the evil child enslaver’s regal propensity for

focussing on the negative aspects of others’ characters and playing

down any faults of her own.  But the aged relative was actually openly

admitting to corrupting others by creating sugar cravings.

Dru realised that she was genetically linked to a witch!

The next thing will be that she starts to blame lying fauns for her

detected wrongdoings, Dru mused, while the old fiend rattled on.

I’ve looked out all the old photos, Aunt Augusta continued.  There’s

one of your father lying naked on a sheepskin rug, aged about six

months.

Can’t wait, lied Dru.  Oh, someone’s at the door.  Must go!  See you

on Tuesday.

She wasn’t lying.  A member of the allegedly untrustworthy Guild

of Hermes was holding out a contraption on which she had to inscribe

an identifying mark.  He was standing in a veritable Laocoon of elastic

bands.

Merry Christmas, love!  he smiled, holding out a padded envelope which

should have been able to have been slipped through the letterbox. He

was lingering just a fraction too obviously, in keeping with the time of

year.  Ah no, to be fair, it required a signature.

Thanks! replied Dru.  Same to you.  And she shut the door somewhat

distractedly.

For once, the package was actually addressed to her and wasn’t for

the neighbours. It had been re-directed from the school boarding

house.  Gosh!  The office staff must still be working.

What could it be and who was it from?

At least the postperson hadn’t put one of those wretched cards

through the letterbox, necessitating a scurried trip to the office to

collect whatever it was.

She took a creased fiver from her purse and hurried out in her slippers.

He was easy to spot in his luminous waistcoat.

Merry Christmas!  She tipped him just before he chalked some esoteric

symbol on their gate post, which would have meant that their mail

would possibly have been permanently re-directed to Lapland.

Cheers! he grinned, dropping a couple more elastic bands on the path

in his adrenalin rush of greed and pushing his trolley into the lane.

Oh well, Aunt Augusta’s over-generous paper flourish had come in handy

after all. Yet, every gift seemed to be a bribe of one sort or another.

She looked at the sender label on the back of the package.  Cryptically it

only read: “Caligula” and was postmarked as having originated in Cornwall.

She ripped the padded envelope open.  A little black velvet pouch with

drawstrings was revealed.  She pulled the knotted strings and a fine gold

chain with a tiny gold harp slid into the palm of her hand.  A card

accompanied the gift and it said:

To My Angel xx

What is the subtext? she asked herself.

Dru!  Who was that?

No one, she lied.  Just something for the neighbours.