by Alex Monroe
This is exactly it, I thought. This has got it. It wasn’t so much the scene itself, but the moment, which had an element of fantasy and magic about it, exactly what I wanted to explore in the new collection. Dark and light. a kind of fairy tale. But it was also very real. I breathed it in, felt it on my skin. I was part of it, and I wanted to tell the world about it.
These days I recognise those glimpses of an idea more easily, although this part of the making process has evolved in me quite gradually. The compulsion to turn a feeling into an object. When I was much younger, the sensation of making was exactly the same, but there was no thought of exploring an emotion, or at least I was never aware of it. Not the childish me. Then it was all about function: wars to be won, cash to be made.
And my designs simply emerged from whatever materials I could lay my hands on. Scraps nicked from building sites. Debris from the marina. Bartered treasures from the binmen. There were rich pickings if you knew where to look. And there was always a high point in my scavenging year: the village fête, held in our gardens, which marked the start of the long summer holidays.
A wonderfully festive mood swept through The Old Parsonage during the build-up to the fête. The weather hadn’t been great so far that summer of 1972, but it didn’t matter very much to us children. Both house and gardens swarmed with people, all busy with preparations of one sort or another. Except Roddy and me. We were lying low, flat on our stomachs in the hayloft above the old stables, hiding from the grown-ups and keeping a good eye on proceedings. You never knew when there might be a chance to slip out and take a toffee apple or sneak away some sweets.
We called this place the Barn, and it made a perfect lookout. It was dark and smelled of musty rotten wood and hay. The Barn hadn’t been used for decades and everything was just as it had been left, quietly decaying. Old bits of horse tackle, the odd pitchfork and a few rusting chains still hung on the red-brick walls. The floor was so rotten that grown-ups couldn’t visit. Here and there, rough pieces of wood patched holes where heavier children had fallen through. One narrow window overlooked the drive, the other faced the back gardens and orchards. Most of the glass was smashed in both. Shafts of sunlight pierced the sagging pantile roof and I remember they looked almost solid to me. I used to try and grasp them, breaking and chopping them with my hand, examining tiny dancing dust particles, which shone like gold.
Today, as always, the signal for lunch was a loud bell. We leaped up, lowered the ladder through the trap door, and hurried to the house. Lunch was a help-yourself affair in a crowded kitchen. There were jugs of beer on the dresser, and elderflower cordial. Debbie and Nikki were in charge, handing plates to neighbours and wrapping knives and forks in squares of kitchen roll. They wore their hair long now, parted in the middle. This was the era of tight-fitting striped tank tops over loose white blouses with the top buttons fastened. The girls’ high-waisted purple cords swished efficiently as they moved. We boys, in checked shirts and T-bar sandals, managed to shove our way to the table, where a couple of loaves of white bread sat on a blue-and-white gingham cloth. A bowl of tomatoes from the garden sat alongside cheese, preserves and some hard-boiled eggs. Roddy and I spooned runny strawberry jam onto badly cut chunks of bread and butter and ducked outside to sit and eat on the trunk of a fallen tree, where we were soon joined by the girls and a jam-smeared Tom.
The walled garden was as full as we’d ever seen it. Against the back wall, opposite the house, a coconut shy was half built. No coconuts yet. Trestle tables lined the other walls, waiting for their games. The grown-ups sat on two long benches either side of another wooden table, which bowed in the middle like a hammock. Mugs of beer with cheese and pickle in the sun. Next to the fallen tree was its stump, cut off at about waist height. The top surface was spiked with twenty or so 6-inch nails, waiting for the how-hard-can-you-whack-a-nail competition to begin. Someone had left a hammer on the log in readiness, and Roddy picked it up experimentally, felt its weight, eyed the nails. There was a yell from the house. Roddy scowled, dropped the hammer, and flicked a few bees off his bread and jam. Pesky buggers.
The girls, defeated by the bees, scooped up Tom and retreated into the safety of indoors. Roddy and I followed along the tree trunk, a jump over the herb bed (grabbing a sorrel leaf on the way) and in through the scullery door. An armful of flowers lay by the old butler’s sink waiting to be put into vases; a box of apples, ready to be dipped into molten toffee, had been left next to the wellington boots on the flag-tiled floor. Debbie pulled the larder door shut as she passed, glancing in at shelves packed with jars of preserved fruits and jams. In the kitchen the girls settled Tom with his crusts up on a stool at the table and got back to their jobs: lunch to clear, cakes to bake, more cordial to bottle. I scooped up some sugar in my fingers and poured it into my mouth, and then we darted through into the living room, which was still strewn with half-sewn bunting. Prizes for the lucky dip were piled on the floor next to rolls of old wallpaper, ready to wrap them.
We crept out through another door, along a dark corridor and into the workshop by the back stairs. The beat-the-buzzer contraption sat silent on the bench: lunch had interrupted Stuart’s repairs. Through the workshop and into the schoolroom, full of jumble. And outside again, where a large sack with a target painted on its front gaped half-stuffed, a bale of straw beside it. The archery competition was only slightly less exciting than the plate-smashing. But they were nothing compared with the climax of the Woolverstone summer fête.
Hey, listen! It’s here. Quick.
A tatty blue van was parking under the yew tree. Peggy-Ann had beaten us to it, so it was back to the Barn for cover. Through the glassless window we watched: four burly men got out and opened the back doors of the vehicle. Our eyes widened. We grinned at each other.
Oh, well done, chaps! You couldn’t possibly just carry it up to the Top Field for me? Peggy-Ann spoke in the uncommanding voice of one who had no need to issue orders. Her will was always done. She turned, and perhaps the silk scarf knotted at her neck caught the breeze jauntily.
The men’s grunts and wheezes could be heard from the Barn as they struggled to unload the old piano from their van. Off they staggered, past the old stables and coach house, with a passing glimpse through a wrought-iron gate at the beer drinkers. Roddy and I scampered down the loft ladder and followed at a safe distance. Around the wall where almond trees grew in pretty curved bays, along a narrow path through the kitchen gardens, with their awkward stacks of terracotta flowerpots, and then past the crumbling hothouse.
Regular halts were called for, with much brow-wiping and breath-gathering, and a few furtive scowls at Peggy-Ann. Her smile was as unshakable as her directions about exactly where to step and how to stand and when to heave and mind the precious plants. There were a lot of these. In stops and starts, the procession turned left at the tall ash with its Tarzan rope and views up to the jungle. And still we followed, just out of sight.
At Top Field at last. The tennis courts had long ago been given over to ducks and geese. The blackened bonfire site was in this field, and from here another path led past a giant walnut tree, through into orchards full of ancient apple trees. But the piano need not go so far: after some final huffing and heaving, it’s in position at last, just by the walnut tree. And Peggy-Ann has decided it’s safe to leave the men. First though, she voiced a final thought.
While you’re at it, there’s another piano in the hall. Would you be angels? Debbie will show you the way.
You can’t have a piano-smashing competition with just one piano.
When I thought about it later in life, it seemed a barbaric sport, not far off book-burning. But now that I’ve done a little research about why we were destroying pianos with such glee each summer in Suffolk, it makes more sense to me. These were the early days of affordable imports from the Far East. Desperate old instruments, which had expanded and contracted in the dampness of drafty village halls, instruments that tortured brave performers and turned beau
tiful melodies into honky-tonk tunes were being joyously cast aside and replaced by wonderful new pianos. Music lovers rejoiced! But music was liberated at a price: the abandonment and disposal of hundreds of these old faithfuls. I imagine that for the grown-ups, it was more a celebration of the end to disharmony than a delight in the destruction of art. For Roddy and me, it was simply a means to an end.
Two beautiful upright pianos now stood beside the walnut tree in Top Field. One dark, one lighter. One was the stranger from the village, the other familiar from The Old Parsonage’s own hall. And now we were alone with them. I gently ran my fingers over the smooth surfaces. The shiny lacquered wood had an intricate inlay, cut in symmetrical patterns of leaves and ribbons. The grain on the veneer glowed in the sunlight with the depth and lustre of a tiger’s eye. I lifted the fall to reveal the black-and-white keyboard beneath and my fingers began to move across it. Outside, the notes sounded odd and very out of tune. We pressed the foot-pedals hard and listened to the strange noises that resounded round the field. We raised the hinged lids. So much material. Wood and strung steel wires. Brass and ivory. Ebony too, of course. But best of all, hidden under the back of the keys, right inside the heart of each old piano, we knew we would find lead.
By mid-morning the next day the fête was in full swing and all the village children were jollying along, eating cakes and shattering crockery and bashing nails. There was no lunch to speak of. At teatime, an announcement was made and everyone bustled up to the Top Field. Two teams of four brawny fellows were there already, facing their pianos, a sledgehammer in each hand. It was time for the finale. The first team to reduce their piano to matchsticks was the winner and this was a serious business. Chelmondiston and Tattingstone might have had five or more instruments at their fêtes, but here in Woolverstone we really knew how to smash a piano at speed. Was Peggy-Ann’s friend Jimmy there, Britten’s favourite percussionist? Quite likely. Other musicians certainly were.
On your marks . . . Ready your hammers . . . and with the shrill blow of a whistle, the first blow smashed down onto a piano. A frenzy of walloping ensued. Into all that delicate marquetry and varnish, the men – terrifyingly powerful – crashed their rough steel. Grunts and shouts were heard, smashes, twangs and notes! Notes as the pianos played an awful death dance. Splinters of wood and ivory ricocheted off into the crowd. How long did it take? Time seemed suspended, but it was probably no more than a couple of minutes.
As quickly as it had started, one team let out a roar and a cheer and threw their arms in the air. Everyone clapped and called to one another. A second judge was needed to adjudicate. Beer was poured and backs were slapped. The competition was over. They had a winner: the team of farm workers from Mayhew’s. And those beautiful pianos were gone.
But as attention turned to the wine and beer being served to the crowd, two small boys crawled among the debris. We were looking for what we could salvage: anything that could be sold for cash or refashioned into something else, something far more dangerous than a piano.
On all fours, we sifted through the wreckage and sorted out useful from scrap. First in order of importance were the key leads: the small heavy cylinders of lead found in the backs of piano keys which give them weight and counterbalance. We sorted out piles of keys, black and white, to dismantle later. A few strings might be useful too, and of course any handy lengths of wood that were still unbroken. And there were always a few other interesting bits and bobs worth saving, bound to come in useful at some point. Roddy carried an armful of keys down to the stables while I fetched a screwdriver from the workshop to unscrew and salvage any catches and hinges. The afternoon drew on and the shadow of the tall ash lengthened over Top Field.
And then the grown-ups chucked the splintered scraps of beech and spruce onto the bonfire and set them alight, and long into the night they stood around warming themselves by the flickering light of two burning pianos. As for Roddy and me, we were well away with our spoils.
Back in the Barn now, we worked by the light of a candle. It was fiddly work, hatchets in hand at the chopping log, smashing each little lead weight out of its key and popping it into an old baked bean can. The oldest weights were white and encrusted with sugar of lead – salt of Saturn – and made our fingers taste sweet. Between bangs and chips and ringing metal sounds, we could hear the voices of grown-ups in Top Field. The house itself was eerily empty, every door open and all lights blazing, but not a soul about. Later, when I heard my sisters calling out for us at bedtime, we still didn’t leave. Eventually we stole silently up the back stairs and into our beds. Tomorrow we would melt the lead and cast it. That was my speciality. And I couldn’t wait.
Next morning Roddy and I headed out to our workshop while the house still slept. I found a catering-size tin can to fill with cold water and rummaged in a drawer for the tools we needed. Then we picked up our precious wooden moulds from the workbench. One piece of wood had a line of carved-out holes; the other a series of burned-out heptagons. If you heat a fifty-pence piece until it’s red hot, you can burn an impression of it into soft pine or balsa wood. I discovered that if you’re careful enough when you lift out the money, you’re left with a perfect carbonised coin mould.
Even when empty, these wooden moulds were always given due honour. On this particular morning they were carried from the workshop to the Barn with the kind of gravity and care a tray of Sèvres china might demand. We collected our cans of lead nuggets from the night before and then it was back to Top Field, where the bonfire was still smouldering. Good.
Raking the hot ashes into a pile, we carefully built up the unburned pieces of wood from around the fire on top of the embers. Heads down, lips pursed for a good blow. Smoke gathered first, in a steady stream, and then the flame appeared. Soon the fire was good and hot again. On either side of the flames, we propped two bricks, balancing the first baked bean can between them. Then we looked around for more wood. (Not the last of the smashed-up piano keys, for these could not be wasted. There was nothing quite like their resilience for making crossbow triggers.) Roddy fed the fire while I watched and stirred the melt.
Starting at the bottom of the can, the lead nuggets began to collapse satisfyingly into their own molten pools. After fifteen minutes every last bit had melted into the next and the can was a quarter full of spinning silver liquid. There was a slight scum on top but this was easily skimmed off with an old spoon we’d brought up with us. Trial and error and plenty of burned fingers had nearly perfected the process. Then the Mole grips came out, pliers that locked securely onto the boiling can. I lifted the can slowly over the first wooden board. It felt incredibly heavy. That was always my job. I was the one who knew exactly how to pour, when to pour. I had an aptitude for the medium. Maybe I wasn’t so good at running or fighting, but when it came to making things, I was a natural. As I carefully filled each cavity, I would blink and try to blow away the smoke that billowed up into my eyes. Then Roddy replaced the coin moulds with the second board and I filled up all twenty of the holes in that. And all from one can. We had lead to spare this time.
Ready? With our pocketknives we prised each counterfeit coin from the board and plopped it, hissing, into the cold water can. Ten little shining beauties. Then, using the tips of our blades, we got to work on the second board. Twenty gleaming pointed metal shapes: arrowheads for the crossbows and bullets for home-made blunderbusses. The arrowheads were perfect, the bullets all OK, but one or two of the coins would need some cleaning up if they were to work in the cigarette machine in town. We squatted smokily by the fire as the first rays of morning sun shone through the leaves of the old walnut tree. Eight weeks of holidays still to go.
Forging coins, or fashioning a prototype. The experimentation and creativity involved in overcoming technical difficulties still holds the same fascination for me today. Making a successful original means making a series of failures. The repeated frustration and disappointment is only made bearable by the belief that the end result will be worth it. W
hen it does eventually go right and you can begin to see that tiny spark of an idea become real, an actual physical object appear which you have created from sweat, tears and sheer hard graft, it’s another key moment. A flash of excitement is followed by a swift rush of doubt. Quickly . . . ask someone what they think. I dash off to show my colleagues. They’re kind and they love it, of course – what else could they say?
But nowadays fifty-pence coins and harpoon heads no longer cut the mustard. Practical challenges are fun, but I need an emotional drive. A feeling to explore, ideas to express. Ideas that have a context.
This is how my bee is born. As it happens, at this particular time – it’s 2007, a lingering summer – I’d just made a particularly delicate and pretty collection in silver with gold highlights. All very English countryside, teensy-weensy and self-consciously cute. So I want to move away from that mood and get a little bit saucy. A counterpoint. Something grown up. And that’s when, among a great muddle of ideas whirring round in my head (picture an open filing cabinet with a fan trained on it at full blast) good old sex leaps to the fore. Sex is saucy, and so is lust. And I’d always felt I was better at the latter. But lust is a sin. I wonder why? Suddenly, I have a starting point.
I’m cross with myself because I’ve just missed a Lucas Cranach exhibition at Somerset House, but he’s still on my mind. In fact he’s probably what lodged this idea in my head. So I pull out all my old history of art books and do a bit of reading up. Forget about lust, I decide. Lucas Cranach is reminding me of the sauciest sin of all, the first and the best: original sin. Now I’ve got forbidden fruit to play with. Adam and Eve.
Cranach’s apple is bang in the middle of his painting. The bite that’s already been taken out of it is right in the middle of the apple, framed in passing by Adam’s and Eve’s delicate hands. The peel is just beginning to curl into the flesh: decay happens fast in Eden. Eve’s fingers curl around the top as she offers the fruit to Adam. His hand accepts it more fastidiously. His finger and thumb hardly seem to grasp it. She’s looking at him, just waiting. He’s looking at the apple wistfully, soberly, sadly. Above their heads, the snake slithers down the tree towards Eve’s head. But the creature could be looking straight out of the painting, at us.