by Sara Crowe
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Loudolle, ‘it makes it into complete nonsense.’
‘I think Sue’s right.’ Joe tried to intervene. ‘It adds depth to the existing meaning, it sort of . . . Sue-ifys it.’
‘Sue-ifys it?’ said Loudolle. ‘Is that a new word as well?’
Joe hesitated to respond, he was a little out of his depth with such a rattlesnake. I was overwhelmed – it was valiant of him to stick up for me.
‘Well, it’s my choice of word, and I’m happy for it to be . . . Sue-ified,’ he said.
Aunt Coral clapped her hands together to distract us like a geography teacher. The two visiting members obviously weren’t up to it, so she turned us to other things with great largeness.
‘This looks like a good moment to tell you that we have a long-term plan. I have entered the Egham Hirsute Group into a short story competition, which will be judged at the Ramblers’ Association Gala in December.’ There was an excited smatter of applause as she beamed out at us. ‘Members are to enter individually, but there will also be group prizes, plus an overall individual winner and serious prize money. Entries are to be no more than six thousand words and are to begin with the phrase: “He, or She, awoke.” All newcomers to EHG are of course welcome to enter, but this would involve a full commitment to the process.’
When she finished explaining the rules she sat down and sipped on her Sapphire. ‘I think we should call it a night.’
Though she had cut the group short, I trusted Aunt Coral’s instincts. Loudolle was causing ructions, Delia wasn’t looking too happy and the Admiral needed a bath. All these things block creativity.
‘Can I just read you my poem?’ asked Joe, as I was showing him out after Group. I agreed, so we stepped back into the conservatory. He was so nervous he caught his shoe briefly on his turn-up.
‘“I had rather sit with you on a knarl of oak, with only the leaves for confetti, than with the princess of all America upon her shimmering throne.”’
‘That’s beautiful, Joe,’ I said. But in truth, I felt somewhat embarrassed.
Here is the beginning of my entry for the Gala. I have chosen the seventeenth century as a setting because it is my personal favourite:
Brackencliffe
A SHORT STORY
By Sue Bowl
She awoke on the course ground, as it sprung back to life beneath the shimmering frost. Calling her Keeper to her, they set off together on foot. High, high she climbed, her skirts full of wind and Keeper gambling after, to yonder on the edge of the cliffs, where lay the gargantuan house. So this was Brackencliffe, the highest house on the ridge. And ’twas here she knew she’d find employ, here at the house of plenty.
As Cara peeped into the window, she spied the beautiful Pretafer Gibbon dancing, achingly pretty, yet shallow, held close in the arms of Van Day.
Knight Van Day lived but two stones by, so he was oftentimes suiting Pretafer. Rich and deadly and silent, but the publican says ‘that don’t mean ee don’t ravish’.
The Commonplace Book of Coral Garden: Volume 1
Green Place, July 1933
(Age 11)
The London Aeroplane Club
Cameo and I have just returned from a school trip to see the latest in aviation.
‘The Percival Gull’ has folding wings and is believed to be the finest light aircraft invented. It has a landing speed of 40mph, three seats and delightful colours. It is fully equipped with a compass which makes flying in fog easier and safer, while its tremendous smooth landing promises only the most modest bounce.
Cameo is inspired and is considering life as a pilot. She intends to follow in the footsteps of Amy Johnson, who was the first woman to fly solo from England to Australia.
I myself, however, would prefer to remain firmly on the ground!
The weather report in the Airfield News said: ‘Atlantic fronts will be grazing the coasts and flirting with the Home Counties.’ Cameo was in fits all the way home.
The Garden
Mother and Father have instigated plans to update some of the flower beds. Many of the lavenders here are so old that their heads have gone white, like grey hair. And with unmistakeable loftiness Father prefers French lavender. So now we have white lavender to the left and French to the right, faded and vibrant opposites. A million pale butterflies flutter in the thick of the bushes, these ones are called cabbage whites. In her plot Mother has put a profusion of colours, and has forgotten the name of everything, but the effect is as lively and cheerful as she is.
I like all the scented things because I am very interested in making perfume. I love Sweet William, while Cameo loves the woody things, and all the herbs. In a dramatic moment she said she wished she could roll around in the mint, but Mother said that Green Place girls should stay upright (fat chance!).
Animals
Cameo has rescued another animal – an old horse she’s christened Alto. He was abandoned between the train tracks and the sea, and had been grazing beside wet sand banks until the station master realised nobody owned him. When he finally discovered this, nobody would take poor Alto, so they were going to have to shoot him. That’s when Cameo found out, and she’s had him moved to our paddock. He’s grazing there now, and seems to have not a care in the world. She’s like the patron saint of elderly animals.
Sue
Tuesday 17 March
I got a letter today from Aileen Edgeley. Aileen is on a gap year in Australia picking strawberries. We were neighbours in Titford, and she was my first friend for life. Aileen and I used to spend all our time together. She was not only my neighbour, but my schoolmate and somewhat sister. She liked to dress up as the Queen and I liked to dress in rags and serve her Ribena, then we’d go behind the sofa and have Holy Communion. It was the best of times.
The Edgeleys were quite poor and Aileen used to shame her mother by sitting outside their house begging. I often used to see her because we were only two doors down. Someone would call Mrs Edgeley and say, ‘Aileen’s begging again’, and Mrs Edgeley would rush outside and remove Aileen and her hat full of pennies.
Mr Edgeley is older than Mrs Edgeley, but as we grew up Mrs Edgeley ruled with a rod of fragility. All Aileen ever wanted was a dog but Mrs Edgeley wouldn’t let her, and so for several years Aileen had a pet brick. We’d take that brick for a walk at the weekends if it was fine and my mother would put out a bowl for it. My Dad was very patient with Aileen and never got cross when we kept stopping to let it piddle.
In her letter Aileen told me the major news that her Dad has found a new ballroom partner. To explain why this is news: Mrs Edgeley is Mr Edgeley’s second wife, but the second Mrs Edgeley can’t dance. So Mum and Mr Edgeley were ballroom partners for quite a number of years. They danced at the Town Hall religiously. The dancing really made Mum thrive.
I wrote back and thanked her for letting me know. I do understand; even ballroom partners have to move on. I also told her the latest about Dad and Ivana, and how I’ve decided to excommunicate myself from them. I just don’t want to hear, see or speak to them again, and I have written to Dad to say so. Aunt Coral agreed that I need time and space to sort through my feelings and that they must honour how I feel. That tiny lady is my rock.
Luckily my entry to the short story competition is really giving me a focus in these difficult times. I try and get a bit down each night, unless I am too tired from the Toastie. I have noticed that Cara and Pretafer seem to be reflections of myself and Loudolle. Fiona is perhaps a reflection of Michael, and Keeper is the dog of my dreams, (although Aunt Coral thinks he represents Joe!). Knight Van Day – no contest, I’d say he was probably Icarus. Now I understand what they mean when they say all writing is autobiographical.
It is a huge relief to know that Icarus and Loudolle have decided not to commit to Group, although Loudolle does want to enter the gala competition, as it would mean money if she won. It’s bad enough suffering Loudolle at work and round the house, let alone in my cave. She has take
n to swalking around the place in a silver bikini, making everyone feel inadequate. She is every inch the seedling love for a far-off film star.
Aunt Coral said in the drawing room one night over cognacs that, in her personal study of biology, ‘If a finishing school girl walks round long enough in a bikini, it’s only a matter of time before a boy will err.’
The Admiral is beside himself at the sight of Loudolle in her loveliness and keeps his whiskers in a heightened state of poof. He keeps rushing to his bathroom to freshen himself whenever Loudolle bathes in the blossoms. Aunt C may have said that it is perfectly right for young boys to err, because they have to or there is no chance for them to reform, but surely the Admiral should have really grown out of that sort of behaviour. It’s not natural for a man of his age. He gets back to the conservatory very puffed after his trips to the bathroom and as a consequence of his infatuation, his short story is a lot of tosh about socialites. I feel sad to remember the ‘pearl among corals’ poem he wrote only a short time ago. I happen to know that Aunt C carries his piece of paper around with her in her handbag because I’ve seen her fisselling with it.
Interestingly, while Loudolle has managed to turn the Admiral’s head, most surprisingly for the younger man, Joe is not for erring. Though she has tried and tried, in a succession of diminishing swimsuits, she simply cannot get Joe to err. Not for all the tea in china. He isn’t a tea drinker.
Wednesday 18 March
Aunt Coral has presented me with a pink tasselled cover for my bed, just like her one, and she has also sewed me a monogram panel to put up on my wall with my letters, ‘S. O. B.’, on it. This has made me realise that I am becoming somewhat of her follower. Before I was a follower of Aunt Coral I was a follower of Mum, who led me in all her ways. I’m aware it is my habit, so I try not to lose myself to following, but it makes me feel like I belong, which is like air to me. Mum called it being like a sponge, but I call it being uncertain. Uncertain who I am, so I copy.
Being with Aunt Coral gives me a strong sense of identity, and I have discovered in her a sense of romance which I’ve wholeheartedly adopted. She affirms my mum’s opinion that I might contain beauty and she who leads me to value the little things in life such as dressing up, conversation, bohemiamism, old tunes, butter curls and fine china. She has twelve pieces of everything, for who would give dinner for thirteen? But my gentleness I picked up from my mother – we are both paficists – and my pioneering spirit comes down from Mum’s side too, such as travelling to Egham for my gap year. Funny how all the people you meet in your life all club together to inform you who you are. I feel particularly blessed to have had my mother and Aunt Coral put their stamp on me, informing me that I am a romantic bohemiam traveller.
But my writing is entirely my own, I didn’t take it from anybody. It is just something I came into the world doing and I know I will leave that way too.
Friday 27 March
Today was like many another Friday: dinner, Group, cognacs, and bed. Mrs Bunion had gone for the weekend leaving a fragrant pie in the oven, Loudolle was out on the town with Icarus, Joe had left after Group, and the Admiral and Delia had gone off to bed. It was just beginning to get dark outside and I remember there was a strong smell of woodsmoke on the air. The last few logs of winter must have been burning across the borders. Everything was perfectly calm – calm before the storm, as they say.
The first hint of something wrong was when I couldn’t find Aunt Coral when I went to say goodnight. Usually, before she turns in, Aunt Coral enjoys a bath with her candles. Her bathtub is something of a miracle in that she has no need of a plug, which she puts down to generations of mice who are now RIP in the pipe work. The bath holds its water for exactly forty-five minutes before draining, and then it takes a further forty-five minutes for the water to trickle out. But on this particular night I couldn’t find her there, so I went upstairs, and from along the passage to her suite I could hear the sound of Nana Mouskouri singing. I tiptoed into her suite to wish her a goodnight. But as I went in I was mortified to see her sitting slumpen on her desk. She had a drink in front of her and was staring at an infestation of papers. On closer inspection I discovered they were bills. Electricity, council, credit card, plumber’s letters, store cards, insurance, taxes.
Aunt Coral said nothing but totted up her drink as I sat down on the bed. Mrs Bunion had laid a small fire in the grate which was quietly fuming. On the surface it looked like Aunt Coral had got into fiscal difficulty. We sat there in silence for a while. When she eventually spoke, it all came tumbling out.
‘I’m struggling Sue, I’m going under, I can’t pay my bills. I’ve got through all of Father’s money, all of it, and now all that’s left is my guilt. It’s all gone, gone, and I don’t know how to get more of it.’
‘You live in a very big house,’ I said. ‘You could take in more lodgers?’
‘This house is not fit for paying guests, unless they’re used to sleeping outside. And I’ve no capital left to restore it. Wildlife is getting in everywhere; the house is just too big. The Admiral’s rent supports just the few rooms we use and my occasional trips to the food hall, but beyond that, Sue, if things get much tighter, I may even be forced to sell. We shall end up derelict, with weeds growing out of the doors. We shall be sold as an institution!’
I was speechless.
‘If I sold I would have enough money to pay off my debts and buy a flat in Egham, but I love this house, I want to die here.’
I wished she wouldn’t talk about dying like that, like it was such an easy thing to discuss.
‘It’s not just the bills,’ she continued, with miserable tears breaking her cheeks. ‘I owe thousands on my cards because I can’t stop spending. It started when I lived alone with Father. There was only him and Mrs Bunion on weekdays, and I was lonely. Spending makes me feel alive. I even like the receipts. It’s all gone though – gone on Harrods and holidays and handbags. Oh God, what have I done?’
She went to a large hanging on her wall and lifted it to expose acres of shoes and trinkets in shelving, not a surface clear of a bauble bought on her afternoons.
‘We had no new shoes in the war, the military got all the leather, so I think I have been making up for it ever since,’ she said.
Then she led me to a deep cupboard on the landing, where vacuum cleaners had taken a grip. There was one in every size, shape and colour, yet Green Place is the dustiest place on earth. Testament to Aunt Coral’s true shopaholicalism: she’d much rather shop than clean.
Then she sank to the floor and sobbed and I had to perform a rescue.
‘This needs action, Aunt Coral, and immediately,’ I said. ‘Let’s look at the positives. How many people can say that they wish their house was smaller? You have a beautiful home, and you’re not going to lose it. We’ve just got to exploit its potential.
‘First of all, I will move out of the Grey Room and into the East Wing so you have a heated room to rent at once. Second, you will stop my allowance and I will see if I can become a full time girl. Third, if Delia’s a true friend, she will move into the East Wing too – you could charge buckets for the Trout Suite. We won’t mind camping in the East Wing if it means we can stay at Green Place. And fourth, if you do likewise that will instantly free up a third heated room to rent. All of that together should give you an income.
‘Furthermore,’ I added, emulating the way Aunt Coral rescues, ‘give me your cards, I’m confiscating them. And even furthermore, you should arrange to auction your shoes. You could hold the sale here and invite all the ladies in Egham with size four feet.’
‘You’re a fine entrepreneur,’ said Aunt Coral, pulling herself together and getting herself up again.
‘You shall go gently into your old age, Aunt Coral, if I have anything to do with it.’
‘You have cruel seventeen-year-old eyes,’ she said.
I found it easy to be strong for her, but of course I am worried that Aunt Coral’s spending threatens our whole
way of life. If she had to sell Green Place, I’d probably have to go back to Titford, and that would be a fete worse than death. It’s terribly shocking to realise that even Aunt Coral has a secret fault. I thought she was totally perfect until now. I suppose this makes her more human. I hope I don’t have any secret faults, other than letting myself go – and I do let myself go when I’m writing, it’s one of the reasons I’m enjoying living somewhere so remote.
Coral’s Commonplace: Volume 2
Green Place, May 16 1934
(Age 12)
We were minded by Granny Morris last night, (Mrs Morris’s mother), while Mother and Father went to the Savoy to see the Harry Roy Band. They were fortunate to get tickets. ‘Live from the Ritz and Savoy Hotels!’ I’ve never seen anything so glamorous. The HRB have been a complete sell-out since they were joined by Mr Al Bowlly.
Granny Morris also gives haircuts and Mother asked her to do mine only. Cameo’s got a perfect pageboy at the moment, which is all Mother’s own work. But Cameo hates to be left out of things, so Granny M pretended to cut hers as well. Before Cameo had the chance to examine the length of her hair too much, Granny M moved the subject along to her favourite topic, her widow’s state pension, which includes in its weekly issue one packet of Woodbines. She told us that Woodbines were made famous by a Padre of the First World War, Woodbine Willie, who worked in the trenches, giving spiritual succour and cigarettes to soldiers in need. Later, we took it in turns to play Woodbine Willie and Granny M was the wounded soldiers. M and F returned to find we had not gone to bed.
Family news
Here is a copy of a letter that Cameo wrote to Aunt Fern (Mother’s little sister). It was to thank her for her birthday present and I found it immensely shocking. I would never have got away with sending out such an abandoned letter, but Cameo is encouraged in pursuing an artistic nature, and her talent forgives all her trespasses.