Saxonford: Vol. 2 Summer Into Winter

EPILOGUE

JULY

Thu, Jul 1st

I read this morning in The Times how our wonderful government announces food-rationing will officially ends in the United Kingdom next Saturday … Such joyous news and all so suddenly in only one short decade after the war, too; we must all steal ourselves and refrain from overexcitement.

Steven, asking about this journal several times, a few days ago I decided to throw caution to the tempestuous light breeze and let him take my journal and read my jottings – January through June for himself, if he cared to. He did, and finished yesterday. He did not say much but seemed thoughtful – perhaps mulling over my words and actions, and I wondered what he must now think of me and hoped he would not give notice. This morning I asked Steven if what he read offended him in any way, and he replied no not at all, only he could not understand my liking for Don enough to buy him a new motorcar – so I restated my position and the situation verbally re Don. Now I have opened the journal’s sluice-gates and Steven asks questions about Bunty and Cedric, and about everyone else – but particularly intrigued I think by my criminal doings with Don.

Steven suggests I write this journal in the mornings or afternoons in my study or out on the terrace, rather than in my bedroom after dinner or in bed where often not at my most chipper and more likely to nod off and devastate the bedding. This is what I am endeavouring to do now on the terrace on this beautiful sunny afternoon. Steven is so interested in all those past events, I would like to share some of them with him, and perhaps this an incentive. Writing for oneself is all well enough, but sometimes I wonder why – why am I writing to myself, or do we always write to the invisible audience, and after all writing is about communication. I think my relationship with Lord Plumbright may titillate Steven, too, and he considers some of my descriptions quite shocking. I asked him – if he thinks Rupert and my behaviour shocking in 1954, how does he imagine us viewed in even more barbarous 1924? I do not mind him reading anything I write. I explained before he began reading what I already wrote of him, and I hope he does not construe anything I write as derogatory or patronising in any way and he must not take offence for no offence meant. I told him I do like him so much and he should not forget I am at times a bit of a crusty old codger.

Writing outside can also involve many distractions and as time consuming as pain and napping. I stopped writing earlier for a moment to deadhead a few nearby flowers and ended up deadheading flowers along the whole terrace and the roses on both sides of the stairs leading down to the lawn. After a couple of hours of gardening I am fairly exhausted but a far more enjoyable and fulfilling afternoon than groaning in pain or drug napping.

As constructive criticism, Steven says he thinks my use of commas in this journal excessive. I remember an English master at school who loved commas, and strongly encouraged us boys to use heaps of them, and for better grades obliged his whim, and I suppose the habit stuck. I shall certainly, look into his assessment, and, proceed, accordingly.

Fri, Jul 2nd

Don Day and yet I have not seen Don since May 28th yet every Friday morning when I wake I think of the great lug and wonder and half hope he will show up. Odd how the absence of the lusted one makes the lust grow stronger in remembrance, though only the bliss bits while leaving aside the smuts. One Friday morning I thought of Don and for a moment grew strangely unnerved realising Don doubtless the last man with whom I shall ever share any intimate physical intercourse.

Not expecting Steven to remain with me on duty twenty-four hours a day seven days a week for he must have enough time off to himself I suggested employing an auxiliary nurse. He pulled a face not keen on the idea saying such a person in the end would probably make more work. I am not sure why I thought of this but asked if his mother might find the position of baby-sitter interesting and come to stay at Comb Court. Perhaps I proposed this as I know Steven a good son who worries about his mother’s welfare and happiness. Surprised by my suggestion he did not know what to say but after a while he wondered if the idea a solution to her situation. His mother found the gumption and moved out on her husband two weeks ago and staying temporarily with a single woman friend who works with her at Boot’s – the Chemist. I believe I have shares in Boot’s and must remember to look them up one day. Steven went to telephone her half-an-hour ago at her work to pass the idea by her … and I bet I pay better than old Boot’s.

Sat, Jul 3rd

Sleeping on the idea I suggested yesterday and with selfish motives perhaps, but also thinking about the reality of the circumstances more carefully, I wonder if Steven’s mother coming to help nurse or to do-for-me at any rate not thought through enough. I do so much like having Steven to myself for a while longer, and do not want to share him with his or any mother. His mother is also a woman – I speculate, and not a nurse and I did not figure this into the equation, for my record with female nurses abysmal … and how could I fire Steven’s mother if I do not take to her? Oh well, if she does come we shall all adapt somehow and there are many other jobs she could take on in this big house. At present, part-time odd job and cleaning women spend three days a week, but I have never liked the unknown quantity part of part-time staff. A firm of maintenance men come four times a year to inspect the house, for a residence of this age and size needs almost continual care and attention, but they are men and I have known them for years. Steven’s policeman father though might prove more use as a nurse, particularly in uniform, and strict and rigorous in his care – and he might even need to use his cufflinks if I am tempted to behave towards him in any unlawful and incorrigible invert manner. Oh dear, am I going to let Steven read this nonsense?

Sun, Jul 4th

Hypnotised and drugged – the hell he is! Lord Plumbright cursed, screwing up and tossing the Bishop’s telegram to the floor. As clear as day, the little swine switched camps.

The poor Bishop, Lady Plumbright mused wryly, he certainly does paddle his way through his share of clerics, and he will get so involved in every one of them … I suspect abnormal men of unnatural vice are just naturally unlucky in love.

Unlucky in love! thundered her husband, Unlucky in love! They should drag the swine into his own church and castrate him before the holy altar … and the only way to deal with these pestilential religious types. A bloody bishop is supposedly a man of the cloth, for God’s sake, a lord spiritual not some flaming bloody brood-mare.

Immediately after his harrowing and deeply humiliating fire-lit interview with Paul, his ex, and in his eyes excommunicated cleric, the Bishop ordered his chauffeur to drive directly to his Bishop’s Palace at Kent. He could not face returning to Saxonford Castle empty handed to answer everyone’s questions in his present shattered state, especially any probing questions from Lord Plumbright who intimidated him and sometimes caused him to fear for his personal safety.

During his long, lonely journey through the bleak cold night, the Bishop thought his heart would shatter and the shock of Paul’s cruel, cruel words destroy him. He unscrewed the top from the large flask of scotch he kept in the car for just such emergencies, and before the Bentley entered the town of Tonbridge several hours later, the Bishop lay slumped across the backseat with not a care in the world.

The whole situation is too silly, Bunty complained to her mother and Joan Saxonford as they walked to the stables one bright, crisp afternoon. I think the three of us should simply pop in at Manly Court today while out riding and say a quick hello and wish the new Guru-Lord all the best.

Well yes we could if you wish to see your father turn apoplectic crimson and spit flaming gall.

Yes, and have kittens, too, Bunty laughed, ejecting veritable flames of tiny kittens.

Fraternising with the enemy? Joan smiled. He would have our guts for garters if he finds out.

The three women giggled conspiratorially and their disobedient mounts carried them within the hour over in the direction of Manly Court.

We would certainly appear rude, I mean so near and not calling in to say how do you do, Joan decided, and after all he is a distant relation of ours.

Yes dear, and so is an amoeba, Constance guffawed as she abruptly turned her gelding towards the house.

Unannounced Constance and Joan followed Bunty into the hall of Manly Court holding their crops securely just in case. Paul saw them enter and came forward to meet the Ladies; he wore the ‘gone native’ look of simple loose fitting white cotton pyjama trousers and shirt Bunty considered suited him far better than haute couture.

Paul, Bunty called, you naughty ex-cleric, I see you have discarded my lovely seeker of truth frock; and you do realise you have broken the poor Bishop’s heart.

Oh, leave the boy alone, chided her mother. We all know there is no heart in Beckenham to break.

Paul accompanied the ladies to the withdrawing-room where the Guru sat cross-legged on his couch.

Swami Nonoti, Paul stated humbly, may I present the Countess Saxonford, the Countess Plumbright and Viscountess Ladywell-Saxonford.

The Guru nodded at each woman in turn but made no effort to voice a welcome or rise as one would expect of an English gentleman, but then Joan Saxonford thought, the man now gone holy so probably no longer a gentleman. The women stood smiling uncomfortably and looking at this strange-seated man as Paul pulled forward three armchairs.

Joan expertly checked the strange and pulsating silence beginning to envelope them by employing the most frequent of English conversational gambits. And how are you finding our winter’s here, Lord Manly, she inquired deftly, compared with the climate in your own part of India?

Hot, cold, he replied regarding her intently, the exact same condition and of no consequence.

Oh, do you think, Lord Manly? retorted Constance Plumbright brightly. "I loathe the cold as much as I loathe the heat, and as you say, both produce in one the exact same condition of loathing.

You know, Lord Manly, Joan mused, this room holds such delightful memories, as does the entire house, but seems so odd coming here without seeing dear Matilda and Gerald.

Yes, as we came through, Constance added, I remembered a hunt-ball here many years ago now. The old Earl, your father, soused as a herring tried taking a pot-shot with a sherry trifle at the bust of Lord … her story trailed away as she recollected her host’s troubles all begun with his own unfortunate pot-shot taken at his father. … of, Lord … Oh, someone or other I forget the details now. Anyway, Lord Manly, what are your immediate plans now you are back in England?

The Guru before answering stared fixedly at her for what seemed to Constance an unpardonably long time. Well, he stated at last, after we level this house to the ground and obliterate all evidence of any such structure and the name Manly-Saxon annihilated, we shall return to India.

Before anyone could gasp or say a word the double doors behind them banged and clanged open as a small Indian man rammed before him a large triple-tiered metal utility trolley carried up from the scullery and taller than himself, bearing tea. The women watched the man in silence, as one did with servants present, while he thrust cups of tea at them served in an ex-French Queen’s perfect porcelain tea set, two cups with chipped edges.

After a further lengthy pause, Joan Plumbright asked, Forgive me, Lord Manly, did I hear you say level this house to the ground?

Yes, and what we cannot sell off for cash we shall send to a dump site, and the ancient pre-Roman foundations, too, dug out and the hole filled with fresh earth and the happy sod levelled to blend in with the surrounding fields and countryside. He continued before any of them could respond. If there are any souvenirs or mementos of your friends the late Earl and Countess you ladies would care to have you are at liberty to take whatever you wish.

The three ladies though stunned for a moment at the idea of the demolition their minds could not help but whizz off in a mental inventory of the house from attics to cellars for possible ‘whatever you wish’ souvenirs and mementos.

Their daughter, your niece, Lady Maude would love a remembrance, I am sure, Bunty declared with a slight disapproving sulky edge she failed to conceal.

Until this moment, the Guru acknowledged he did know or perhaps did not remember his brother produced a child. Bunty as she sipped her tea therefore relayed the brief outline of the tragic swindle perpetrated against Maude with old wills and female disinheritance. … Mind you, Maude will not starve, but jolly unfair all the same, do you not think?

Guru Nonoti asked Bunty what she thought Lady Maude would like.

Bunty looked at him intently for a second and taking a deep breathe replied, I know exactly what Maude would like; she would love Manly stud farm. She loves the farm, which morally belongs to her anyway … would you not agree? She and her friend, Grizelda planned to return from France at some point to run the stud, and suddenly all at once her poor parents died; and only fair-dos for her to have the property. And the stud so completely separate from the Manly-Saxon Estate so you would not have to bother about razing the farm to the happy sod and Maude would die of happiness and …

Paul, interrupted the Guru, bring the deed box, please.

Paul immediately brought forward a beautiful long ancient Chinese red lacquered chest, placed open before the Guru on a low table. The Guru leaned forward, rummaging through the rolls of labelled documents; he picked one out and handed the roll to Paul to give to Lady Bunty.

Is this what you want for your friend? the Guru asked.

Bunty unrolled the title deeds to Manly stud farm, speechless with apprehension and excitement. Yes, she gapped in astonishment.

Take the deed. You are a good friend to Lady Maude.

Oh Guru, dear, Lady Saxonford uttered in amazement, this is indeed most generous of you.

The Guru gently demurred with a minor movement of his head. Bunty looked at the antique script of the Manly stud farm deeds and her eyes filled with tears, and jumping up she ran from the room. Thank you, thank you, she called over her shoulder. Please excuse me but I must send Lady Maude a telegram right away.

Constance tut-tutted. You must excuse my ill-mannered and impetuous daughter, Lord Manly; the girl takes after me … a highly sensitive and emotional creature. She and Maude grew up here, almost schoolgirls together one might say and such chums. Constance looked away and dabbed at the corners of each dry eye with her handkerchief to demonstrate appreciation and the sensitivity of her emotions.

Thank you so much, Lord Manly, Lady Saxonford spoke in a new admiration for this distant relation, a wonderfully generous gift you have made.

Nonoti looked upon the two women positively overflowing with a superfluousness of saintly cordiality and largesse.

Soon Paul accompanied the two women up the great staircase to Lady Matilda’s private apartments where they might browse through her rooms and pick out whatever they cared for – and their infinite care proved boundless.

Do tell, Paul dear, Lady Plumbright asked mischievously as he helped the ladies carry more furs from the dressing-room to the bed. "What decided you exactly to pitch your tent with the Guru and abandon camp with the Bishop? I must say I thought you looked angelic in my daughter’s butchered Fortuny."

Thank you, Paul replied.

I do not know how many times I lectured Matilda about putting her furs into cold storage? Lady Saxonford grumbled enthusiastically. They should go immediately, every one of them into our cold storage at the castle.

The Guru is fully realised, Paul announced assuredly as if replying to someone’s question. He possesses true knowledge and the eternal happiness of perfect being.

The two women looked at Paul, then at one another blankly, and back to Paul.

Well, I am sure internal happiness of being perfect most pleasant for him, Constance, commented as unaffectedly as she could. You know I have always thought this Russian sable of Matilda’s contains the most perfect pelts I ever saw in my life, better than any of the old Queen’s sables … Victoria I mean, Paul, not the Bishop.

Paul left the Ladies to sort through their late friends personal properties, and they spent the rest of the afternoon trying on Worth, Fabergé, Fortuny, Poiret and Lavin, picking through drawers and cupboards, pawing over mountains of gorgeous and costly knick-knacks. They took a short break in their labours at three for refreshments in the boudoir, and before they realised the sun vanished, six-forty-five and pitch-black beyond the windows. By the bed, the telephone tinkled. Lady Plumbright lifted the receiver to hear Paul’s voice inform her Ladyship Lord Plumbright wanted her on the telephone whereupon he immediately transferred the line to her husband.

Oh, God, she called over to Joan, Rupert.

Yes by God, Rupert! he thundered fit to burst the telephone receiver. I thought just as much. What in hell blazes are you doing over there?

Right now Joan and I are going through Matilda’s apartments dear, trying on a few hats and scarves as keepsakes, replied his wife. Do you mind, dear? she added demurely, holding the telephone away from her ear.

"Do I mind? Rupert screamed. You go flying off to the enemy camp consorting with our adversary and you ask me … do I mind?"

Constance lifted the earpiece further from the side of her head in order not to incur permanent damage to her hearing.

Hello, hello? … This is an awful connection dear, she shouted at a distance. I cannot hear a word you are saying … hello? Yes, back in time for dinner! Goodbye. She hung up.

Constance and Joan looked at one another and made caught-in-the-act faces, turning their attention again to the mountains of memento’s, objet d’art, and couture originals spread before them across the room; all this and an acre or two more they would need to best remember their dear departed friend.

Yes, fourteen years of rationing during and following World War II ended yesterday when meat officially comes off the ration – though now I fear for our poor edible brothers and sisters – and their meat, and what a mean and frivolous word to describe such beautiful beasts. Mind you, I have known any number of beautiful men in my time one could not describe as much more than meat – and of course the area where certain male prostitutes hang out at Piccadilly Circus long known as ‘the meat-rack.’ I have not shopped there much myself over the years for the meat on sale although generally reasonably priced, can prove tough and without much taste, and not always fresh – or on occasion a bit too fresh, and some pieces definitely hung too long … and does one want meat thick-cut or minced, red or white … and so the meat allusion stretches unto infinity – or so the meat-rack queens used to ponce on about – but not I, not so much.

Mon, Jul 5th

My parents named me Malcolm – Máel Coluim (Gaelic, meaning devotee of Saint Columba) after a tenuous genealogical family connection to King Malcolm II of Scotland – 1016-1034; and to King Malcolm IV (called The Maiden) – 1153-1165.

My grandfather Lord Henry Fairhill Ford-Griffiths an enthusiastic recreational genealogist constructed our family charts with our strands and branches of relationships boggling the mind in their complexity. He ‘proved’ if John Balliol did not disastrously forfeit the throne of Scotland for contumacy in 1296, he, my grandfather would by rights now sit on the throne of Scotland – making me I suppose the Grand old Duke of York who enjoyed ten thousand men – at I would have to say a conservative estimate. Oh dear, I must endeavour to curb my naturally louche demeanour and adopt a modicum of decorum in my writing. I am an aged lord after all not an aged schoolboy and must remember my elevated position; but then what good did decorum or elevations ever do anyone? Well, rather a lot actually – and besides if Steven plans to read this journal … circumspection perhaps a little more in order, and watch my commas, too.

I used to sport a pleasant body and not such a bad mind either, but now my body and reasoning mind disintegrate about me, and with no distracting wilted flowers within easy reach to deadhead this painful rot attempts to devour me so am writing in an attempt at divertissement.

I know the name of the disease eating me alive, and Steven knows the name – though the name not uttered between us, and I dare not say or even write the filthy word for fear of turning the word additionally real and contaminating these pages and fouling the air. Even at the clinic in London, the specialists in the field of the disease manoeuvre around the word with prodigious skill.

Stabbing racking pain distorts everything, distorts reality, turning words to anger and thoughts to despair, messing up reason, forcing one to endure the unendurable. I wonder the body does not close down at such onslaught and automatically self-destruct; and hope I do not spend my last days frightened or bewildered and half or fully out of my mind. Therefore instead of groaning and whingeing which I have little patients with in others, I write about why my parents named me Malcolm, and more about my friends – but not right now. I must right now force myself to arise from this bed and go out into the garden to see what is going on.

Tue, Jul 6th

Mounted high upon her trusty steed, as valiant as a knight in shining armour, Bunty charged away from Manly Court over to the post office. There she sent a telegram to Paris informing Maude of wonderful tidings, though not saying exactly what wonderful tidings for she wanted to tell Maude in person or if not in person at least on the telephone.

Returning home hours before her mother and mother-in-law, Bunty met her father in the hall and opening her mouth to eagerly tell him the story and show him the deeds, in less than a second she remembered to whom she would speak; abruptly closing her mouth and looking retarded as she held her tongue between her teeth. She knew his violent reaction should she mention a second Manly Court visit, or Lord Manly-Saxon, or Maude and by association Grizelda all in the same breath. As a loving daughter, Bunty often disremembered her father’s grouchy old blister side particularly regarding the individuals on his ‘Hate A-list;’ and right now Nigel Manly-Saxon came in at number one. Maude appeared high on his list too, ever since he heard of her fondness for fondling females and as for her fellow fondler friend, Grizelda – such an object failed to reach any hate list as he refused to countenance the existence of a member of her impertinent self-chosen tribe.

Bunty remembered her father’s grinding and his perilously bulging neck muscles the moment he first clapped eyes on Grizelda, knowing his attitude towards Jews, their tribe and creed. Lord Plumbright as with the bulk of the nobility and the upper echelons of society shared decided views on Jews. Lord Plumbright asserted he could spot a Jew at a mile’s distance and claimed abhorring Jews, like adoring blood sports, a natural intrinsic part of a gentleman’s makeup. Maintaining he inherited this keen instinct from his parents, grandparents, and forbears stretching back countless generations, though in his turn much irked with his daughter who in the sadly inferior female line did not inherit either concept or caution in the devious and profoundly malevolent nature of the Jews.

The last time he found cause to broach the filthy subject with Bunty occurred during the busy months before her marriage, when a spy brought to his attention how his daughter, by accident one could but only imagine, employed a young talented Jewess dressmaker from Soho to design and make a number of dresses for her trousseau. To guide his daughter as any fatherly and nurturing parent would, he introduced the subject one evening at dinner for a moment before tucking into a juicy pork loin much to his liking and not wanting to wipe out the enjoyment with thoughts of Jews. Lord Plumbright gave his favourite and only daughter, his favourite and only speech on the subject of the Jews; explaining carefully the existence of any number of sound reasons why everyone in the world hated and persecuted the Jews throughout every period of history. If pressed and curiously no one ever did bother to press him, he could not have described to his audience even one of these ‘any number of sound reasons’ for he never gave the topic a thought. As with belief in religion, Lord Plumbright’s unyielding detestation of the Jews stemmed from centuries of confused solid national and quixotic tradition, and any regard of eternally variable truths and constantly manipulated historic facts not tolerated.

So you see, my dear, Jews are rightly despised by all civilised persons and of every nation and I ask you, can we all throughout history have got them wrong? He looked at his daughter and smiled benevolently, happy to know she must now grasp the seriousness of the situation and would not in future go around buying clothing, undoubtedly second-hand, or anything else from the contemptible tribe. Well there we are, dear, I rest my case; and now let us tuck into this porker’s arse.

Bunty looked at her father and returned his smile warmly. Oh daddy, she laughed reaching for the apple sauce, you are funny.

Lord Plumbright glared at his daughter his face turning to the hue of chopped chicken liver, his gut spasmed and speechless with fury refused to speak to his daughter for the rest of the week.

But Grizelda and Ms Rosenblum my dressmaker are such poppets, Bunty declared later to her mother when they withdrew leaving her father to his indigestion, brandy and revision to his hate lists. I am sure the idea would not occur to either of them to rip the heads off new-born Christian babies, unless of course Christian babies were in season just then.

I know, her mother replied dolefully, such are our male aristocratic attitudes and plebeian moors. In your father’s case, much of Jewish his ire stems back to the time of our Jewish Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli, later 1st Earl of Beaconsfield. You see, Disraeli tried to block your great-grandfather, General Plumbright from receiving an Earldom, advising the Queen the man a shocking and sadistic braggart and unfit to hold a title of any style and I must say he did have a point. Nevertheless, the Queen pressured by the jingoistic tabloids and common public opinion, obliged to award the General some sort of distinction for his contribution in the expansion of her shrinking Great British Empire, as the man did after all patriotically slaughter countless disgruntled natives in any number of lands in the most passionate purges. Your great-grandfather, grandfather and in turn your father never forgave Disraeli for his interference in attempting to thumbs down or at least downgrade any proposed title.

Oh, poor daddy.

Yes, dear, exceedingly poor I assure you before I married the man and no pukka sahib either as only a third and last Earl Plumbright. His stock infinitely inferior to us Ladywell, Saxonford, and Manly-Saxon strains; so you see Disraeli and the Jews do make such convenient scapegoats for men of your father’s stripe and their rages. You may have noticed dear, anyone to whom he thinks himself superior he despises, and those above him he quietly scorns.

Oh mummy, Bunty chuckled, what terrible slanders on poor daddy; he is not all bad, is he? I mean you did marry him and have me.

Her mother gave her a witheringly dry look, raised a quizzical eyebrow and resumed her game of patience. Bunty made a mental note to ask Grizelda what this endless Jew hullabaloo all about, and why so many people turned themselves quite ridiculous with loathing at even the mention of a Jew. Besides Ruth Rosenblum designed such perfect couture frocks and appeared not in the least nefarious, and anyway unbeknownst to her father she already asked Ruth to the wedding as one of her bridesmaids.

Wed, Jul 7th

I shall write now of a garden incident earlier this morning, just a few hours ago and a truly odd and otherworldly occurrence.

At sun-up, I mean at dawn for I am not a gun-toting gun-slinging cowboy not yet at least, and with an opiate hangover – but again perhaps not, I took something of a funny-turn and a fancy for a turn in the garden and off I went to wander in the Garden of Eden, pre Eve. There I happily and excitedly communed with good nature and a variety of ill-natured nature, too, with some large pink Firbankian roses. One of whom as I took a deep fragrant sniff, stated stiffly, "Do you mind!"

Sorry, I replied taken aback as well one might at this rose’s snippy tone.

"Do I poke my petals into your reproductive organs, dear, and go sniffing around?"

Sorry.

"Well, yes dear, I should think you are. We are not just a bunch of pistils and stamens you know sitting around for you to come and sniff your nose at; so next time, dear, kindly ask!"

This did not seem to me either odd or unreasonable at the time as I realised plants and everything else in the universe communicate if one listens carefully and correctly enough. As if one’s brain a wireless tuning into a billion different frequency – and wonderfully jolly if you are not self-conscious and do not mind what the neighbours and ultimately the asylum attendants think.

Voices emanated from these over-bred roses in their early morning high-jinx; naughty haughty roses some acting pansy or posing as green carnations while waiting for the sun’s rays to raise them and dry the morning dew from their sweet petals. I did not ask, but another rose told me when I put my face close, there genuinely is a form fairy at the bottom of most gardens. At this, all the roses giggled and squealed together making a huge ruckus, saying:

She’s just full of horseshit. She stands in horseshit.

"Then go look for yourself, fairies gay-lore! Mind, what you see not always what you get, girl."

"Ooh you!"

Yes, but does she know in what bottom, in whose garden?

"Or in whose bottom?"

"Ooh, get you, you tainted rose!"

"Ooh!"

Hmm, this one’s tainted herself with poopy tincture!

She means poppy tincture

"Ooh! I know, at those opiates again, dear."

She’s tinctured herself up with taint.

"No poopy old poppies in our garden, thank God."

"Ooh, God!"

"Ooh …"

Att-ar of rose voices – and I with scant idea nature owned such an obvious girly camp streak, though one might have easily guessed side-effect of opiates – but who cares in the stunning rosy dawn with bizarre pleasures exuding through all the beauty and realities mere side-effects. My wintery old body immersed in a last summer garden – illness of no matter and just part of the garden. I am but a lovely compost heap in waiting.

Steven appeared before me with an anxious look at seeing my old man’s pollen smudged face. My heart went out to him and I told him no need to worry I am quite all right. He brought with him my woolly dressing gown, socks, and slippers cladding me into them in seconds and led me back to the house while I hauled the rest of my body along after.

You might have died of hypothermia wandering about in your pyjamas, Steven chided though nurse gently. I told him the morning chill did not bother me, and entirely content to expire conveniently from hypothermia on the bench in the garden. He could then I advised dig a shallow grave and shovel me under; though the act I could see might lose him kudos with the nursing agency and Kent County Council.

Now in bed snugly shovelled under the sheets, still dazed by all the delightful ordinariness, nature throbbing and oozing away at daybreak with such brilliant vitality and all of a piece the whole universe tingling away with intense limitless energy.

Not certain of about overmedication or exactly if I did take a turn in the garden or fancied as much, I asked Steven. Oh, yes, Steven laughed, you certainly did take a turn in the garden, and caused me to take a bit of a turn in the garden, too.

I told Steven I would like to closely, pollen-on-nose closely observe my last summer and watch carefully the turn once more into Autumnal and if lucky watch winter unfold, and if he could arrange matters without much fuss I would appreciate some snow later this year, too.

Do I sound like one of those demanding and demented Lewis Carol red or white Queens? I asked.

Steven for stood to attention and saluted. "Yes, ma’am, he asserted, you most certainly do, ma’am!" Very strange, and I wonder now if other flowers and nurses have trouble with their pronouns.

Thu, Jul 8th

Steven’s mother strangely enough named Rose is now staying with us, although instantly I see her more of a house help under Mrs Beasley than a nurse’s help for Steven or myself. We met for a few minutes and she appears pleasant but shy and reserved with me. A tall woman, her face drawn and underfed and looks older than her fifty-five years. Mrs Beasley says she will soon fatten her up. I wish I might fatten up, too. Steven tells me the two women are already getting along chatting away down in the kitchen, and good he says to see his mother free after living under the thumb of her husband for so long.

Rose arrived at the right moment for Heather a maid from the village who worked here for five years left abruptly last week when she somehow learned, through local gossip I believe, the man she works for stands polluted with the disease of all diseases – C-A-N-C-E-R. There now, I have bravely spelled out the rotten and insidious word, written on paper for the first time in a thousand years now made real, and a an ugly scraggy looking word … can-sir, what? Oh, dear, I rather wish now I might erase the last sentence. Oh hell – CANCER, CANCER, CANCER, and bugger the CANCER I say!

Even though Heather and I met only rarely, I presume she feared the disease might sneak up and grab her while doing the dusting or peeling potatoes; ill-educated and simpleminded country people in all probability have not changed in their superstitious beliefs much since inhabiting the caves. Diseases no matter in what form are dirty and contagious – mischievous sprites at work and I wonder now if this why Don stopped coming to see me – he got wind of the dreaded lurgy and ran a three-minute mile.

With the actual word never uttered, another grand Harley Street specialist who examined me last December told me – … and your condition I am afraid rather too far advanced for any constructively useful intervention such as … (so why even tell me of the useful useless interventions?) Spreading now to surrounding areas … drugs … make you as comfortable as we possibly can …

He gave me a year at the outside – we are now in July. This disapproving, stiff-upper-lip expert and ex-army chap, spoke to me man-to-man and did not attempt an iota of compassion, and I received the unmistakable impression from him, this is my disease, caught by myself in some negligent way and therefore my own fault. He sent me an astronomically large bill for this final consultation, perhaps concluding I would not mind paying such a hefty sum seeing as I intended at his word to pop off soon anyway. He sent a note along with the bill repeating his confirmation there is nothing more he can do for me and as my condition advances and spreads drugs may help relieve pain and make me as comfortable as possible – although he might as well have written, make you as comfortable as I deserve. These not often entirely effective drugs the pain contained by putting me into a stupor and sending me off into unconsciousness – trotting off out in the garden to run away hand in thorn with the roses to find the lovely assorted fairies at the bottom of my or someone’s garden. I mentioned Heather in my last will and hope she able to accept a remembrance without fear of the money contaminating her with my filth.

No, on second thoughts, I shall have to remove her from my will. Why should I reward any form of ignorance no matter how steeped in anyone’s culture and tradition?

Fri, Jul 9th

From the Lavender Notelettes of Evelyn Boxcart.

‘… and lastly, Lady Bunty, in new coiffure, and I am informed looking positively Titianesque in the latest Graecize-flapper mode. Speaking of flaps, Lady Bunty’s father, Lord Rupert Plumbright and Lord Malcolm Ford-Griffiths caused a few of their own recently. This tres unlikely duo are seen together out and about all over town, from the Café Royal, to theatres, to intimate supper venues at out of the way nooks such as the fashionable café at Streatham ice rink, and I believe sighted together at an improbable location at the Regent’s Park Zoological Gardens – the mischievous monkey-house perhaps? One can but hazard a knowledgeable if not educated guess, and I can now at last reveal the mystery of their ‘involvement.’ I have word on high authority how Lord Ford-Griffiths brinks on the edge of a precipice – I mean process, of writing the biography of Lord Plumbright in combination with a life of the late Lord Dennis Saxonford. This news came as a great surprise to many of their friends, with reactions ranging from slight horror, veiled indifference, right through to squeals of incredulous glee. One particularly close school friend to Lord Malcolm informed me of his incredulity, unaware his friend could write, never seeing him before attempt such a frivolous activity. Slightly curious, too, Lord Plumbright should employ the services of an entirely untried and untrained biographer, particularly one so gregarious and flighty, constantly unavailable to speak with people on the telephone for three days past or even returning telephone calls when people leave polite and friendly messages. With baited breath, we await the publication date of this life of so singular, and with all due respect, unconventional Lord. My orders are already well placed.’

Sat, Jul 10th

Rushing into the morning room Bunty threw herself at the escritoire lunging for the fountainpen. I am but a drowning, soggy woman, all at sea, she distractedly deliberated. I am clutching at straws of wool, or wood mid-Atlantic. Her pen poised, quivered above Lady Saxonford’s crested light peach onionskin.

The letter she hurriedly composed to Nanny Potter at the nannies rest home at Margate, although not exactly a begging letter, close enough. In her letter, Bunty first recounted the traumatic reunion with baby Cedric who loathed her from the outset and who screamed his horrid head off at their every subsequent meeting. ‘… As though I am not his own natural mother but a child-devouring demon’ her pen rushed on as she confessed her dislike and dread of the child, un-motherly, irritated, and altogether unable to cope with even seeing him. ‘… Please, please, come back to the hall as soon as you can, dear Nanny. We will return to Thorp Crest Hall in a day or two after interminable days at the castle. Please let me know when you can come and I shall send a motor to collect you directly. Yours, at her wits end, Lady Bunty.’

"Well, Nanny tut-tutted removing her bifocals, her countenance grim after reading her Ladyship’s missive, I never heard of such a malarkey in all my born days, she grumbled, and spoiled rotten the both of them. Well I’ll soon put the stoppers on any of their naughty nonsense or my name’s not Potter."

Nanny Potter considered herself more than ready to get back into her nursery harness, for after a year of entertaining old biddies with yarns of her exciting escapades as Europe’s premier nanny the stories ran low, and she began to embellish and even fell into telling the intermittent slight fabrication. She saw, too the danger of sinking into a biddy herself – biddiness; what with tedious strolls every day along the front and out on the jetty and long afternoon naps between waiting for meals. Called to arms once more, she would don her nanny piny and fly to the rescue, to do her duty as only a first-rate nanny might – heroine of the hour and thereafter.

Dudley returned to the hall after spending the night with his new policeman amour to find his wife in the breakfast room. Bunty lifted a letter by her plate as he entered, and so absorbed in the contents pretended at first not to notice him. How lovely, she pronounced gaily after a few seconds. Oh, there you are, good morning, darling. She held up the letter. Nanny Potter will return to us on Tuesday.

Are you serious? I thought the old pantomime cow got put out to pasture a year ago?

Yes, I am serious, and no we did not retire her, she only taking a nice long rest.

Dudley rang the bell for fresh coffee. Well as long as I do not have to see the witch … she possesses the bad habit of making me nervy.

And so you should, Dudley. Nanny will know exactly what naughty boys do all night helping policemen with their inquiries.

Dudley’s flesh crawled at the thought of this ancient breed of English nanny with their all-seeing gaze, their universal cry – ‘we know what you’re up to, so don’t think we don’t.’

Urg! he shuddered, witches all.

Swaggard shared Lord Dudley’s unease when he heard of the expected return of Nanny Potter to Thorp Crest Hall, for even with her bad eyes she might notice Cedric not Cedric, but James, and James not James, but Cedric. He made up his mind if Nanny Potter realised he switched boys he would kill her on the spot, strangle her or chuck her out the window before she could make trouble. Swaggard put in an immediate request, volunteering to drive to Margate to pick up Nanny Potter. Bunty, though pleased by this sensible suggestion from the habitually taciturn Swaggard wondered now if maybe something did go-on between them after all, and this their first meeting in over a year. How sweet and romantic she thought – though these not the first words springing immediately to mind: heinous and obscene sprang first, followed by loathsome and repellent, dirty and stinking … bile and vomit. She gulped at these imaginings causing herself to virtually gag and she put her hand to her throat, immediately redirecting her thoughts regarding old people’s coitus – and came up with, sweet and romantic in the summer sunshine of the winter of their lives.

Yes, and much nicer for Nanny if driven by someone she knows, instead of Peter whom she does not know. Do you not think so, Dudley?

No, Dudley replied. He did not think so and about to remind Bunty how because of Swaggard’s monstrous brain condition Lord Plumbright employed him only to ferry people and run errands back and forth between the two houses, her father expressly telling them not to send Swaggard on any journey out of the area. Dudley paused and smiled, picturing a mighty car crash where two of his most un-favourite people are done mercifully to death. Well, yes, you are in all probability right, he amended.

Yes, and he can spend the night at Margate, Bunty went on, and bring Nanny back the following day, both of them all nice and fresh.

Fresh? Dudley questioned. Well, yes, dear … an excellent idea, and he envisaged in detail the fresh and bloody car wreck.

Swaggard saw James for a moment during the afternoon happily tottering along between his two minders, his boy Jim, now this Cedric, Earl of Ladywell, the child and Lord, he, Swaggard created – and he would not risk the Potter woman going and ruin his boy’s life by opening her flabby mouth and condemning his lad. He must take drastic measures in preventing her seeing his boy. Yes, he thought coolly, somewhere between Margate and Saxonford, an accident. Murder her and bury the body in the woods? Alternatively, drown her in an out of the way ditch and leave her there? In a flash the most effortless solution came to him, an unforeseen tragic motor mishap and no one to blame, except for the driver of the oncoming motorcar travelling at breakneck speed and knocking down the old bat, a simple hit and run accident.

Early Monday morning, Swaggard carefully polished his metal plates and shook out his tea-cosy hat in preparation for the long drive in the Bentley to Margate. Across the frozen fields, the snow all but vanished, but now a light white frost clung and hung in the air, solid and hard to breathe. As he started out half a dozen large black crows picked at frozen carrion on the drive, and Swaggard accelerated into them sending them flapping and cursing into the air. He laughed, picturing Nanny Potter as carrion in the road for hungry crows.

Even though Nanny Potter understood from a picture postcard she once received from Lady Bunty in Japan, mentioning Swaggard’s stay in some description of brain clinic, she immediately sensed Swaggard the one who would fetch her and the knowledge caused her dim uneasiness. Much of her memory of the last few days at the hall remained hazy, and still not sure what part Swaggard played, if any, in the whole demonic white slave episode, involving the now locally celebrated scandalous knickers interlude.

When Swaggard arrived from his bed and breakfast on the outskirts of Margate to collect Nanny Potter the following morning, though reserved their meeting proved cordial enough. He loaded her trunk and boxes into the boot of the Bentley while all the ladies assembled on the steps to say their sad goodbye’s to their idol. They all agreed they would miss Ms Potter exceedingly, for her entertaining reminiscences and the no-holes-barred adventures of her most thrilling life and for her dry wit and humour.

You have kept us all so young, Ms Potter, the matron of the home beamed. What shall we do without you?

You’ll manage, Nanny Potter muttered gruffly, holding the goodbye card signed by everyone at the home, the small bunch of African violets and smaller box of chocolates. Senile old cows, she mumbled climbing into the back of the great black motorcar.

The motor pulled away from the curb as the nannies crowded forward onto the pavement smiling and waving. Nanny rolled down the window a crack and without a glance back tossed the card, violets and chocolates out into the street. Everyone stopped waving, and looked down agog at their modest gifts lying sprawled pathetically in the wet gutter.

After a few platitudes and neither inclined to chat, the long journey across Kent and up through London passed in silence.

Driving through Berkhamsted on the quieter country road to Tring Swaggard startled the dozing Ms Potter by complaining aloud how the rear lights of the car went on the blink again. He informed Lord Plumbright the day before as he drove him over to the castle the fiction of the rear lights on the new Bentley not working properly and needed seeing to. … and the Bentley maybe out of commission for a few days, sir, Swaggard grumbled morosely.

Why are you telling me all this, Swaggard? Lord Plumbright snapped. Do I look like a ruddy motorcar mechanic to you? Just get the damn lights fixed. We still have the Rolls and the Daimler I assume?

Yes, sir, we do. Swaggard turned away and smirked deviously, his alibi set.

Lord Plumbright put this irritating and unnecessary flow of words from Swaggard down to mental aberration and the man’s pathetic loneliness but ignored him anyway.

With his heart beating wildly and the blood racing dangerously behind his metal plates, Swaggard stopped the car on a lonely stretch of road along the Chiltern Hills, telling Nanny Potter he must check the rear lights. With the engine running, he walked to the back of the car for a moment, and opened the backdoor of the car on Nanny’s side. Sorry to bother you, he nervously grimaced, but I can’t tell if the back brake-lights are working or not unless I put my foot on the brake-pedal, you see. And I can’t do the two jobs at one time can I; so could you step around to the back of the car and tell me when and if the lights come on?

Startled awake at the sound of Swaggard’s voice, Nanny Potter surfaced from her deep dose. Just resting my eyes for a bit, she asserted defensively. Confused, she stepped groggily and stiffly out of the warm motor into the chilly evening air. You’ll have to tell me again what you want me to do, Mr Swaggard?

Stand right here. He placed her about ten feet directly behind the Bentley. Let me know if the lights come on. Excited and dizzy, Swaggard got back into the car, pushed the gears into reverse and checking his rear view mirror to make sure she stood nicely positioned he slammed down his foot hard on the accelerator. The car lunged backwards and he heard the loud thud of impact, flesh and bone against metal, and the extra bonus of the rear and front wheels bounce up and across the heaped hag. Seeing her now sprawled face up on the road beyond the bonnet, Swaggard smiled thinking of the hungry crows he saw the day before. For good measure, he put the Bentley back into forward gear and ran her over again with the same satisfying if slightly flatter bounce and crack of bone. He sat for a while musing quietly on how easily some people died, and he thought of his son now free and out of danger; and this one more story to amuse his lad on his twenty-first birthday.

Suddenly aware other vehicles or locals might appear on the scene, he got out of the car and dragged the limp bundle by one leg to the backdoor of the Bentley. More clothing than body, the other leg twisted and broken and sticking up at an obscene angle, he pushed the already cooling and thankfully not too bloody corpse across the floor and closed the door.

Half an hour later as the motor approached the emergency entrance of the Aylesbury Infirmary Swaggard adjusted his craggy features to one of appropriate distress at the occurrence of such a terrible accident. Parking