English Estates.

I WOULD like to start an appeal to generate money for the landed families of this country to wrest control of all the estates in the hands of the National Trust. I feel sadness when I walk through the tourist conga lines of these beautiful but prostituted buildings, designed to be inhabited in the kind of style which only generational eminence can justify, now full of cordoned areas and placards like a museum. Why will not the Duke of Westminster shave some of the cream off his gold top milk and restore the gentry to their rightful homesteads? Why cannot the wealthy to-day build like this, what happened to patronage?

 

The Table Talk of My Grandmother.

An anecdote of her time working in the City of London: there used to be a plaque on the wall reading, 'That bread is the staff of life is no excuse for the life of the staff to be one long loaf.'

   ‘A little help is worth a lot of sympathy.’

   Betty’s mother, as she lay dying, asked, ‘What’s it all about, Bet?’ ‘I don’t know, Mum, I was hoping you would tell me.’

   She told a story of being in a very good restaurant and hearing an American ask the English waiter rather loudly, ‘Where is the Dover sole from?’ ‘Dover, sir.’ replied the waiter.

   In a restaurant with her son Michael the waiter brought the finger bowl and it was washing up liquid and water instead of lemon and water. Betty, who never lacked the courage of her convictions, said to the waiter who was also the manager that it was not good enough. The manager testily replied that he went to Thanet Catering College. Later on, the port arrived in sherry glasses, and Betty said to the manager, 'Excuse me, when you went to Thanet Catering College did they teach you to put port into schooners?'

   When at Simpson's in the Strand she taught me to give the carvers a tip directly, a good sum of ten or twenty pounds, for of such are manners made, and we not at all wealthy, and of course the delighted carvers revisited our table and carved us some more slices. We later returned to Simpson's and, to our despondency, we saw they had changed the famous cartoon menu and that they had begun to add a service charge. Betty, out of moral scruple, who always tipped waiters handsomely, demanded at the desk that this service charge should be removed from the bill, as there was no assurance the money would go to the waiters (and in point of fact I doubt it does in most places).  

 

THE VOICE, BY RUPERT BROOKE.

 

Safe in the magic of my woods
   I lay, and watched the dying light.
Faint in the pale high solitudes,
   And washed with rain and veiled by night,

 

Silver and blue and green were showing.
   And the dark woods grew darker still;
And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;
   And quietness crept up the hill;

 

And no wind was blowing

 

And I knew

That this was the hour of knowing,
And the night and the woods and you
Were one together, and I should find
Soon in the silence the hidden key
Of all that had hurt and puzzled me --
Why you were you, and the night was kind,
And the woods were part of the heart of me.

 

And there I waited breathlessly,
Alone; and slowly the holy three,
The three that I loved, together grew
One, in the hour of knowing,
Night, and the woods, and you ----

 

And suddenly

There was an uproar in my woods,
The noise of a fool in mock distress,
Crashing and laughing and blindly going,
Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress,
And a Voice profaning the solitudes.

 

The spell was broken, the key denied me
And at length your flat clear voice beside me
Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.

 

You came and quacked beside me in the wood.
You said, "The view from here is very good!"
You said, "It's nice to be alone a bit!"
And, "How the days are drawing out!" you said.
You said, "The sunset's pretty, isn't it?"

 

By God! I wish -- I wish that you were dead!

   'That’s for me to know and you to find out.' 

   'Think of Ralph!' (Betty's brilliant father).

   ‘Never explain, never complain, pretend it all never happened.’

   ‘Once upon a time, the birds pooped lime, and the monkeys chewed tobacco.’ 

 

'I’d far rather lather father than father lather me

Because when father lathers, he lathers rather free.'

 

'If Moses supposes his toeses are roses

Then Moses supposes erroneously;

For nobody’s toeses are posies of roses,

As Moses supposes his toeses to be.'

   ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense.’ (whenever we left her).

   ‘There are PLUs and PLTs (people like us and people like them).

   ‘What’s a chap to do?’

   ‘I’m a man.’

   ‘What condition is your condition in?’

   ‘Good moaning!’ (each morning).

   ‘Only come in if you’re good looking!’

   ‘Like the curate’s egg, good in parts.’ (whenever she was asked how she was).

   ‘It’s not me, it’s the others.’

'They said Mozart was mad,
They said Puccini was mad,
They said Louis was mad,
Who's Louis? My uncle, he was mad!' 

'Anything you can do,

I can do better

I can do anything

Better than you.

No, you can't.

Yes, I can. No, you can't.

Yes, I can. No, you can't.

Yes, I can,

Yes, I can!'

   'We don't need words!' (quoted from Round the Horne which we listened to together).

   'Another day in paradise!'

   She loved the Just William stories, and in particular the fact that Richmal Crompton often described William saying things ‘bitterly’.

   'Dad always told me, if ever you are nervous, imagine the people trying to find the soap in the bath.'

 

TIME, YOU OLD GYPSY MAN, BY RALPH HODGSON.

 

Time, You Old Gypsy Man
Will you not stay,
Put up your caravan
Just for one day?
All things I'll give you
Will you be my guest,
Bells for your jennet
Of silver the best,
Goldsmiths shall beat you
A great golden ring,
Peacocks shall bow to you,
Little boys sing.
Oh, and sweet girls will
Festoon you with may,
Time, you old gypsy,
Why hasten away?
Last week in Babylon,
Last night in Rome,
Morning, and in the crush
Under Paul's dome;
Under Pauls' dial
You tighten your rein -
Only a moment,
And off once again;
Off to some city
Now blind in the womb,
Off to another
Ere that's in the tomb.
Time, you old gypsy man,
Will you not stay,
Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

 

   I used to watch films with Betty, many excellent black and white classics, but also newer films. We sat through the rather long film of Apocalypse Now which was certainly interesting, but its ending was bizarre to say the least. I was rather nonplussed as to what I should say to Betty, as I had not quite decided myself whether it was profound or ridiculous, when Betty perfectly voiced my feelings with a quote from her favourite Macbeth, 'Well, was that full of sound and fury signifying nothing?'

   But perhaps my favourite moment watching a film with her was when we watched the film Snatch, which I have since learnt she had seen at least twice before though she never let on, and I was quite enthralled with the ending of the film. If my memory serves, there is a scene in a camp site about half an hour before the somewhat protracted ending. My eyes were glued to the screen and as the credits rolled I turned with an impressed expression to Betty and said, 'Crikey! What did you think of that?' and I was met with the hilarious sight of her mouth wide open in deep sleep. I cried out, 'Betty!' she started awake, 'What?' then saw the credits rolling and said in a slightly breaking voice, 'Ahh! Brilliant!' - 'You were asleep!' - 'I only closed my eyes for a few minutes.' - 'What was the last scene you saw?' - 'The caravan.'

   Now that I think of it, for a time after we watched The Shining together many moons ago she would often say to me 'Here's Johnny!' by way of greeting.

 

FROM LOVE'S LABOURS LOST.

 

When icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

 

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

 

   She told a story of her beloved son Timothy. She went to great efforts all day to help him as his car was being mended, she cooked him breakfast, luncheon, and dinner; his favourite food. She drove him about all day, and as she was doing so in the evening he suddenly raised his voice and said to her, 'Do you know what Bet?' (and here she thought, 'Oh, he's going to say how grateful he is for all I've done.') 'You get right up my nose.'

   'It's six of one and half a dozen of the other.'

   'Do you know what a baker's dozen is darling?'

   'Discretion is the better part of valour.'

 

   Some reminiscences of hers about her childhood: growing up near Twickenham in a place called Prospect Crescent, she remembered steam trains on the lines, she recalled her father's using something called a porringer which he left on all night to slowly bubble, and the porridge in the morning was delectable. Betty herself would make an excellent bowl of porridge, always stirring it and heating it up at intervals, and I do not know how she contrived to give it an almost Crème Brûlée topping with brown sugar but she did. She was a gifted cook, and always made vast differences with little touches, such as cutting cherry tomatoes in half, and sprinkling them with vinegar, oil, salt, and sugar. Anyway, her grandmother 'Granny Gunning' used to birch her two sons, but they adored her, and Betty was her favourite. This meant that she was tasked with taking Granny Gunning's brown jug to the pub and filling it up with stout.

   She spoke but little of the war but whenever I watched footage with her of the Blitz she would always say, 'They should show this to every classroom in the country.' Whenever I would listen with her to Sir Winston Churchill's speeches she would say, 'What a man!' and also, 'We knew we were safe when we heard his voice.'. Her mother and she had a somewhat strained relationship, and Betty never forgot her writing to her, 'Be good sweet maid, and let who will be clever.' which Betty interpreted negatively, but I am not sure that was her mother's intention. For although Betty loved and adored her father Ralph Gunning, who was a supreme chess player and a natural thinker, he did not wish for Betty to go to Thames Valley School when she won the scholarship. He felt it would not be right for Betty to be above her siblings in this regard, but Betty's mother overruled him (I think greatly to her credit), and insisted Betty had all the uniform and attended this excellent school. It was a school incidentally whose motto was Hanc Exorna which she often quoted and translated as Honour This.

 

'The merry peasant rises with the sun,

And when he goes to bed at night the day is done.

The more he works, the more there is to do,

But labour is a healthy thing for me and you;

And all day long, he sings his happy song,

"I envy not, for I have all I need,

But he who has a merry heart is rich indeed!"'

 

   Fabian. 'I had some monkfish recently, it was very expensive but very tasty.'

    Betty. 'We used to give monkfish to the cat.'

 

FROM MACBETH.

‘Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ th’ Tiger;
But in a sieve I’ll thither sail,
And, like a rat without a tail,
I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.

SECOND WITCH 
I’ll give thee a wind.

FIRST WITCH 
Th’ art kind.

THIRD WITCH 
And I another.

FIRST WITCH 
I myself have all the other…

 

First Witch: When shall we three meet again?
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
Second Witch: When the hurly-burly's done,
When the battle's lost and won.
Third Witch: That will be ere the set of sun.
First Witch: Where the place?
Second Witch: Upon the heath.
Third Witch: There to meet with Macbeth.

 

Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.

Methought I heard a voice cry, ‘Sleep no more!
Macbeth doth murder sleep: the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care [Betty quoted this very often],
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.’

 

   'People think it is "Lead on, Macduff", it is "Lay on, Macduff!"' 

  I shall tell the thrice told tale of the omelettes, but first I will begin with the story of the grated cheese sandwiches. One late Saturday morning I was in my tiny bedroom and Betty knocked on my door, 'Would you like anything to eat darling?' I said yes please, a cheese sandwich. I fully expected the cheese to be in slices but Betty, with natural culinary flair, grated the cheese instead. This was a revelation to me and I asked for another, which she happily made, and then I asked for a third, at which point I fancied I perceived some weariness, but I was a wretched glutton.

   Some five years later Betty made me an unimpeachable omelette. It glowed with a halo's golden light, it had cress and grated cheese atop it, there were sautéed potatoes glistening in oil to one side, and slices of bacon. I had never known a meal like it, but I became greedy for more. For a span of a few months Betty would bring me these omelettes, and some were better than others, but all were to a high standard. Then one day everything changed. Betty told me afterwards that she wondered if it was deliberate as she had grown so fed up with making me omelettes, but this substance arrived on the plate. It was not the usual hale and healthy yellow but white, there was an unexplained sausage protruding from it, inside, it was running and gloopy. I couldn't eat it, and so ended the cooking of the omelettes.

   This particular episode may have been a kind of subconscious revenge for the tea debacle of years before. For I used to play scrabble with Betty sometimes and I began to offer to make the tea, which she always would serve with Mr. Kipling's Viennese Whirls. The first time was an honest mistake; there were two bowls, one sugar and one salt, so I made Betty a cup of salt tea. The second time was mere absent mindedness, as I made everything ready and forgot to boil the kettle, so I made Betty a cup of cold tea. I remember thinking it was not as strong as usual. The last time however was unfortunate. It was an awkward basin to fill the kettle up but I noticed a full mug's worth of goodly looking water on the table, so I simply poured that into the kettle and heated it up. Pleased with my ingenuity, I made Betty a cup of tea and this time her discomfort was audible; she shouted out, 'Bleach!' I did not realise it was a cup of bleach water.

 

I wish I loved the Human Race;
I wish I loved its silly face;
I wish I liked the way it walks;
I wish I liked the way it talks;
And when I'm introduced to one,
I wish I thought "What Jolly Fun!"

 

Anecdotes from Ed.

   '"We’re not afraid of thunderstorms, are we baby Edward?" (Betty repeated this to me many times over the years, in reference to the great storm of ’86 in Herne Bay, when the winds were so strong that The Dolphin was swaying).'

   '"Watching a film with the toe rags." (in reference to me asking what she was doing, when she was with Hec and Orly in the chalet).'

   '"Watch out for Dennis the Menace!" (after every chalet night and often randomly since Betty would say this to me on account of the fact that the tree outside the chalet on the left hand side had the silhouette of Dennis the Menace after dark.'

   'While in her late 60s / early 70s Betty came with Luke and I to Las Vegas. One morning Luke and I were in a jacuzzi speaking to a middle-aged lady and telling her that we were in a rock band called The Horrors, which she completely believed. She was so impressed that she was trying to organise us meeting her son, who worked in the industry. We didn't realise that Betty had overheard everything we'd said and came over. We assumed that she was going to expose us but instead she said "Good morning, I'm the boys' manager. Don't forget, boys, that we have an album signing at 2pm."'

   'When we were living at Central Avenue, one morning for some reason it was left to Betty to get me ready for school. Slightly harassed, she conspired to burn the toast, which was met with a succession of expletives. Apparently my response was to say "Them's words, Bet". It was one of her favourite ever anecdotes and she repeated it to me many times over the years.'

 

Why do the stars adore you?

All day they're lonesome for you!

They'd give you the sky;

By the way, so would I!

 

Think how the raindrops miss you,

They hurry down to kiss you

And hope for a sigh;

By the way, so would I!

 

I saw a rose try to imitate your smile,

And you could have heard my heart for a country mile!

 

The wise old owl is scheming,

He overheard you dreaming,

And what he won't try,

Win or lose, do or die!

And by the way, so would I!

 

I saw a rose try to imitate your smile,

And you could have heard my heart for a country mile!

 

The wise old owl is scheming,

He overheard you dreaming,

And what he won't try,

Win or lose, do or die!

And by the way, so would I!

 

'Heaven is beautiful.' (Ralph's last words.)

'God bless.'