A Knight’s Tale – Page 5

A Knight’s Tale (115: Why I No Longer Drive)

Early in the 1990s I visited a good cafe in Islington for lunch on my way to my consultancy at the now closed adoption society, Parents for Children. Deep in The Times crossword, I was vaguely aware of a male figure taking a seat at a table adjacent to mine. I was completely unaware of his departure a very short time afterwards. Reaching for my brief case which I had placed on the floor beside me, I was completely unaware of that too. It was gone. After I had looked all around me, it gradually dawned on me that it had been nicked. It was the proprietor who told me of the man’s rapid departure.

Concerned about the preservation of my suit jacket, I had done what no sensible person ever does. I kept everything in that brief case: my wallet, cheque book, mobile phone, books, favourite pipe, lighter, and just about everything else except my biro and copy of The Times. I couldn’t phone to cancel the cards. I couldn’t pay for the meal. Fortunately the cafe staff helped me out with coins for a wall phone and would not accept even a contribution for the food. I did, of course, return the money soon afterwards. I reported the theft at Islington police station, knowing full well I would not see my belongings again. The system, however, is that you must waste your and police time to provide a crime number for the insurance company.

One item in the wallet had been my driving licence. I duly collected a form for a replacement from Newark post office, filled it in, wrote out the cheque and stuck it in my ‘to do’ tray. This was because I needed a photograph for the new style licence to replace my old paper one which had needed no picture.

Several years later I came across this paperwork and managed to get a couple of photographs out of a machine, this being no mean feat in itself. Of course, by then the £2.50 or so cheque I had written probably wouldn’t have been sufficient. So I put it all back in the tray for several more years, whilst I got around to checking. It could be there still.

This passport photograph was produced twenty years later.

Not driving was really no problem during the years I was commuting to London. I used public transport all week and Jessica drove at the weekends. This is because I didn’t mind who drove, and she couldn’t bear not to. It seemed quite a satisfactory arrangement. After her death and my return to live in Central London a car would have been a liability. Even running across London was quicker than driving. Finding somewhere to park was a nightmare, and paying for it exorbitant. The congestion charge was soon to be introduced. And, of course, with a London address, I was given a senior citizen’s Freedom Pass which meant public transport within all six London Transport zones was free of charge. And you could get quite a lot of cab journeys for the cost of running a car.

Where we are living now a car is pretty well essential. But now I have a beautiful chauffeuse who has her own car.

A Knight’s Tale (114: Adoption Panels)

In https://derrickjknight.com/2021/10/14/a-knights-tale-50-adoption/ I have written earlier about the early stumbling into professional assessment of adoption applicants.

The Adoption Act of 1958 which came into force the following year, was the first of a series over the next few decades that sought to improve regulatory requirements for adopters, requirements for adoption agencies and the procedure to be used when making or appealing a court decision on adoption. Whilst these developments have undoubtedly been necessary, in practice the placement of babies and toddlers has in many cases been delayed.

The Adoption Panel has an overriding responsibility to promote good practice, consistency of approach and fairness in all aspects of the adoption service, in accordance with its procedures and values. Within the remit of the panel’s recommendations are the suitability of prospective adoptive applicants to adopt; whether a particular child is suitable to be placed for adoption; and whether that child should be placed with particular prospective adopters.

By the mid-1990s and beyond I chaired adoption panels for the Voluntary Agency Parents for Children and for the London Borough of Camden; and the Fostering Panel of the same London Borough.

This welcome Paper Weight was given to me by the voluntary agency upon my resignation.

Panel members were expected to study the paperwork involved, which would include recommendations of the Medical Officer, and full assessment reports from the Social Workers. The various members had different experiences of the work and differing ideas about suitable parenting. There was generally a Council Member of the local authority included. As such my extensive experience of child care and of group work in general was invaluable in managing the discussions. One issue which could prove problematic was individual’s attitudes towards religion. Some people would be reluctant to approve applicants adhering to particular faiths, being wary of fundamentalism. Even in those earlier days smokers would be frowned upon. Changes of names of children was often open to discussion. It was considered more acceptable to retain the birth parent’s choice, especially for a middle name. On the whole, however, those who voluntarily gave up their time to this work were honourable and dedicated.

A Knight’s Tale (113: Terminal Illness)

One evening, late in 1997, over the space of three hours, what seemed to be ‘flu’-like symptoms reduced my wife Jessica to a terrifying inability to swallow. I telephoned the emergency GP service and spoke to a most unhelpful doctor. He refused to visit and told me to give Jessica aspirin. ‘If she can’t swallow, how am I going to give her aspirin?’, I asked. The response was that I should contact my GP in the morning, and if I became concerned in the night take her to casualty.

In the small hours of the morning I drove my wife to Newark Hospital’s casualty department, by which time panic had set in. There we were seen by a man in white, presumably a qualified medic. He stuck a spatula into her mouth, peered into it, and said he couldn’t see anything. He took a blood test, told us to go home, and said we would have the results in three days. I stood between him and the couch, faced him squarely, and asked: ‘If you can’t see anything, why can’t she swallow?’. At that, without a word, he walked out of the room leaving us alone. After what seemed like an age another man came in and announced that we were being sent to Nottingham. There followed a 25 mile ambulance trip.

Within minutes in one of that city’s casualty departments, with the aid of more sophisticated equipment, epiglottitis was diagnosed. I asked the doctor on duty what would have happened had I not stood firm. He replied that at the next stage Jessica would have been unable to breathe and would not have lasted the night. She was treated, rapidly improved, and we thought that was that.

Jessica seemed well, we forgot about the blood test, and I resumed my commuting to London. A couple of days later, in my consulting room 125 miles away, I received a phone call from my GP sister-in-law. ‘It’s myeloma’, she announced. I had no idea what that incurable bone barrow cancer was. This is what the test had revealed.

Naturally I complained in writing both to the hospital and to the GP services. I had no energy left to pursue the bland responses I received. There were much more important channels for it.

There was a sequel to this story. One of the professional tasks I undertook in Newark was the supervision of other freelance therapeutic counsellors. One day one of my supervisees spoke of a couple with whom she was trying to engage. She said she was unable to work with the man who was unbelievably chauvinistic and treated his wife very badly. She asked me if I would take over this piece of work. I replied that I couldn’t because this was the emergency GP, in fact a psychiatrist, who refused to visit Jessica.

There followed ten years of various treatments, including blood transfusions, two stem cell transplants, and finally, an unsuccessful donor transplant.

Knowing that her first bout of chemotherapy would result in hair loss, she asked her friend Jane Keeler to cut it all off for her.

Mostly she was treated as an outpatient, but there was one week when to visit her in hospital I travelled by train from Lindum House to Kings Cross early in the morning, carried out a normal day’s work, took a train to Nottingham, visited, then took another train to Newark. I was relieved that I only had to do that once.

Initially, periods of remission were such that Jessica was able to continue working as an emergency duty social worker. The months of relief gradually became shorter and shorter, and the relapses longer and she retired on ill health grounds after about five years. She died on 4th July 2007.

A Knight’s Tale (112: “The Best Big Brother Ever”)

At the beginning of 1986 snow lay on the ground for the first three months. This was the last year I remember a decent amount of snow in London. Matthew took his little brother and sister for a sledge ride on allegedly thin ice beside the Waterfowl Sanctuary on Tooting Common.

During that prolonged winter, Sam’s and Louisa’s expressions show quite clearly how cold it was when Matthew, dubbed by Louisa ‘the best big brother ever’, took them out for a buggy ride from Gracedale Road.

It was clearly much more cosy when he read them a story.

It would have been that summer that Jessica, Sam, and I spent a week in Mary Dewsberry’s holiday home in Haslemere. Last year’s bracken and autumn leaves lingered in the country terrain.

Jessica, Sam and Louisa feeding ponies 1986

This may have been the occasion when we discovered that the two children both had allergies to horses, the touch of which caused their eyes to swell up alarmingly.

Under the cloak of a little coppice, Louisa made a diving effort to reenter her mother’s womb. Sam insisted that there was room for two.

Mary’s son, Nick, and his children Jack and Dora, welcomed Sam and Louisa into their boat maintenance crew. Louisa made a quick recovery after her early tip-up, and everyone set to with gusto.

A Knight’s Tale (111: A Photographic Assignment)

http://www.visitoruk.com/Grantham/fulbeck-hall-C567-AT215.html tells us that

‘Fulbeck Hall is a fine country house dating from the early 17th-century, but largely rebuilt in 1733 by Francis Fane whose family had lived there since 1632.

The house, now a Grade II* listed building, was completely refurbished following World War II, by Henry and Dorothy Fane, having been left in a desperate state of repair by the army who had requisitioned it during the conflict.

The house, with 11 acres of formal gardens, has been restored back to its former glory and is now a private residence. It is not open to the public.

Visitors to the nearby Church of St. Nicholas will see monuments to the Fane family, residents of Fulbeck Hall for nearly 400 years.’

A more detailed history is provided by Wikipedia. From the following extracts I have deleted those sections in need of reference citations.

‘The hall was purchased, in 1622, by Francis Fane, 1st Earl of Westmorland, 8th Baron le Despenser and de jure 8th and 6th Baron Bergavenny, of Apethorpe Hall, Northamtonshire, from Sir George Manners, who remained in residence until he became the 7th Earl of Rutland in 1632.^[11] The hall then went to the Earl of Westmorland‘s son, Sir Francis Fane,^[11] a courtier, Royalist and commander of the King’s forces at Doncaster and Lincoln.

Under the Commonwealth, the estate was confiscated, however, Sir Francis Fane was allowed to buy it back, and before the Restoration of Charles II in 1660, he and his wife Elizabeth Darcy, daughter of Sir Edward Darcy MP, grandson of the executed traitor Thomas Darcy, 1st Baron Darcy de Darcy, occupied much of their time in rebuilding the Hall in Restoration style. It was burned down 30 December 1731,^[11] and was rebuilt 1732-1733. His son, also Sir Francis, married Hannah Rushworth daughter of John Rushworth MP and private secretary to Oliver Cromwell .

In 1767 Fulbeck Hall was left to Henry Fane of Brympton owner of Brympton d’Evercy who was a grandson of Sir Francis Fane, the second of Fulbeck and Hannah Rushworth. Henry Fane of Brymton made a fortune as a successful Bristol privateer and he left his Wormesley estates in Oxfordshire to his younger son Henry and his estates in Somerset, Dorset, and Lincolnshire were left to his eldest son Thomas Fane, 8th Earl of Westmorland Thomas, 8th earl inherited the estates of his father and his cousin the 7th Earl making him one of the richest landowners in England. He left Fulbeck Hall to his younger son the Hon Henry Fane MP in 1783. (This man) followed a long list of Fanes as Members of Parliament for Lyme Regis the famil[y’]s pocket borough inherited from an uncle, John Scrope MP, Secretary to the Treasury and grandson of the executed regicide Colonel Adrian Scrope. The constituency at times provided the Fanes with two members of parliament at the same time and between 1753 and 1832 twelve separate members of the family represented Lyme Regis in the Tory interest. Throughout this period the Fane family also represented Constituencies in Somerset, Lincolnshire, Kent, Hampshire, Northamptonshire and Oxfordshire. In 1777 Henry Fane married Anne Buckley Batson, heiress of the Avon Tyrrell estate in Hampshire, by whom he had 14 children.

During the 19th century the house was home to General Sir Henry Fane MP for Lyme Regis who was Commander-in-Chief, India as well as his brother General Mildmay Fane. Sir Henry bequeathed a life interest in the estate to his eldest son Col. Henry Fane(d.1836).^[12] His nephew General Walter Fane who raised Fane’s Horse a regiment of volunteers to fight in China during the Second Opium War succeeded him at Fulbeck Hall. This regiment still exists as part of Pakistan’s armed forces. General Walter Fane is not to be confused with his brother Colonel Francis Fane of Fulbeck Manor, who raised the Peshawar Light Horse in 1857 as an irregular cavalry unit to fight against the mutineers during the Indian Mutiny. This regiment was disbanded in 1903.

During the Second World War 1939-1945 the house was requisitioned by the British Armed Forces and it was the location of the 1st Airborne Division before they left the United Kingdom for the Battle of Arnhem.

Many of the contents of Fulbeck Hall were sold by Sotheby’s in October 2002.’

In February 1993, I was commissioned to make photographs to feature in a brochure for Mary Fry, the then owner, who was a schoolfriend of Jessica’s.

Here Mary stands at her open door

leading to the entrance hall,

off which is found the reception room.

A sundial can be seen standing before the main door in the initial picture. The avenue drive leads the eye from this to the gates.

The elegant drawing room is beautifully furnished with fine furniture, ornaments, paintings,

and a grand piano.

Here is one corner of the room.

My accompanying text is written in the present tense, as in 1993, but I have no idea whether this shapely vase, seen beneath the mirror above;

this landscape painting; or any of the other contents in my pictures, survived the sale of 2002, which followed Mary’s early death.

A Knight’s Tale (110: Banknotes And Phonecards)

When Louisa was very young she became interested in foreign banknotes. I took great delight in scouring Newark market stalls for samples with which to enhance her collection. In her teens she moved on to other things and returned them to me. In 2006 I was to pass them on to a client who was a collector.

Phonecards required me to be a bit more adventurous. In the 1980s, when Louisa began collecting them, I was working in London, which is, of course, full of phoneboxes. These cards contained a reader which recorded the time left available on them. When exhausted, they would often be abandoned in the boxes. Rich pickings for someone prepared to tramp the streets and, if necessary, cross the road to forage. They would come in sets. I remember one celebrating Goldeneye, a James Bond film starring Pierce Brosnan. I would happily try to fill in the gaps for my daughter, proudly presenting them on my return to Lindum house in the evenings.

It was a red-letter day when I found one of the first cards ever issued. Since this was some time after its publication, I imagined it had been deposited by a tourist on his or her return to England. I once mentioned this obsession to a friend of mine. Now, these boxes also contained cards of another nature. Often bearing obviously lying glamour photographs, sexual service advertisements were frequently pasted on the walls. My friend got quite the wrong end of the stick and pulled my leg unmercifully. Cursory glances into more recent telephone boxes on my return to Victoria demonstrated that these wares are still being marketed through this medium. Most are now torn off, leaving stubborn fragments attached to the glass. They look rather like a price label attached to a present, or a charity shop paperback, which you cannot completely remove. Whilst carrying out my research I rather hoped that no-one watching would also get the wrong end of the stick.

That early phonecard, issued by BT (which in those days did truly stand for British Telecom) has now been superceded by a myriad of companies issuing cards without a reader; and the mobile phone has severely limited the call for public phone boxes. Louisa eventually also donated that collection to me. I don’t know where it is now, which is a pity because the Goldeneye set still shows a profit on e-Bay.

A Knight’s Tale (109: Ferry Across The Solent)

A 1968 Isle of Wight holiday featured in https://derrickjknight.com/2021/10/12/a-knights-tale-49-shanklin/

It will soon become clear why a day trip taken with Elizabeth, Rob, Adam, and Danni in the mid 1980s is somewhat hazy in my mind. In fact given the haziness of my mind on that occasion this is probably an accurate presentation. Jessica, Sam, Louisa, and I were spending a weekend with my sister and her family at The Firs, in Hampshire’s West End, when we decided to take a ferry trip to the island.

I woke in the morning feeling decidedly groggy and nevertheless, not prepared to put the kibosh on the day, insisted on continuing with the plan. It was probably on the journey over that, wrapped in a blanket I dozed in the bar downstairs – probably on the way back, too. All I remember is a quartet of children queuing to ask for money to feed the food and drink dispensing machines. Head buried beneath the blanket, I would stretch out an arm, on the end of which was a handful of coins. This was gradually stripped clean.

When we arrived wherever we found ourselves I staggered into the nearest churchyard, fell onto a generously proportioned gravestone, and slept soundly until the others returned from whence they had wandered.

We next stayed with our friends Sarah and Howard at Bembridge in August 2000. On their local beach

Jessica and Heidi towed Emily and Oliver in our dinghy;

Howard helped Jessica into their small yacht,

while Michael took over dinghy duties.

While there we took a trip to Sandown’s Yaverland Beach. Is this a special stone Emily is displaying?

Jessica tows Emily and Oliver in the dinghy;

then Oliver romps on the sand with his Dad who rows him out to sea.

Although we now live so close to the Isle I have never visited it since.

A Knight’s Tale (108: Instow Part 2)

It was probably in August 1998 that Jessica bought a secondhand outboard motor in Newark and used for one day in Instow in Devon. She left her recently acquired dinghy in the bay facing our holiday house. In the morning the motor was gone. As was every other similar item from other boats. This was apparently the first time such a theft had ever occurred at that location.

It was that year, the one after my then wife had received her diagnosis of multiple myeloma, that she paddled on Instow beach with Emily.

The following year was the one of the beach fortress.

Sam, Louisa, James, Gemma, Lucy, and Nick start on a pile of sand on the beautiful beach of Instow, where boats ply the channel between this and the former fishing village of Appledore,

and Canon Henry Pearson leans against a moored boat surveying the scene.

At this early stage it is possible for passers-by, like this mother pushing a pram, to be unaware of what is happening.

Gradually, however, the young of Instow gather round.

Louisa and Lucy smooth the surfaces,

and Lucy employs the services of a little local helper.

Bigger lads look on.

Jim shares a joke with Lucy, whose assistant has wandered off

to see if Louisa has any requirements, whilst his sister examines the footings.

Sometimes it’s not exactly clear who is in charge.

By the time the sun begins to sink below the horizon, the crew are able to position the flambeaus, and delight in their creation.

Jessica and Judith prepare refreshments, evening wear is donned,

and the village begins to assemble.

Jessica sports her trademark Monsoon skirt.

‘David Robert Shepherd MBE (27 December 1940 – 27 October 2009)^[1] was a first-class cricketer who played county cricket for Gloucestershire, and later became one of the cricket world’s best-known umpires. He stood in 92 Test matches, the last of them in June 2005, the most for any English umpire. He also umpired 172 ODIs [One Day Internationals], including three consecutive World Cup, finals in 1996, 1999 and 2003′ (Wikipedia).

He has observed the proceedings from very early on.

As night closes in, the torches are lit, and the crowd dwindles away,

eventually leaving the field to three proud mothers: from left to right, Ali, of James; Jessica, of Sam and Louisa; and Judith, of Lucy and Nick.

A Knight’s Tale (107: Instow Part 1)

According to Wikipedia ‘Instow is a village in north Devon, England. It is on the estuary where the rivers Taw and Torridge meet, between the villages of Westleigh and Yelland and on the opposite bank of Appledore. There is an electoral ward with the same name. Its total population at the 2011 census was 1,501.^[1]

There is a small river beach and sand dunes, that home some rare species of orchid including the pyramid orchid.^[2]

The Tarka Trail passes through Instow, providing an easy means for people to arrive by foot or on bike. This section of the Trail is also part of the South West Coast Path, offering longer walks along the coast.’

From 1985 Jessica, Sam, Louisa and I enjoyed many annual holidays there with various family members.

On that first visit Sam clambers over a stout, cemented, stone wall in the garden of our borrowed house.

Louisa then received a nature lesson from her mother, Jessica,

seated on that wall, introducing her to the wonders of nature. An insect perches in our daughter’s hand; tall violet irises stand proud while yellow roses ramble along the stones.

Sam took his turn, too.

Here Jessica admires sculptures at Marwood Hill Garden near Barnstaple.

We took the car to Mousehole in Cornwall for one day. Sam loved donkey riding. A peculiarity of this ancient fishing village is the main road through to the harbour. Sam’s donkey stands on it, and is perhaps a more convenient way of manning the steep, cobbled, ascent. The granite strips among the setts provide steps between the houses. It is not suitable for vehicles, other than the shallow wooden sleds used by provisioners to deliver their produce.

The harbour has a similarly stout protective stone wall that can be ascended by substantial steep steps, such as those Jessica, Sam and Louisa are scaling. Jessica seems a little perturbed by our intrepid daughter’s purposeful strides.

A Knight’s Tale (106: That’ll Be The Day)

Opposite Victoria Station stands the Victoria Palace Theatre. I have attended two and a half performances there. ‘Billy Elliot’ is quite the best stage production of its kind that I have ever seen. During its first week, for Louisa’s birthday, I took her and Errol to see the show. At the time the film, which we had watched on DVD together, was one of Louisa’s favourites. Naturally we had a curry beforehand.

‘Billy Elliot: The Musical is a coming-of-age stage musical based on the 2000 film of the same name. The music is by Elton John, and the book and lyrics are by Lee Hall, who wrote the film’s screenplay. The plot revolves around Billy, a motherless British boy who begins taking ballet lessons. The story of his personal struggle and fulfilment are balanced against a counter-story of family and community strife caused by the 1984–85 UK miners’ strike in County Durham, in North East England. Hall’s screenplay was inspired in part by A. J. Cronin‘s 1935 novel about a miners’ strike, The Stars Look Down, to which the musical’s opening song pays homage.^[1]

The musical premiered at the Victoria Palace Theatre in London’s West End in 2005 and was nominated for nine Laurence Olivier Awards, winning four, including Best New Musical. The production ran through April 2016.^[2] Its success led to productions in Australia, Broadway, and numerous other countries. In New York, it won ten Tony Awards and ten Drama Desk Awards, including, in each case, Best Musical. It has also won numerous awards in Australia including a record-tying seven Helpmann Awards.’ (Wikipedia)

Some years earlier, soon after Becky had returned to London from Newark, I arranged to meet her at Victoria Station to take her to the Victoria Palace to see one of the opening performances of ‘Buddy’.

Wikipedia also tells us: ‘Buddy: The Buddy Holly Story is a musical in two acts written by Alan Janes, and featuring the music of Buddy Holly. It opened at London’s Victoria Palace Theatre on 12 October 1989. An early example of the jukebox musical, Buddy ran in London’s West End for over 12 years, playing 5,140 performances. Janes took over the producing of the show himself in 2004, and Buddy has been on tour extensively in the UK since then, having played Broadway, five U.S. National Tours and numerous other productions around the world. The show was nominated for an Olivier Award for Best Musical.

She didn’t turn up. Since this was most unlike either one of my two reliable daughters I waited an hour. The only other person I have ever waited for that long was her mother on our first date, again at Victoria Station. Having finally given up on Becky, wondering what on earth had gone wrong, which probably affected my mood, I went to the theatre, explained the situation, and asked for a refund. This was not possible. I asked to speak to the manager. He was unavailable. ‘OK,’ said I, tearing up the tickets which I threw into the office, ‘you have these, they’re no good to me.’ Storming out of the theatre in high dudgeon, I walked straight into Becky.

Somewhat shame-faced we returned to the ticket office where I sought admission. There was now a different booking clerk. We could not gain admission because the show had started and anyway I didn’t have any tickets. I quickly replaced my blown gasket and again asked to speak to the manager. This time I was invited to wait for the intermission when he might just possibly be available. He did indeed materialise. The jigsaw puzzle that was the shredded tickets was fished out of the wastepaper basket, pieced together, and closely scrutinised. We now found that the manager was sympathetic to our plight. He had actually appeared before the intermission but invited us to wait until then and enter the theatre during the break. We were given two much better seats and tickets for a future complete performance. Is that ever likely to happen again? ‘That’ll be the day’.