National Trust – Page 2 – derrickjknight

A Grief Unobserved

Strolling in Morden Hall Park this morning, I encountered a group of volunteers strenuously striving to eradicate ivy from the bases of trees. They were armed solely with spades and cutters. They did not have the forks which I had found indispensible in digging out the pernicious tendrils (see 27th August post) that had required so much time at The Firs. The man was tugging away with hands encased in protective gloves.

Wandering over to the wetlands I noticed a makeshift plank bridge which provided a short cut to the Natural Play Area which I have been terming an adventure playground. The father of a family enjoying the swings agreed with me when I had told him I hadn’t been prepared to risk it and had taken the long way round. ‘Especially in this weather’, he remarked. The playground has been developed by the National Trust in consultation with Liberty Primary School.

Three mallards resting by the Wandle bank, and a young woman who put me in mind of Lot’s wife, were watching other ducks foraging in the swift-flowing stream.

I had had occasion to visit the reception area of the Civic Centre on my way through Morden, to hand Jackie some documents for signature. There I had read a poster proclaiming that ‘Muhammad is the only prophet mentioned in the Bible’. In Deuteronomy, we are told. I had been given a copy of the Qur’an on my visit to the mosque on 18th May, but have not got round to reading it.

I have a number of books I have not got round to reading. One of these was ‘A Grief Unobserved’ by my friend Maggie Kindred. I determined to rectify that on my return to Links Avenue. Being unable to put it down, I read it at a sitting. Described as ‘insightful and sensitive’, this slender publication is designed ‘for parents, carers, and professionals who work with them’. As a parent and as a professional I have a thorough grasp of Maggie’s subject and can assure you that this small paperback is as good as anything I have read, and more readable than most. She speaks from the heart with a clear professional head. We know exactly what life’s journey has been for Em, from her early bereavement, through her further losses in childhood and adolescence, and, perhaps most importantly and optimistically, her painful road to recovery. Quite appropriately this is seen from the perspective of someone who believes in the significance of nurturing in human development, but no-one should underestimate Em’s inherent strengths.

My own son Michael was, at fourteen months old, two months younger than Em when they each lost their mothers. Vivien’s death was recorded in my post of 17th July. Readers will recall that I took him up to my parents house where we remained for two and a half years. We never returned to our home at Ashcombe Road. I had been unaware that, as Maggie tells us, children always seek the absent parent where they last saw them. I was, however, instinctively aware that when my toddler son wandered at night about the much larger Bernard Gardens address, he was searching for his mother. Probably because he was a boy, he had very little speech at that age, and, as Maggie explains, would not have had the cognitive ability to understand what was going on.

So how was I to tell him? I had not yet discovered the direction explained in my 18th July post, so knew nothing about therapy. What I did know about was stories. His mother and I had always read to our son and shown him books and pictures. I knew of nothing then appropriately written, so I made one up. Each night as I tucked him in I told him a story about a little boy whose mother had died and what it meant. Anyone who has read or told stories to small children will know the value of repetition, also highlighted by Maggie. Woe betide you, though, if you make any changes, leave anything out, or mistake any details, for you will be corrected by the smallest listener. It must have been a year before the little chap, just before nodding off, asked: ‘why did my Mummy die?’ Then, just as now as I write, my emotions welled up. They were so mixed. I felt a deep satisfaction that my way of telling him had worked, but complete impotence as to how to answer the question. To this day I can’t remember what I said, but his question reverberates in my mind.

So, Maggie, for the simple, clear, and heart-rending; yet positive, way you have presented this necessary work, I thank you. This should be essential reading for anyone remotely connected with its theme. It can be obtained from www.pneumasprings.co.uk or www.kindredgamesandbooks.co.uk

Having travelled by car to Thornhill in Hampshire, Jackie and I ate at Eastern Nights, with Bangla and Cobra respectively imbibed.

Banknotes And Phonecards

Today was a Mordred (posted 12th. July) day.

I took my usual route to SW1 for coffee with Carol. A flattened frog, having attempted to cross the sodden footpath in Morden Hall Park, hadn’t made it. As I slalomed around the pools, a cyclist who had crept up behind me deftly avoided me as I crossed her path.

The warning notice on the tramway which divides the National Trust property from the Wandle Trail must have been inspired by the push-me-pull-you from the 1967 film, ‘Doctor Dolittle’, starring Rex Harrison and Anthony Newley.

An announcer at Victoria politely requested travellers to ‘stand on the right and walk down on the left of the escalator’. This seemed to me to be an impossibility.

In speaking with Carol, I mentioned a collector I had once disappointed. When Louisa was very young she had become 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. Learning of my friend’s interest I offered them to him. And was unable to find them. When moving back to London in 2006, I unearthed them and sent them to him. He was very pleased.

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 a Pierce Brosnan James Bond film, the name of which escapes me. 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 today’s 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.

For this evening’s meal I created a totally new version of chickem jalfrezi. It never is quite the same as previous efforts, but this time it was an almost total invention because I’ve lost the recipe. I’ve made it enough times for that to be no real problem, it just makes for variety. With it, we drank Kingfisher and Cobra 2012.

Winchester

Whilst seated in the arbour at The Firs this morning, Jackie and I speculated about how the hedgehog had got itself perched up on the top of an unidentified tree.

Mike Kindred telephoned me and we talked through my views on a new Listener Crossword he is preparing for publication. Although there were a couple of clues I didn’t greatly appreciate, the general idea and its execution I thought were excellent. As we usually solve each other’s puzzles cold, that is without any assistance, and this one involved cracking a code, I spent rather a long time on it and had to confess myself beaten. Codes in advanced cryptic crosswords are my weak point. We agreed that Mike’s title for the puzzle doesn’t quite work, and are both therefore thinking about another.

Leaving Jackie to the gardening, Elizabeth and I went off to Winchester with Mum to change a couple of pairs of slippers which didn’t fit. We had a great deal of trouble finding a parking spot. Even disabled bays were all full. At last we found a space in what turned out to be a loading bay. Mum is now able to walk a short distance with the aid of two sticks. We helped her out of the car and I walked her to the first of the shoe shops she was to visit, while Elizabeth sorted out the car. We sat on seats in the shoe shop, explaining that we needed to change Mum’s slippers which would be arriving in a minute. I assured the puzzled assistant that they did not possess magical qualities, and would be carried in by Elizabeth. When my sister entered the shop she said parking was not allowed there and several people had tickets. A woman in a car in front was disabled and had not been given a ticket, so Elizabeth felt sure she would herself be safe from being charged with transgression. I wasn’t so sure, and volunteered to go back and stand guard over the car. Soon after I arrived a large, fully loaded, car drew up and the driver asked me about parking facilities. I recounted our fruitless search, and told him what I was doing. As a woman and two children emerged from his car, he decided to do the same.

Naturally we got talking. James, the driver, was a very large opulent looking gentleman who had driven all the way from Croydon, to transport his friends to Winchester to buy school uniform. A very friendly man, he sported a huge jewelled cross around his neck and wore a decorative shirt and cream winkle-picker shoes. He was proud of the boy he had brought down from Lewisham, because he had won a scholarship to a school which cost £35,000 a year. His siblings, the children of a wealthy Nigerian family, not being so intelligent, were fee-paying pupils. I didn’t ask how many there were.

My conversationalist began to wonder how he was ‘going to get out of here’. He indicated some rather confusing traffic signs. He thought they must mean he should turn right, but there was another sign forbidding this. My reading was that cars should go straight on. This would mean ploughing through pedestrians enjoying shopping in the sunshine. And we didn’t think, if he left first, Mum would be able to get out of the way. We were in a one-way street. Every car which travelled down it whilst we were there, either turned right, or reversed back up to the entrance to the street. I told James that Elizabeth would know what we were meant to do. She did. She explained we should go straight on and turn left at Monsoon. He didn’t look convinced. We went straight on and Elizabeth did a pretty good impersonation of Moses parting the waves of the Red Sea.

We went on to visit the National Trust’s Winchester City Mill. This is a mediaeval mill, recently restored to full working order. Elizabeth dropped us off as near to the mill as she could and I walked Mum to the mill, holding up the traffic for her to cross the road. Our mother was justifiably pleased that she could negotiate several flights of steep steps and take herself across a metal grill with only the help of a handrail, because her sticks would have gone through the grill. Always a determined character, she was dead set on seeing the mill works. I bought Elizabeth some hardy perennial plants which we left at the till until we left the mill. At least, that was the intention. As we were reaching West End, I remembered them. They are still at the till. Until Elizabeth collects them.

It had been a beautiful morning, but the sky clouded over soon after we returned. I was able to trim the lawn edges preparatory to mowing, which will have to wait until tomorrow.

This evening Elizabeth, Jackie, and I relaxed and ate in Eastern Nights. We were their only dining in customers, and the new waiter who recognised us from another restaurant whose employment he had just left, spent a lot of time chatting to us.

Cleaning The Dog

This was a two walk day. In the morning I took Michael and Emily through Telegraph Woods to The Ageas Bowl, the Hampshire County Cricket Ground, and back via a circular route. We actually walked into the cricket stadium and admired the pitch and surrounding areas. We were less welcome when we stood beside the golf course behind the county ground. We were rebuked for talking, because ‘this is a golf club’. In fact these golfers did help to solve a conundrum. Golf balls are often discovered in the garden at The Firs. One was actually found last night. Where were they all coming from? Could this course have been the source? Could anyone drive the ball that far? Unlikely. So who would find them and bring them back? Michael had once seen a fox carrying a tennis ball. That must be it. Foxes had been seen in Elizabeth’s garden. They were the culprits.

Elizabeth collected Mum to bring her for lunch, and we spent a soporific couple of hours in the sunshine. After Mum’s return home the rest of us were driven by Michael to Stockbridge. This is an historic village full of elegant buildings and tasteful shops with a stream running down the high street. Like the stream at Mottisfont, this had ducks swimming on the surface, occasionally diving for food; and trout lurking in the shadows against the current, ready, like whales with plankton, to snap up smaller prey. Taking a route through two shops we came to a riverside walk which led to Common Marsh, an open space alongside a stream, owned by The National Trust. Children and dogs alike frolicked in the cool, clear, water. In fact some owners were encouraging their animals to enter the stream, even, in one case, to the extent of offering a helping foot. One man was throwing a tennis ball into the water and exhorting his dogs to go in and fetch it. One of these searched the marshy area for an easier vantage point, and stood there wondering whether to take the plunge or not. His companion had no such hesitation and was soon swimming to the bank with its trophy; climbing to comparatively dry ground; and showering everyone not nimble enough to avoid it with spray as it shook itself clear of water.

Back at The Firs we dined off the week’s leftovers. I ate Jackie’s Shepherd’s Pie, and the others had my Chicken and Egg Jalfrezi and Sausage and Bacon Casserole. Red wines and Budweiser were drunk sparingly before Michael drove Emily back to Croydon.

Mottisfont

Michael and Emily drove down to join us for the day. As they are great National Trust fans, Michael having made a superb investment by subscribing to life membership at the age of nineteen, I suggested a trip to Mottisfont, a National Trust property situated just four miles North of Romsey. Michael drove us all there and we enjoyed a day at this establishment dating from a thirteenth century priory. Rightly famous for its walled rose gardens, there is much more to enjoy there.

We were greeted by a small bridge over a stream, the river Test, from which a number of families were throwing bread into the swirling waters. Upon investigation we saw that trout and ducks were vying for the offerings. Later on we took the riverside walk which had clearly inspired Kenneth Grahame to write ‘The Wind In The Willows’, incidentally one of my favourite books of all time. The highlight, for me, of the visit to the house was the exhibition of E.H.Shepard’s illustrations to that wonderful novel. In an exhibition case, among other editions, was one sporting Arthur Rackham’s marvellous work.

Although the roses were clearly past their best, it was apparent that the walled gardens were a wonderful display, still featuring many different species, still blooming. Buddleiae were attracting a range of butterflies and bees.

During the visit to the house itself, Elizabeth was being sold a raffle ticket in one of the rooms. As I approached the desk, I realised I would be invited to buy one myself. I don’t believe I have ever won a raffle in my life. I hate selling tickets. In fact, if an organisation I am involved with sends me a book of tickets to dispense, I buy them all myself. I still never win. So I look the other way when I am expected to buy someone else’s. This time there was no avoiding it. I sidled up to Elizabeth, looked as if I belonged to her, and glanced from the volunteer sales assistant to my sister, in a proprietorial way, hoping to indicate that I was with her and her ticket would cover us both. It worked. I was unsolicited. Michael, who had followed minutes later, was not so fortunate. You never know, one of them may collect the £10,000 first prize. Then I will feel I’ve missed out.

We really did pick a gorgeous autumn day for our visit. The light was superb and the temperature was warm. As we entered the building we passed a knot garden which had been planted in a most suitable arrangement in this year of the Queen’s 60th. Jubilee celebrations, the football World Cup, and the London Olympics. Jackie was upset by the sight of one particular weed in the arrangement, and therefore pleased to see it extracted.

When we returned to The Firs I immediately began the preparation of a sausage and bacon casserole. Jackie and Danni rendered invaluable help with the vegetables. As is often the case, I was quizzed about ingredients. The mention of green cardamoms took us back ten years. It has long been a tradition that I produce a Boxing Day curry with the left over turkey or other unfortunate bird that has graced our Christmas table. When Oliver was about five, I forgot to mention that the meal contained this particular spice. Oliver bit into one and promptly threw a tantrum. He rushed out of the room, to be persuaded back in by Jessica. I had to explain and apologise. Eventually he calmed down, the offending items were removed from his plate, and we continued to enjoy the meal. The next year we again enjoyed Gramps’s curried turkey. Soon after we began, Oliver asked: ‘what were those green things we had last year?’. I told him. ‘Can I have everybody’s?’, he asked. Donations were readily given. He promptly and proudly ate the lot.

This evening, the casserole was followed by Jackie’s apple crumble. A variety of red wines were drunk, except by one of us who had Hoegaarden.

For Kate

As I had not seen them for a few days I had become rather worried about the foxes lately All, however, must be well because, it being bin collection day, there was, this morning, the usual evidence of their presence all over the front lawn.

On this the second successive summery day I set off as usual on foot to Colliers Wood before boarding the Northern Line tube en route to SW1 for coffee with my friend Carol. Near a bridge over the River Wandle close to the carpark serving Deen City Farm, which must have entertained countless three-year-olds, set in the ground lies a blue plaque in remembrance of Kate Brown, aged three, who, whilst playing on it, fell from the bridge in Autumn 1997. Each time I pass this spot I spare a thought for this child and her parents. Kate would now have been on the threshold of womanhood, and her parents will have lived years of chronic sorrow. Maybe you will spare a similar thought.

———-

Being met with the surprising and incongruous sweet smell of freshly mown grass upon entering Colliers Wood’s bustling High Street, I was prompted to investigate the opposite side of the road and the gates to another National Trust property, namely Wandle Park and Water Meadow, maintained for them by Merton Council. This will be worth a further exploration when I have more time.

Sandwiched between a wooden barrier and the precincts of Victoria Underground station is what is now effectively a long tunnel, presumably to be in place as long as it takes for the road works in progress in and around the bus station opposite the railway terminus to reach completion. You would have to know that the Victoria cafe is hidden there to be able, as I did, to partake of one of its fry-ups. Yes, a greasy spoon alongside Victoria station. Not the Martin Cafe, but OK.

The mysterious clearing of the foxes’ leavings had again been carried out during the morning.

This evening’s meal, as Paul Tullett would express it, was Cobra beer with the accompaniment of Susan’s chicken from the freezer. I always make enough to last a second time.

Chartwell

Today we had another family gathering, this time with Michael, Becky, and Matthew and their families. We went to Winston Churchill’s former home, now a National Trust property at Chartwell and afterwards to Michael’s for a meal involving starters of barbecued sausages followed by chicken, salads and finally Eton mess.

A minor panic was calmed by the arrival of Matthew and his dog Oddie some while after the rest of us. The arrangement was that we would all congregate at Chartwell. Matthew was to ring Becky if he got lost. The only problem was that both Becky and I had left our mobile phones behind and noone else was sure of Mat’s number. In any event there was no signal at Chartwell. We are now so dependent on mobile phones that it becomes disastrous if anything goes awry with them. Anyway, panic averted.

Oddie is quite an old Jack Russell terrier. It has become more and more marked lately that this formerly black and white dog has hair on his head and face which is now almost completely white. Speculating about this it occurred to me that the same thing has happened to me. Why not also to a dog?

After a pleasant drive through the Surrey and into the Kent countryside, we arrived at Chartwell, near Westerham in Kent, on a fine spring afternoon and had an idyllic walk in the grounds before visiting the house. The greens of the trees, shrubs and fields are bright and fresh at this time of the year, as are the rape fields. Chartwell is set in a beautiful wooded valley in the Kentish Weald. The house itself is perched on the hillside offering stunning uninterrupted views of the grounds and the slopes beyond. It is easy to see why Sir Winston chose this spot. As in all National Trust properties the gardens are beautifully maintained, the spring flowers and shrubs, particularly rhododendrons and a magnolia, being now at their peak.

The house itself is a museum of Churchill’s life. We are reminded of his honours, his many talents, and his very exciting existence. He truly was one of the greatest Englishmen. In the grounds is a smaller building which was his studio and is still stocked with many of his paintings. I had an interesting discussion with one of the attendants about his painting style. This in fact was in the main house, rather than the studio. It was Heidi who accompanied me in the house and we spoke to the custodian of the kitchen about the recipe for Amber Apple pudding which she was reading in the open period cookery book on the kitchen table.

Back at Michael’s house we spent a pleasant while talking and telling stories. Inevitably these involve what are known as Soho stories. These are from the time of Michael’s years from 10 to 18 when we lived in Horse and Dolphin Yard, SW1. Emily, Oliver, Alice and Flo know these stories off by heart, although they all took place before they were born. When appropriate I will weave some of them into these annals.