Family Album
Performance that evening but a dep will go on—which is only for life or death circs but I’ve said this is, isn’t it? xxx
E-mail—Katie to Gina
Arrive Heathrow Monday evening. With you Tuesday a.m. I think we should all do individual flowers. Can you get me white lilies? xxx
E-mail—Roger to Gina
Sorted. See you.
E-mail—Sandra to Gina
Thanks for offer but don’t care for anemone idea. I’ll organize in London and bring my own.
E-mail—Clare to Gina
White roses fine. Masses, please.
E-mail—Roger to Gina
Sorry don’t know what ranunculus is but sounds good. Thanks.
E-mail—Corinna to Gina
Unfortunately Martin has a Senate meeting so impossible—sends apologies. I am canceling seminars and a lecture and shall come. I’ll be driving and need directions to crematorium, please. Is it flowers or charity donations? If latter, which?
E-mail—Gina to Sandra, Katie, Roger, Clare
Right—here’s the agenda.
Congregation/audience (??) takes up seats. Cellist friend of mine will provide music.
Paul reads Matthew Arnold’s Dover Beach. (This is because he doesn’t want to do what I shall have to do.)
Gina gives short address about Dad and his life (and no, I don’t know what I’m going to say).
Cellist plays.
Sandra reads from Sir Thomas Browne’s Urne-Burial (yes, I realize you haven’t got a copy to hand—I’m e-mailing you the relevant text).
More cello.
Katie reads poem of her own choice (I know it’s short notice but you’re the only one of us who read Eng. lit. at uni, so come on).
More cello.
Roger reads from Nabokov’s Speak, Memory (this was on Dad’s desk that day so he must have been reading/thinking about it. Don’t panic, Rog—e-mail text follows).
Possibly cello, or not. At some point there is pause while coffin disappears—don’t know exactly when yet, there will be sheets giving order of proceedings for everyone on the day.
Clare reads from Tolstoy’s Childhood, Boyhood, Youth—also in book pile on Dad’s desk (yes, yes—text follows. I hope you all realize I shall be typing texts till the small hours tonight).
Anyone objecting must kindly come up with alternative viable suggestions.
Paul says: She’s insisting. Three-course sit-down lunch, the works, all stops out, the Limoges china—Christ, the Limoges china! What he would have wanted, she says. As if. Yes, yes—I know she said buffet would be fine, just some sandwiches, now she says she never did or if she did it was because she didn’t know what she was saying. What? I know, I know, I’ve said all that. Gina, you talk to her.
Corinna thinks: It would have to be one of my Swinburne lecture days. Trust Charles. Oh, don’t be so snide, the poor man didn’t plan it. All the same, it is sort of typical. God, one’s brother—dead. He’s always been there. I mean, not that we were that close, but . . . Does one wear black? No, not nowadays. Flowers, not a wreath, that’s naff. Peonies maybe—no, too pink. Chrysanthemums are boring. The French go for purple pansies. I suppose all the children will come. I’d better go to the house after, Alison would never forgive otherwise. Will she stay in that vast house? What about Ingrid? That weird setup. What does one wear? The dark green suit, maybe, with a pale shirt. Gladioli perhaps—except they’re so stiff. I still can’t quite believe it. Charles—just not there anymore.
Gina says: It’s all right, I’ve talked her out of it. I think. Fingers crossed. Compromise. It’ll be sandwiches and other stuff and a dessert but not around the table. Ambulant—people sit anywhere—kitchen, sitting room. That avoids any holding forth to everyone, which otherwise . . . She’s fairly hyper, isn’t she? I know—and you’re being great. Brownie points to last for years. Just keep it up a bit longer, OK? I’ll be with you Monday evening. Oh, and ask Ingrid could she please make up a bed for me.
E-mail—Katie to Roger
Hope you got your flight all right. I did—but a scamper. Whew! What a day. But it wasn’t too bad, was it? I felt all weepy at the crematorium, and Mum was bright pink, like when she was about to erupt—remember? Oh, isn’t it all a bit unreal—no Dad. Damn, I’m weepy again. And when I was looking at us all after it was over, standing around there, I thought—how has this happened, these grown-ups? Gina someone I hardly recognize, and Clare so thin and blond and dancerish, and I don’t think I’ve ever realized before that Sandra’s beautiful. And you and Paul—men, huge great men. But this bunch of adults . . . Sort of all right, wasn’t it, back at the house?
You were brilliant with Corinna—goodness, she’s old, I couldn’t get over that either, gray hair and that hunched look. And she seemed defused somehow—I wasn’t much scared of her. The cake moment was a bit dire—Mum suddenly producing it with a flourish, and the one candle. What was she thinking of? Always a cake, she said, for an occasion. For an awful moment I thought she was going to want us to sing. Remembering all those birthdays, dozens and dozens of them, and this wasn’t. And Ingrid saying perhaps the last time everyone is here like this—she could always rather put her foot in it, Ingrid. Goodness, a married Gina, who’d have thought it. And oh, Rog, I kept expecting Dad to walk in, wearing his Christmas face—that let’s-just-get-through-this-somehow face. Damn—weepy again—I’m not used to it yet. Where is he? Where’s he gone? But you’re used to people dying, you’re up against it all the time. I haven’t met it much, and it’s rather thrown me. Feel I must get over there more, see more of Mum. She was awfully wound up, wasn’t she? Fizzing. And then at other moments completely vague, out of it—like when Gina tried to talk to her about money, was everything OK, was there enough. Didn’t want to know, changed the subject. Ingrid was pretty good, wasn’t she, apart from the trademark heavy foot—she’s obviously keeping things going while Mum’s a bit astray. But them on their own together now . . . Sorry, I’m nattering on, just wanted to check in, now it’s all over. Love to Susan.
Paul says: Yeah—she’s a lot calmer, back to normal, really. But listen—I got the job. Yeah—Wisley. The Royal Horticultural Society, no less. General duties in the gardens. What a turn-up for the books! They must be really pushed for labor. No—don’t be daft, of course I sent them a proper CV, sober as you like. Live? Oh, I’ll find somewhere to doss down, I always have, haven’t I? So I’m off next week. Maybe this is the breakthrough. Paul Harper, horticulturalist.
E-mail—Ingrid to Sandra, Katie, Roger, Clare
Paul has now gone to this new job which is good that he has it but at Allersmead we are sorry he is not here anymore. Alison has started again the cookery classes. That is good too because the bank is writing letters—not nice letters.
E-mail—Roger to Gina
Could you investigate bank letters.
E-mail—Gina to Sandra, Katie, Roger, Clare
The long and short of it is that there’s a severe cash-flow problem. Dad’s divvies have been going down and down, for complex reasons, mainly lack of management. Problem has clearly been there for some time, but ignored. Come to think of it—the house has been looking pretty shabby for ages, but one thought that was just their style. Repairs needed—but that’s only the half of it. Income also needed. The cookery classes bring in peanuts. Ingrid proposes lodgers—indeed is quite gung ho. Mum prepared to give it a try.
E-mail—Sandra to Gina, Katie, Roger, Clare
Lodgers potential rapists and murderers. Propose development of grounds—elegant newbuild at south end of garden, using prime architect.
Paul says: Look, I’ve had an idea. How about I set up a nursery garden business there—all that space, you could have glasshouses and growing tunnels—masses of room for planting out. Nursery is far superior to garden center—you can do bare-rooted and the real connoisseurs are crying out for that. You’d specialize—just a few choice lines. Start-up capital? Oh well, you’d borrow, wouldn’t you? Gina, you’r
e so damn practical. Business experience? You’d learn on the hoof, wouldn’t you?
E-mail—Katie to Gina, Sandra, Roger, Clare
I hate to suggest it, but Dad’s books must be worth quite a lot.
E-mail—Clare to Gina, Sandra, Katie, Roger
The sitting room is big enough for a kids’ dancing class. You could come to an arrangement with a local teacher.
E-mail—Roger to Gina, Sandra, Katie, Clare
Lodger idea has legs, I feel, but caution needed (I take your point, Sandra). References essential. Students of some kind perhaps? Maybe talk to local language schools (are there any?), further education institutions, etc. Mum and Ingrid both used to the young—might even like having some around. Gina, please pass on to Paul (can’t he get himself online?) and yes, agree thumbs-down to nursery garden scheme, though well-meant.
E-mail—Gina to Sandra, Katie, Roger, Clare
Progress. Ingrid in negotiations with local veterinary college, who are interested. Student hostel is oversubscribed—proposal is for three/four of overflow to come to Allersmead. B&B proposed, with option of supper also. Mum rather keen on supper. Health and safety inspection necessary—takes place next week.
Paul says: Have it your own way. Passing up a golden opportunity, that’s how I see it—I could have made the family’s fortune. Species roses and lilies, that was the idea. A stand at Chelsea—articles in the Sundays. Vet students will trash the place—just you see. A laptop for my birthday? Look, thanks awfully but no thanks—I hate the things. Can I have a weekend in Paris instead? Ah.
E-mail—Gina to Sandra, Katie, Roger, Clare
Shit. Allersmead has not passed health and safety inspection. In fact, has not just not passed but failed dismally on all fronts. Bathroom facilities are inadequate and require modernization, there is no fire escape from the attic floor, rewiring is necessary throughout, there are no fire extinguishers. And so on, and so on. For heaven’s sake—we grew up there and lived to tell the tale. Vet college bursar is regretful but unless extensive improvements were carried out . . . So forget student lodgers, I’m afraid.
E-mail—Sandra to Gina, Katie, Roger, Clare
Commercial travelers probably less fussy, but more inclined to rape and murder. If newbuild is unacceptable, what about a self-contained flat on the attic floor? For rental purposes.
E-mail—Gina to Sandra, Katie, Roger, Clare
Mum would consider flat, but Ingrid points out that roof would have to be repaired before conversion. It’s a bucket situation up there—I hadn’t realized. Estimate for reroofing—wait for it—£18K. And that’s before conversion costs. But nice try, Sandra.
E-mail—Roger to Gina, Sandra, Katie, Clare
Roof situation does rather focus the mind. Not just income needed—capital also. Capital we don’t have. Allersmead is an expensive pile—eats maintenance. Are the rest of you thinking what I’m beginning to think?
Paul says: Sell Allersmead? Mum’ll never stand for that, will she? I’m not sure I would. Sell Allersmead?
E-mail—Sandra to Gina, Katie, Roger, Clare
It’s obvious. You’d be talking a couple of million, I should think. Solve the problem just like that. Pity, but face the facts.
E-mail—Katie to Gina, Sandra, Roger, Clare
You can’t. We can’t. No, no. There must be some other way.
E-mail—Clare to Gina, Sandra, Katie, Roger
What! Allersmead? No Allersmead anymore? Oh, please not.
Gina drives in and parks by the front door. The gravel of the drive is a rare surviving substance now, peeking up here and there in between weeds and clumps of moss; tires no longer scrunch. She remembers a delivery of gravel, eons ago, and how they all waded about and helped to spread it. She notes the crack by the front door, and squints up at the roof, which does indeed signal distress—tiles slipped or missing all over the place.
Philip had offered to come too. No, she had said—thanks, but I’m probably best on my own, for this.
She sees Allersmead with a curious marriage of detachment and intimacy. She sees this large house, conceived in another age, a time of vastly different social assumptions, when domestic service was a major industry, and an army of women existed for the maintenance of Allersmead-style households. The bell panel still survives, in the kitchen: drawing room, morning room, bedroom 1 . . . she sees the house as an affirmation of the way things were back then, when a person was placed by the way they spoke or how they dressed, when most people took for granted such distinctions, and when the polarization of wealth seemed part of the natural order of things. Allersmead speaks for affluence rather than wealth perhaps. Gina thinks about this affluence: shades from Allersmead of another day float before her—ladies in capacious skirts and high-buttoned blouses, chaps in tweeds, children in pinnies, bowling hoops. A skivvy hauls scuttles of coal up the stairs—the old fireplaces are all still there, in the bedrooms. She sees the house as a consumer, over the century, gobbling up blacklead and polish and Brasso and Silvo (boosting the funds from which sprang Dad’s divvies, now so sadly diminished); she sees it also as a producer, a restaurant that never closed, from which flowed forth an endless supply of breakfasts and lunches and dinners, a century-long aroma of toast and roast. The smells are perhaps the most assertive; she can pick up their own—Sunday lunch and coq au vin and Lancashire hot pot and macaroni and cheese and apple crumble.
And the smells take her to a more intimate Allersmead, to the Allersmead-in-the-head, to a raft of private moments that come swimming up from the long darkness of the years, the strange assortment of glimpses that are known as memory. All of these are tacked to Allersmead; in all of them Allersmead is the backdrop—its rooms, its stairs, its furnishings, the deeply known places in its garden, the secrets of the cellar, where presumably the Daleks still roam.
I know what you mean, she tells Katie, and Clare, and Paul. I know exactly what you mean.
She is carrying a fistful of house agents’ brochures: charming cottages with easily maintained gardens, compact town houses with quick access to shops, lofts with fiber-optic mood lighting and bespoke kitchens. She pauses on the top step, pushes open the front door.
“I heard the car,” cries Alison. “I was just coming.”
E-mail—Gina to Sandra, Katie, Roger, Clare
I’ve been. Floated it over tea in the kitchen—put out a feeler first, a little probe. Allersmead so big, and so costly to run. Lot to be said for small houses. Pretty cottages. Blank stare from Mum: “I don’t follow, dear.” Ingrid following very well on the other side of the table; equally blank, but that’s Ingrid. Eventually I had to come out with it—and flourished sheaf of pretty cottages, etc. Mum then went from incredulity to outrage: “I can’t believe what you seem to be suggesting . . . how can you even think of such a thing. Sell Allersmead! Live somewhere else!” Much airy dismissal of financial issue—“Money doesn’t matter, it’s your home that matters, and Allersmead has always been . . .” I know, I know, say I—and I do, I do, but . . . But, but. Unfortunately, money does matter. I try to explain this, I present some figures, and am evidently seen as on a par with slit-eyed mean-minded money-mad bank managers: “I had no idea you could be so hardheaded, Gina.” Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, Ingrid is idly studying pretty cottage brochures—or maybe not so idly. So decided to leave it at that for the moment—changed subject, ate coffee and walnut cake, tried to restore personal image, received bag of veg from Ingrid and departed, having strategically forgotten to pick up cottage brochures.
E-mail—Ingrid to Gina
This week we shall look at places. Alison says this does not mean she has any intention, just there is no harm in looking. Some of the pictures she quite liked.
E-mail—Alison to Gina, Sandra, Katie, Roger, Clare
That one called a loft was hopeless. I mean, the kitchen worktop was made of granite. Granite is for mountains, isn’t it? Not worktops. And every room lit up like a stage set. Ingrid says we’d go
mad. The house on the high street was rather poky, kitchen no good for the cookery classes. Ingrid says probably anywhere we may have to think of a kitchen extension. Cottage in Hopton has a big one, though, and Ingrid likes the garden. It’s got an Aga. Have always wondered about Agas. People seem to swear by them.