One of the high-spots of the social
calendar is open day at Hislop Grange, which has a long tradition stretching
back into the mists of time when there was a really historical building on the
site before it crumbled and fell down to be replaced by a mock Baroque manor. Local
people make their way up the long pebbled drive up to the mansion, which is a
dubious edifice in a poor state of repair, and the residence of people who
ought to be Lord and Lady something or other, only their names are Mr and Mrs
Hislop.
Mama says you have either
to be royal or rich in life, and if you are neither you should keep your head
down and play by the rules.
The Hislops are indeed playing by the
rules, since they were rich enough to rescue Hislop Grange from the indignity
of falling into wrack and ruin like its predecessor, though they ran out of
cash before they could restore the outside to its former glory. I think Mrs
Hislop is splendid and at least as imposing as royalty. She is tall and buxom,
wears long, flowing floral chiffon creations and very long dangling earrings,
high heels and loads of makeup. She talks in a very loud la-di-da voice and
there are rumours that she was once on the stage. Mr Hislop is roughly half her
size and so nondescript that no one notices him all afternoon, sitting in his
garden chair on the edge of the proceedings, smoking a pipe and reading “Town
and Country” from back to front and back again.
The garden party is the always a central
attraction of Hislop’s annual open day, though there are a few other events,
such as a ploughing competition and a jam judging event, to make the farmers
and their wives feel their day out has been worthwhile. Tea, cucumber
sandwiches and fairy cakes, donated mostly by the people attending the function
who nevertheless pay for the honour of eating them, are partaken of on the
front lawn, which according to Mama is in a better state of repair than the
carpets in the mansion. Mrs Hislop, assisted by the woman who ‘does’ for her,
sets out the cutlery and garden party jam pots, lump sugar in little bowls with
pincers so you don’t have to manhandle them, and milk from the cow they keep
for the purpose. The Women’s Institute lend their capacious teapots and there
is even coffee in a family heirloom pot, since the Women’s Institute can’t run
to one, coffee not being as popular as tea and therefore only served as watered
down granules or diluted brown stuff out of a bottle on which is written ‘chicory
essence’. Mrs Hislop has connections to every conceivable organisation, so
there are plenty of volunteers for speechmaking, which makes the afternoon
memorable if not historic.
When Mama and I get to Hislop Grange
Mama is greeted by Mrs Hislop in a very offhand way, in fact hardly at all,
which puts Mama’s back up immediately. “Well, we
know you darling,” Mrs Hislop gushes in my direction, studiously ignoring Mama.
“We were at the golf club banquet last week, weren’t we?”
I hadn’t forgotten. Aunt Jane had
tried to introduce me as her niece and Mrs Hislop had chipped in with “Your
daughter? What a pretty child.” Aunt Jane must have overheard, because she was
about to present the trophies and had to remember who had won what, and I
didn’t argue with the assumption, but bathed in the extra attention awarded to
me and later became rather talkative because someone plied me with an alcoholic
drink, which Mama would certainly not have allowed. Aunt Jane often turned a
blind eye to things like that. She was really quite easy-going where I was
concerned.
Being called ‘darling’ poses me with
a genuine linguistic problem, since I am never called by anything but my name,
my mono-syllabic name, and nothing but my name. But I am also trying to
remember if I have told any untruths about Mama. Sometimes untruths are
necessary to protect the innocent, and Mama is certainly one of those.
“And this must be your aunt, isn’t
it, darling?” continues Mrs Hislop, whose grammar is rather rudimentary,
despite the posh accent. She looks down her nose at Mama, who is standing there
with pursed lips, sniffing the way she does when she is quite annoyed.
“I happen to be her mother. Her auntie’s
over there,” retorts Mama, making auntie with a ‘u’ sound like ant without one
and pointing vaguely in the direction of Aunt Jane, who has already reached the
platform and is arranging her ermine stole around her neck to keep off any
draughts.
Mrs Hislop looks at Mama sharply.
“Oh. I thought.....”
“Well, think again,” says Mama in a
really sharp little voice. Then she marches off to the jam tent, leaving me
standing there with Mrs Hislop towering over me.
“Don’t you owe me an explanation,
young lady?” she says.
I feel terrible. Aunt Jane is so much
more my idea of what a mother should be like that I have deliberately let told
one or two people think she is mine, without thinking about the consequences. I
have really hurt Mama, which was not my intention. But it’s so nice to have
people fussing around you because they think you are something special. And now
I have caused embarrassment both to Mama and Mrs Hislop. I must make it all
right again.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Umpf!” says Mrs
Hislop. “Well, don’t do it again. Ladies don’t tell lies and never forget where
they came from.”
I make my escape and go to look for
Mama.
“She got the wrong end of the stick,”
I try to explain.
“Oh, really,” replies Mama drily.
“Well, don’t do it again. Lies have a habit of getting found out.”
I push my arm through hers and we go
round the exhibits in silence. There’s one very good thing about Mama. She
doesn’t bear grudges.
Well, not often.
Which is why she does not try to put
me off Aunt Jane. Instead she now even goes along to an event now and again,
wearing a new outfit bought for the occasion and lipstick. When she makes an
effort, Mama is prettier than Aunt Jane. Mrs Hislop might be doing some good,
after all.
So successful are my aunt and uncle
at their jobs as mayoress and mayor that the unthinkable happens. They are
re-elected. It has never happened before, and is on a par with a second term in
the White House. And what is more, their second ‘term of office’ will also
embrace the impending coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, which means extra funds
for festive occasions, decorations, sprucing up of public buildings, and so on.
And extra jaunts for me.
My parents have had a TV for a long
time, because Dada, being an invalid, really needs something to distract him
from the melancholy of his illness. Now they are being manufactured and sold at
breakneck speed, and it is already becoming fashionable to talk about the
programmes you have seen.
At 7.45 p.m. the evening programme
kicks off with music and live announcements of what is in store for us all.
Then we watch the news, the weather and sport except on Sundays. After that
there may be a play or some music. About two hours later everything is over for
the day. Of course, most of it is after my bedtime, especially as I have to go
to bed at the same time as my little brother, because he refuses to go on his
own. When he is asleep, I am often fetched to watch the music programme. That
is how I get the idea of becoming an opera singer. The programme ‘Music for You’
includes guest appearances by a German opera singer, whom I would like to
emulate. That’s the first time I hear that Germany is no longer the enemy, has
a lot of trees, and Beethoven and a few other musical greats are natives
thereof, so that a visit there must be put on my list of where to go. But I
don’t tell anyone, just in case they stop fetching me to look and get what Mama
calls funny ideas.
With the coronation preparations well
in hand, even poorer people are starting to buy TV sets, though arrangements
are being made for most people to watch the event on large screens in suitable establishments.
On the great day, we all sit in front
of our tiny screen for many hours, while miniature figures go through the many
tedious rites in black and white. We cheer and wave flags as though we were
there in person.
On that day, I am, as are most of my
countrymen, as patriotic as I will ever be. I am convinced that being a loyal
subject is part of my personal heritage, and I am enchanted by the sheer magic
of the splendid occasion.
In commemoration, all school children
have been given days off school and mugs with the royal pair’s pictures and a
crown on them have been doles out. You can buy souvenirs of all kinds with
crowns and royalty on them, which take eternal pride of place in glass cabinets
and on shelves throughout the United Kingdom.
What is more, I am allowed to cut my unruly
hair. The neighbour has given me a perm, and I am transformed overnight into a
princess. Even before the curls are combed, I cannot resist taking a turn on my
bicycle. I hurl down the main street, the wind flurrying through my new hair,
thinking to myself how beautiful I am. I don’t remember ever having that
feeling before or since.
All kinds of festivities are held
throughout that coronation summer. As niece of the mayoress I attend more than
my fair share of them. You may think this would convince Mama that she had been
wrong in her judgment, but no. She is just as convinced as ever that everyone
is out of his tiny mind and hasn’t noticed how sham the whole spectacle is. It
is unbelievable that Mama could utter such negative thoughts. Did she really
believe what she was saying? What can you do with such a pig-headed mother?
These are formative years. My aunt is
my confidante. I tell her things I could never tell Mama. She advises me and
even comforts me. I am sure that she was meant to be Mama in a different world.
My physical birth is just an accident of fate. But how am I to tell the world
about this fatal biological error? And is this error not something many of us
have in common? On the other hand, do I want to tell? Mama has good
qualities too, and she is an intuitive artist. I cannot deny that she has been
an inspiration to me, even though unintentionally.
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