Home life
Mixed blessings
Alice Thomas Ellis
Idon't want to go on and on about the weather but when it's hanging on your eyelashes in the form of snow or blasting up your sleeves in the shape of a Force 9 gale it's quite difficult to think about anything else. We were really rather lucky in Scotland. The wind admittedly was such that it would blow the earrings out of your ears were they not well tucked back in the hood of your duffel coat, but when it wasn't snowing, sleeting, hailing or raining the sun beamed on the ocean and the ocean beamed back; and ensconced in a sheltered corner under the house wall, wrapped in the aforementioned duffel it was possible to drink one's morning coffee before it froze over.
The daffodils nodding dizzily on the lawn were the tiny, wild kind as became apparent when one, more daring than its fellows, stripped off its green coating to brave the gusts and torrents and revealed itself as simply, palely yellow. I wonder what it is about daffodils that inclines people to carry on like that. Only the wild kind have this effect. I don't think Words- worth was addressing himself to the big butch sort with orange middles that look like fried eggs on stalks. I was awfully tempted to give the daughter a lecture about fields of asphodel, only I couldn't remember anything except that boring old Greek ghosts used to gibber round in them. At least I think they did. I thought better of it too, because she was sleeping up in the attic and the mention of ghosts seemed inadvisable. I did tell her that after Ailsa Craig came Ireland and after that America and I hope I got it right, not really being qualified to teach anybody anything.
I wished I had heeded Janet more closely because she is quite expert on the subject of which bird is which and there were all sorts bobbing about on the sea and flying around in the air and eating crumbs in the garden. We saw a gannet and a cormorant and some oystercatchers and a robin, which are fairly easy to identify, and two starlings came down the chimney in my bedroom. I got to know them quite well before one of my hosts collared them and put them out of the window.
We took the daughter to Hatfield House the other day to watch her father playing real tennis and when we'd done that for a while we went on a guided tour of the house, mostly because it was warmer in there. It was much like every other Stately Home, with stairs and galleries and horr- ibly uncomfortable-looking furniture, and a photograph of the Queen Mother (signed) on an occasional table, and por- traits of the family, together with various knick-knacks acquired over the years. There was one very, very nasty painting of a countess, done by Cecil Beaton. It must have been then, Janet and I concluded, that he had wisely decided to take up the camera.
Janet is a mixed blessing on these occa- sions. She is fairly sound on history and can quote chunks of Shakespeare which are quite appropriate when confronted with a picture of Gloriana on a horse claiming to have the heart and stomach of a king (which makes me think of haggis, especial- ly when I've just got back from Scotland), but she can let the side down. Standing in an imposing room amidst a number of hushed tourists we were listening to a scholarly exposition by the guide on its merits and interesting points, when her attention wandered to the fireplace. It was ornately carved with figures and plants and ribbons and represented, I suppose, some mythical event from Classical times. `Pssst,' said Janet, addressing me by name in an audible whisper. 'Why has that cherub got his hand up that lady's bunch of flowers?' He had too. And I don't know why. The bouquet was judiciously poised in the position occupied by the fig leaf in Christian legend, and I didn't hear much more of what the guide was telling us because I was speculating. Perhaps the sculptor couldn't carve hands very convin- cingly. They are terribly difficult to paint and the temptation is often to leave them in pockets or behind the back. Maybe he had just been lazy. Maybe there was an even simpler explanation and this was yet one more of the stories I had forgotten. Perhaps her suspender had snapped. Then I began to wonder how many dignitaries ranged at this fireside sipping Buck's Fizz or some other aristocratic beverage had had their eye caught by this unedifying cherub, and what their reactions had been.
'Now,' I finally heard the guide saying, 'does anyone have a question they would like to ask me?' If I had been a worse person I would have turned to Janet and said very loudly, 'I think you have, haven't you, darling?' but I restrained myself and now I don't suppose we'll ever know.
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