Country life
Blast from the past
Leanda de Lisle
`You know that certain children from the middle Biggles period used to blow their noses in these expensive pieces of linen? I suspect they preferred the centuries-old tradition of wiping their noses on their sleeves, but, just as modern children are encouraged to use Kleenex tissues instead, so these children were told to use the adult-style handkerchief. Unfortunately, being children, they treated these handker- chiefs as if they were as cheap and dispos- able as Kleenex, and my theory is that the strain of having to buy unlimited numbers of replacement handkerchiefs eventually destroyed their parents, allowing this civili- sation to be swept away by shell-suit tribes. What's that you've got there, Indiana — a scrap of cream coloured wool? Well, well. I think we may have a fragment of cricket trousers.'
Now you may think there is nothing par- ticularly dated about cricket trousers. It is still one of our national games. But have you tried looking for a pair of cricket trousers for a nine-year-old boy? I'm sure they are easy enough to fmd in the major cities. But then it's easy enough to find squid-ink pasta and foreign films in major cities. The contents of the shops in our small provincial towns are more indicative of what is and is not in general use today. And, having scoured the country for small cricket whites, it is clear to me that there aren't many English children playing crick- et any more. They're wearing trainers and tracksuit bottoms instead — probably so they can run away from the police after they've hit some poor old lady over the head with a stolen bat.
Anyway, after a great deal of time and effort I thought I had got everything on the list — which was no small source of relief as I know just how important it is to have the right kit at school. I'll never forget sit- ting in a classroom my first summer at boarding school, with the ceiling above me shaking as the entire junior school heard one of the nuns shouting at my best friend, `Lucy M — , the only girl in the school, not wearing blue underpants.'
Her form had come last in the school gym competition and she and her white underpants were blamed for its disgrace. Poor girl. Nobody sees her knickers now. She has retired behind the walls of an enclosed convent.
Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, things did not go quite as I hoped when I finally delivered my middle son for his first term at his brother's school. Matron opened his trunk and discovered that his underpants had been marked with indelible ink rather than a Cash's name-tape. As she passed them for me to examine, I became hysterical with fear, blustering that it woz the nanny wot done it. (I was the only girl in the school who was so bad at sewing that I was excused needlework classes, but I could see the other mothers in the dorm sizing me up as an uncaring and neglectful parent.) Then I spotted four handkerchiefs with coloured edges. How had they got there? I didn't know, but by now Matron was anx- ious to calm me down. The handkerchiefs weren't the end of the world she reassured me, but where was his regulation wax jack- et? 'I tried to order a wax jacket from the school outfitters, but they said they were introducing a new coat for the summer: a cagoule. I didn't want to order one. It sounds like the kind of thing you wrap corpses in. But they said that's the new summer coat, so I ordered one and it's being sent here,' I informed her, red in the face and repeating myself several times. She quietly closed the trunk and announced she would finish going through it tomorrow.
My husband led me away. 'I do wish you hadn't come,' he told me. 'I know,' I said, `I'm sorry. It's a bit of a blast from the past,' and I shivered, despite the warmth of the evening sun.
I overslept my radio alarm was tuned to the Election campaign.'
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