Country life
Away days . .
if only
Leanda de Lisle
I don't suppose I'll ever get to the Bruce Oldfield fashion show I've been invited to in London either, and that's a pity. Until now the only fashion show I've been to was one of Hardy Amies's. I went with a girl- friend and, with the exception of Tiggy Legge-Bourke, we were the youngest peo- ple by 40 or 50 years. We sat in the front row opposite a row of clients with walking- sticks and heavily bandaged legs, took one look at each other and telepathically agreed not to do so again. I hid behind my card as 6ft anorexics with air-hostess make- up strode down the catwalk in A-line dress- es straight from a Vogue Easy Pattern book, circa 1962. Tears rolled down my cheeks from the sheer physical effort of keeping my laughter on the inside.
However, the truth is I'd give my eye teeth for a bespoke Amies suit, if ever I had an occasion to wear one. Peter and I keep talking about giving Sunday lunch parties, but, like the weekends in New York, they never materialise. The most entertaining I've done recently is having my father to stay for a couple of days — and that ended in disgrace.
I wanted to cook him some seasonal food from the garden and asked the gardener to bring down what we had. There were string beans and basil, a basket of black grapes plucked from the gently collapsing roof of our greenhouse and a punnet of raspber- ries. But there were no courgettes that I could see and I needed them for my penne with zucchini and ricotta, so I nipped up to the walled garden to get some myself.
I couldn't find any courgettes over three inches long, but they looked tender and delicious and my father and I harvested a few of the dark-green variety and some others of brilliant yellow. We returned to the house in triumph only to be confronted by Peter waving a courgette the size of a truncheon.
The gardener was about to have an open day, he told me sternly and my blood ran cold as I imagined her finding the broken stems and bruised flowers. My father told me to blame him for ravaging the garden and I certainly shall. I'm terrified of what the gardener's going to say when she next sees me, and if any of you live around here or know her, please, please, don't sneak on me. I'm very repentant and my innocent husband is going to be working very hard with her next month planting a new garden at the front of the house.
From my window all I can see are shades of green, but the wind whipping through the trees will soon change that. A new cycle begins with the old year enjoying a burst of gold before dying and the new year being seeded in the bare earth. Watching autumn arrive is more exciting than anything New York or London can offer. No wonder they seem so far away.
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