Great Meadow by Dirk Bogarde Read Free Book Online Page A

morning round the tree. So she wrote ‘Rock’ or ‘Book (
Kidnapped
)’ or ‘Gloves’ or ‘Long, knitted stockings’ to help out at the thanking time.
    Long, knitted stockings. Honestly . . .
    But some people sent marvellous presents, like another borrowed aunt. She was French, and a famous actress, and we called her Aunt Yvonne and she sent the best presents ever. All bumps and knobs and poky things sticking about. And huge. Once I got a sort of hobby horse with a head and a real grey and white speckly mane, and once a butcher’s shop with a butcher, sides of meat, sausages in long pink rows. All in plaster of course, but it was a lovely present. And she always remembered Lally as well and sent her soap, which was very interesting because eachpiece had a picture of a different dog or a horse on it, and they never wore off, even when the soap got to a little thin sliver of a thing. It was called RSPCA soap, because that’s what it had on the box, which made it sound pretty important, and our mother said that Aunt Yvonne had probably bought it at one of the charity bazaars she always had to open, but it was a very kind thought anyway. And Lally said she had enough soap to open a laundry. But she was quite pleased, you could tell.
    We always had Christmas together, either at the London house, which was all right but not quite such fun, or the cottage, which was the very best. But once, on a dreadful occasion, we had to go and have it with some real kith and kin that my father had found who belonged to him. It was a bit of a shock, I can tell you. They were what he called his Second Cousins Twice Removed or something. But we still had to go. And even if it sounded quite interesting it wasn’t. It was dreadful.
    Aunt – well, we had to call her Aunt of course, because even if she was Twice Removed and we didn’t like her all that much at first sight she was ‘blood’ or something – anyway, Aunt Phyllis was terrible. I mean she was quite nice but just didn’t understand children, our mother said. And she was married to a man called Digby, who was just as bad but worse really, because he never spoke to us at all except to say ‘Herrumph’ or ‘Now, I’m quite sure you’d like to go for a splendid health-giving walk over our common. Lots of fascinating things to see, you know.’ We didn’t want to go at all because it was freezing outside, and there wasn’t anything to see except awful old dead heather and big, gloomy pine trees. They lived in a mostpeculiar house. Our mother said they designed it themselves and it was very modern and advanced. It was jolly uncomfortable: huge glass windows and no fireplace and all the chairs were made of shiny metal, and even the dining-table was made of thick glass and silvery iron stuff.
    I ask you . . .
    And they didn’t even have a Christmas tree because Uncle (we had to call
him
Uncle too) Digby had asthma or something, and Aunt Phyllis said they were very dangerous and shed their needles everywhere and made a mess, and in any case it was all nonsense because it was invented by the Hun. Our mother said that was her name for the Germans.
    So we just had our presents, which our parents had brought with them in the car, up in our bedroom. That was pretty horrible too because it had bunks like on a ship, and my sister had the lower one and I had to climb an iron ladder to get into mine, and she was under me and was terrified all night that I would want to do a pee and wouldn’t bother to go: and then where would she be?
    I did see what she meant, but I didn’t go, so that was all right.
    There were no flowers anywhere in the house, just prickly cactus things in big china bowls or square pots, and a ghastly shiny lady made of brass with her arms round a sort of clock, sitting on a tiger or something. And they had a fearful dog, an Alsatian called Hamilcar which had to wear felt bootees on