Monday 2 January 2017

Murder at Crinkly Bottom

I listened to  Julian Fellowes play called, 'Snobs', yesterday (twice - the BBC is deserted at Christmas), and it reminded me of one Christmas I spent in Norfolk. I may have already told you this one, but what the hell...

My girlfriend's mother was a well to do and successful author of childrens books - she had more of her own books in public libraries than Agatha Christie - and was a best friend of sometime local resident, the Queen Mother.

The weekend was exactly like the plot of an Agatha Christy novel as well, but without the murders, and began for me with a breakdown of yet another old Volvo on the M4, about 150 miles away from Norfolk. I dumped the car in a service station and took a series of taxis and trains, then got picked up at Norwich to be driven to the family seat, just South of Cromer.

The house itself was a miniature pastiche of a Palladian villa, designed by the architect who the hostess eventually married, and was built for someone who - after he moved in - discovered he was about to be enobled. The building and estate was called something like 'Crinkly Bottom' (the area had the word Bottom in it somewhere), but the owner changed the name to something more dignified rather than be addressed as 'Lord Crinkly Bottom' every time he went to a party. When the owner died, the house was bought by the architect, and this is where he lived until the event, leaving our hostess in residence. I think I have got that right, but I think my old friend may occasionally glance at this blog, so she could correct anything if needed.

The house party consisted of a group of quite young people, plus our hostess. Amongst them was a young American woman who obviously was both petrified at putting a foot wrong in the complex and inscrutable procedures of British ettiquette, and equally anxious to seamlessly fit-in as a social equal, despite being from the Colonies. In short, she tried too hard. She could not relax and put everyone else on edge by seeming to constantly be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

The mother spent most of her time in her study, occasionally coming out to issue a new decree or dictat, which didn't help the American girl's nerves. The more time she spent in her study, the more extreme the dictats became, so I think she was doing more in there than just reading and writing.

We were all relaxing by a huge log fire one evening, when hostess appeared, stood in front of us and said, "I have decided there will be no more smoking in this house. Please put out your cigarettes at once," before going back into her den.

I looked at her daughter incredulously and asked what I should do. "Just ignore her. She's pissed." So we all carried on as normal - or what was normal in the days when nobody forbade smoking indoors at Christmas.

It was agreed that I should cook the goose for our lunch, as I was probably the most experienced for the job, and hostess would have either been too drunk or had servants to cook it for her. The American girl, sensing an opportunity to stand out, began insisting that she had cooked hundreds of geese in her time, and was bound to be a better person for the job than I was.

We tried to talk her out of it, but she began fussing about with the dead bird, refusing any help from me whatsoever - until she unwrapped it to find a spot of taint on its skin, the sight of which made her almost scream with anguish.

"WE CAN'T EAT THIS! WE WILL ALL DIE OF FOOD-POISONING" she yelled.

A quick consultation with Mrs Beaton instructed me to rub vinegar into the taint (taint being a polite word for 'mould') after which the bird would be perfectly good.

When this was done, the American took over again, ignoring our advice as to how to prepare or wrap the thing for cooking, virtually ordering us to either start peeling sprouts or get out of the kitchen. She wanted all the glory, and she got it.

We all sat down and the food was dished out. The goose was pretty much inedible - tough, dry and tasteless, as was immediately pointed out by our hostess.

"You have ruined this goose. What the hell did you do to it?", she ungraciously said.

The American girl slammed down her knife and fork, burst into tears and ran to her room. She finally cracked, but she did get her moment of attention. I think she had seen it coming for hours, and was slowly building up to it.

Just before we left, hostess asked, "Would you like to come to tea with the Queen Mother next weekend? She is staying on Saturday."

"No we would not," was her daughter's response. "She's a horrid old bag and I don't like her."

So I never did meet HRHQE2M. Shame.


28 comments:

  1. Was this girlfriend one of poet George Barker's 15 children? Sounds like the sort of family that would fit your story although there's lots in Norfolk who are a bit like that. Did you all sit around in overcoats and scarves?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. No, not George Barker. Verily Anderson (of Templewood) now deceased.

      Delete
    2. Ah yes. Plenty of stories abound around the Gurneys and the Pagets.

      Delete
    3. I don't think I met any of them - knowingly.

      Delete
  2. Well, that was clearly a Christmas to remember!

    It is odd to sometimes to be in a real life situation that seems to fit into some sort of literary tradition. To be able to identify which particular author's world one has entered can be entertaining or just odd, or a mixture.

    Thanks for the tip from Mrs Beaton. It might come in handy some day.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Sometimes you may find yourself in situations that you can only relate to fiction - and that goes for the hosts as well.

      Delete
  3. All Austria sits down to Dinner for One every year without fail. I gave Mr Frinton a miss this year and save my powder for Mrs Marple 'Murder at The Gallop'. I couldn't eat a goose these days if you paid me. It feels like having a brick in my belly. Keep 'em coming, though := )

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. If you like bricks, try overcooked wild boar.

      Delete
  4. The closest I ever got to the aristocracy at Christmas was a party that you and I went to at a stone cottage deep in the country. It was where young Strachey lived after moving out of the Pulteney Street flat. What I remember is that it was very dark, both inside and out, there was an abundance of chocolates the likes of which I had never seen before, and everyone was very unfriendly - though presumably we had been invited. I assumed that all of this was typical of this class of people.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I have no recollection of that, but - funnily enough - that Boxing Day photo I put up was in the Strachey household. They young man to the right at the back is Richard's sone and the young woman in the immediate forefront is his daughter, the mother to the left. I love them - they are second family to us, and - as you can see - the next generation are much more friendly! Richard himself now lives in Devon.

      Delete
    2. Please remove a few es for me.

      Delete
    3. And place the mother to the right...

      Delete
    4. He - Columba - is 6 feet 4 inches tall, and a really lovelly, 32 year-old boy now, Amy - his sister - is also a lovely girl. You would not recognise Richard, with his beard, bald head and thick glasses. I have not spoken to him for years, but I intend to soon, now that the dust has settled. He makes lovely sculpture.

      Delete
  5. I can imagine your hostess and the QM getting thoroughly pissed together. It might have been fun to witness.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yes - after the tea has been drunk, the fun starts - I would imagine.

      Delete
  6. Crinkly Bottom and tainted moldy goose? That sounds like a very interesting fete. I'd have hoped for a dog under the table to feed that goose to.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. There was a dog I seem to remember.

      Delete
    2. I've just remembered the neurotic spaniel which had a huge plastic bucket around its neck to stop it from eating itself. One day it was lost for hours and came home with lorry tyre marks on it, looking none the worse for the experience of being run over.

      Delete
  7. I bet the queen mother was a hoot ( if she liked you)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Sadly I will never know. We first-footed about 3 local houses in the area on Boxing Day, and each one had a photo of the QM standing with the family somewhere in the house - usually on the Grand Piano... She spread herself around in that part of Norfolk.

      Delete
    2. I don't mean that they were standing on the grand piano - just the photo...

      Delete
  8. I didn't know Snobs had been made into a play. I read the book a couple of months ago. It's a world I can't even imagine....nor do I envy the people who live in such a rarefied bubble as the upper classes.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. No, the closer you get to the monarchy, the more meaningless your life becomes - if it is your heart's desire to get that close in the first place.

      Delete
  9. Seems to me you have moved in a variety of strange circles throughout your life Tom/

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I have made a point of trying to, just to entertain myself.

      Delete
  10. My experience of "nobility" has been that they have been better company than those that aspire. I occasionally meet up with a group of people who are mix of rich untitled folk and some with titles and much prefer the company of the "toffs" That they are mostly barking bad helps us to find common ground.
    Love your story and the hint re the goose.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. This encapsulates my love for the monarchy. They didn't ask to be thrust into this position like 'democratic' politicians, they were born into it and should be pitied and respected for that.

      It also encapsulates my disdain for social climbers who long to be close to the lower strata of the so-called nobility, and it also encapsulates their disdain for the 'new' families plus - even more so - the contamination of the House of Lords by the creation of political nobility for political reasons.

      The whole thing stinks if you aspire to a station above that of your own bloody family, and if you envy the Royal family, then you are completely fucking mad.

      Delete