antecedents of the principle component of the main course at Sunday lunch. Sometimes, it was so difficult to be sure, that there was argument about whether this was fish, fowl or something furry. In fairness to the kitchen, it had to be admitted that it was usually possible to eliminate chicken and fish which seldom featured on Sundays anyway. (There had been a memorable occasion when they had been completely foxed by some pheasant masquerading as something completely different.)
The Bognors couldnât agree on whether the blame was Mrs Brandonâs or Lady Fluddâs. The problem lay in the habit of roasting the meat the night before serving, carving it into servable slices, and then dousing it in gravy and reheating in time for Sunday lunch. It was invariably double-over-cooked and grey in colour, blotting paper in taste. This was a well-established custom in a certain sort of traditional country house. It had everything to do with convenience and nothing whatever to do with gastronomy.
From a Julia Child, Elizabeth David, or celebrity chef point of view, Sunday lunch at the Fludds had nothing to recommend it, but for a semi-professional nostalgic, such as Sir Simon, it had a lot going for it. This was how life used to be when he was growing up. It didnât taste of much but it was the same for everyone; equality of nothing very much. It was a bit like the former East Germany, for which he had a sneaking regard. Nobody had anything much better than a lawnmower masquerading as a motor car; you all lived off a hundred and one ways with wurst and dumplings; but on the other hand everyone had beer and jobs. Also, in a curious way, each other. The older and grander Bognor became, the more he believed in society, in pulling together and being kind to oneâs neighbours. Consumerism, conspicuous consumption and celebrity seemed to involve competition of a sort he could not relish. He liked the quiet contemplative life and did not much care for kicking sand in the face of the people who lived next door.
Thus Sunday lunch with the Fludds. It was an oddly relaxing meal, familiar, unflashy and sound in an old-fashioned way that had gone out of favour, along with tweed, leather and shaving brushes made from badger bristle. There were more efficient, and indeed more enjoyable, ways of eating but he took pleasure in Sunday lunch at the Fludds not because of the food and drink, but despite them.
âTiresome,â said Sir Branwell, carving something which had probably once been a bird. There was evidence of wings. âIf one is going to be murdered there is a time and place. Immediately before the festival is not one of them. And who in his right mind would want to kill the Reverend Sebastian? Sebby would never hurt a fly.â
âWho said anything about their right mind?â enquired Lady Bognor, watching the dissection with apprehension.
âThe point I am making is that Sebbyâs death is âtiresomeâ. I simply donât believe any other word will do.â
The point Sir Branwell was actually making was that any event which interfered with the world as he knew it was inappropriate. Although he would deny that he had actually created that world, it was the one which he had inherited and with which he felt comfortable. He was not the fourteenth baronet for nothing, but even if he was he enjoyed the tidy, predictable society in which he found himself, and did not like it being compromised by murder or even accidental death. Life for Sir Branwell and his ilk was convenient or it was nothing. Murder was inconvenient.
This was the whole point of sudden death. For a certain sort of Englishman, it lacked drama and excitement, and definitely such emotions as grief or upset of an essentially trivial nature. Grief, unless oneâs dogs or horses were involved, was alien to Sir Branwell and men like him, of whom there were a surprisingly large number. Maybe that was why the majority of British crime
The Bognors couldnât agree on whether the blame was Mrs Brandonâs or Lady Fluddâs. The problem lay in the habit of roasting the meat the night before serving, carving it into servable slices, and then dousing it in gravy and reheating in time for Sunday lunch. It was invariably double-over-cooked and grey in colour, blotting paper in taste. This was a well-established custom in a certain sort of traditional country house. It had everything to do with convenience and nothing whatever to do with gastronomy.
From a Julia Child, Elizabeth David, or celebrity chef point of view, Sunday lunch at the Fludds had nothing to recommend it, but for a semi-professional nostalgic, such as Sir Simon, it had a lot going for it. This was how life used to be when he was growing up. It didnât taste of much but it was the same for everyone; equality of nothing very much. It was a bit like the former East Germany, for which he had a sneaking regard. Nobody had anything much better than a lawnmower masquerading as a motor car; you all lived off a hundred and one ways with wurst and dumplings; but on the other hand everyone had beer and jobs. Also, in a curious way, each other. The older and grander Bognor became, the more he believed in society, in pulling together and being kind to oneâs neighbours. Consumerism, conspicuous consumption and celebrity seemed to involve competition of a sort he could not relish. He liked the quiet contemplative life and did not much care for kicking sand in the face of the people who lived next door.
Thus Sunday lunch with the Fludds. It was an oddly relaxing meal, familiar, unflashy and sound in an old-fashioned way that had gone out of favour, along with tweed, leather and shaving brushes made from badger bristle. There were more efficient, and indeed more enjoyable, ways of eating but he took pleasure in Sunday lunch at the Fludds not because of the food and drink, but despite them.
âTiresome,â said Sir Branwell, carving something which had probably once been a bird. There was evidence of wings. âIf one is going to be murdered there is a time and place. Immediately before the festival is not one of them. And who in his right mind would want to kill the Reverend Sebastian? Sebby would never hurt a fly.â
âWho said anything about their right mind?â enquired Lady Bognor, watching the dissection with apprehension.
âThe point I am making is that Sebbyâs death is âtiresomeâ. I simply donât believe any other word will do.â
The point Sir Branwell was actually making was that any event which interfered with the world as he knew it was inappropriate. Although he would deny that he had actually created that world, it was the one which he had inherited and with which he felt comfortable. He was not the fourteenth baronet for nothing, but even if he was he enjoyed the tidy, predictable society in which he found himself, and did not like it being compromised by murder or even accidental death. Life for Sir Branwell and his ilk was convenient or it was nothing. Murder was inconvenient.
This was the whole point of sudden death. For a certain sort of Englishman, it lacked drama and excitement, and definitely such emotions as grief or upset of an essentially trivial nature. Grief, unless oneâs dogs or horses were involved, was alien to Sir Branwell and men like him, of whom there were a surprisingly large number. Maybe that was why the majority of British crime
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