Read Online Running to Paradise by Virginia Budd - Free Book Online
Authors: Virginia Budd
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nature rambles instead of lessons. Miss Bellingham, her long skirts trailing over the dewy grass, her eyes dreaming, would lead us shouting and laughing over the fields and along the leafy lanes of early summer. Once we saw a pair of kingfishers darting through the willows that overhung the stream at the bottom of the paddock where the horses had already been put out to grass for their summer rest. And once I found a robin’s nest in the high, stony bank bordering the lane that led to the village.
Sometimes, on a Saturday morning, Pa would join us, helping Miss Bellingham over stiles and pointing out the different species of butterflies. He had collected butterflies as a boy and indeed possessed quite an impressive collection, carefully preserved in a mahogany specimen chest in his dressing room.
As for me, I adored these expeditions, and it was through them that my love for wild flowers and the English countryside was born, remaining with me (despite the latter being, alas, no longer the unspoiled wonderland it was when I was a child) to this day, and has many, many times, when all else seems to have failed, continued to give me pleasure.
The affair of Pa and Miss Bellingham (for, of course, that is what it was) came to a head on the great river picnic. Pa, in his goodness, decided to give me and my governess a treat: he would hire a boat and the three of us would spend the day on the river; Ma, hors de combat as usual, would stay behind on the sofa.
We set off one glorious Saturday morning, taking the footpath that led from the paddock to the river, the latter only a mile if you went across the fields. Pa, wearing knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket, carrying the food hamper, led the way, laughing and joking like a schoolboy. Then came Miss Bellingham in a pink summer dress with tiny pearl buttons all the way down the front and a wide, shady straw hat, holding her skirts away from the brambles that wound across the path. And me in the rear, singing one of my made-up songs, carrying a long frond of lacy cow parsley as a wand. The boat was ready and waiting at the tiny landing stage, and once everyone, plus the food hamper and Miss Bellingham’s parasol, were safely on board, Pa cast off.
We punted lazily between the river banks now alight with kingcups and yellow flag irises: me on my tummy in the stern peering into the brown depths of the water for trout, Pa, a small, sunburned, athletic figure, wielding the punt pole with considerable efficiency — by now he had discarded his Norfolk jacket — and Miss Bellingham, lying back on the punt cushions looking decorative.
When it was time for lunch, we tied the punt to an overhanging branch and unloaded the hamper and the punt cushions. There was much laughter when Pa nearly fell in and Miss Bellingham’s hat caught in a tree. Everything seemed to be going right; even lunch was good. I disliked food and regarded eating as a waste of valuable time (I still do), but today there were my favourite chicken sandwiches, the chocolate cake cook always made for special occasions and even my own private bottle of lemonade. Pa opened a bottle of champagne for himself and Miss Bellingham with a flourish.
‘ Oh, but I shouldn’t, Mr Osborn. It makes me so silly,’ said Miss Bellingham, her eyes all big and soft like a rabbit’s, one hand playing with the little pearl buttons at her throat.
‘ Fizz never did anyone any harm,’ Pa said, ‘and today is a special holiday, isn’t it, Scamp?’ I loved Pa calling me Scamp, it made me feel wicked.
‘ Why is it a special day, Pa, why?’
‘ Because, because, because...it just is,’ he said, smiling, annoyingly, at Miss Bellingham. Suddenly, there was a splash of water, and out from under the bulrushes swam a mother moorhen and her chicks.
‘ Look, look.’ I ran to the water’s edge to watch the small flotilla swim by, agitated now by all the noise. ‘Oh, aren’t they sweet, Pa, look...’ But Pa wasn’t there. He and
Sometimes, on a Saturday morning, Pa would join us, helping Miss Bellingham over stiles and pointing out the different species of butterflies. He had collected butterflies as a boy and indeed possessed quite an impressive collection, carefully preserved in a mahogany specimen chest in his dressing room.
As for me, I adored these expeditions, and it was through them that my love for wild flowers and the English countryside was born, remaining with me (despite the latter being, alas, no longer the unspoiled wonderland it was when I was a child) to this day, and has many, many times, when all else seems to have failed, continued to give me pleasure.
The affair of Pa and Miss Bellingham (for, of course, that is what it was) came to a head on the great river picnic. Pa, in his goodness, decided to give me and my governess a treat: he would hire a boat and the three of us would spend the day on the river; Ma, hors de combat as usual, would stay behind on the sofa.
We set off one glorious Saturday morning, taking the footpath that led from the paddock to the river, the latter only a mile if you went across the fields. Pa, wearing knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket, carrying the food hamper, led the way, laughing and joking like a schoolboy. Then came Miss Bellingham in a pink summer dress with tiny pearl buttons all the way down the front and a wide, shady straw hat, holding her skirts away from the brambles that wound across the path. And me in the rear, singing one of my made-up songs, carrying a long frond of lacy cow parsley as a wand. The boat was ready and waiting at the tiny landing stage, and once everyone, plus the food hamper and Miss Bellingham’s parasol, were safely on board, Pa cast off.
We punted lazily between the river banks now alight with kingcups and yellow flag irises: me on my tummy in the stern peering into the brown depths of the water for trout, Pa, a small, sunburned, athletic figure, wielding the punt pole with considerable efficiency — by now he had discarded his Norfolk jacket — and Miss Bellingham, lying back on the punt cushions looking decorative.
When it was time for lunch, we tied the punt to an overhanging branch and unloaded the hamper and the punt cushions. There was much laughter when Pa nearly fell in and Miss Bellingham’s hat caught in a tree. Everything seemed to be going right; even lunch was good. I disliked food and regarded eating as a waste of valuable time (I still do), but today there were my favourite chicken sandwiches, the chocolate cake cook always made for special occasions and even my own private bottle of lemonade. Pa opened a bottle of champagne for himself and Miss Bellingham with a flourish.
‘ Oh, but I shouldn’t, Mr Osborn. It makes me so silly,’ said Miss Bellingham, her eyes all big and soft like a rabbit’s, one hand playing with the little pearl buttons at her throat.
‘ Fizz never did anyone any harm,’ Pa said, ‘and today is a special holiday, isn’t it, Scamp?’ I loved Pa calling me Scamp, it made me feel wicked.
‘ Why is it a special day, Pa, why?’
‘ Because, because, because...it just is,’ he said, smiling, annoyingly, at Miss Bellingham. Suddenly, there was a splash of water, and out from under the bulrushes swam a mother moorhen and her chicks.
‘ Look, look.’ I ran to the water’s edge to watch the small flotilla swim by, agitated now by all the noise. ‘Oh, aren’t they sweet, Pa, look...’ But Pa wasn’t there. He and
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