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Authors: Sarah Mason
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office is the little Saxon church, and opposite the church are the giant wrought iron gates which I remember used to be closed every evening by one of the gamekeepers. These gates are the only opening in the wall that encompasses the estate, house and grounds. I lean forward as we pass through them and then get thrown around as we bounce and grunt our way up the slight hill, weaving between the various pot holes, the road flanked by tall poplar trees. In the spring, daffodils wave from the banks either side of us for as far as the eye can see, but these are long dead and gone. We finally pop up over the hill and the house comes into view. If you branch off right at this point, the driveway leads to our old house hidden in the woods, but we mostly went unnoticed as it is hard to draw your eyes away from the Monkwell domicile. We pause for a minute while Aunt Winnie fights to find the appropriate gear. I stare at the grand old house with fondness while Aunt Winnie grunts and thrusts the gearstick in all directions. My reliving of
Brideshead Revisited
is shattered by Aunt Winnie shouting, 'Come on, you bastard car!' into my right ear and we charge forward at quite a lick down the hill.
The house was designed by a former pupil of Lutyens and I can now clearly see hints of the master's trademark style. It sits in a perfect location in the cleft of a gentle valley, protected from the harsher elements and yet accessible to the sunlight. The gardens slope gently away while dozens of mullioned windows dot the house's façade and reflect the perfectly manicured lawns.
Aunt Winnie shoots up the drive, through an archway and into the cobbled courtyard at the back of the house. The front door was only ever used on formal occasions and I'm guessing this isn't one of them. On the other side of the courtyard sits the seemingly deserted stable yard.
'Looks like they don't own horses anymore, Aunt Winnie,' I say and point towards the yard.
'Simon sold them all after Elizabeth died.' She snorts to herself. 'I'll wait here for you. Good luck.' Aunt Winnie leans over and opens the passenger door, undoes Jameson's seatbelt and shoves him out. I push the passenger seat forward and clamber out reluctantly after him.
C h a p t e r 6
Contents - Prev / Next
A s I wait at the back door, I look down at my stomach and pull it in slightly. Five days of dieting has left me a wonderful three pounds lighter and I can already see the difference. Elle Macpherson I am not but I don't think anyone's going to divert me to the delivery ward now. I swivel round to look at Aunt Winnie, whose idea of low profile means heavyweight opera booming from the car. I make a couple of flapping hand gestures at her which she completely ignores.
The door clatters open and I swivel back. A tall lady with a very thin mouth stares expectantly at me.
'Hello! I'm here to see Monty Monkwell.' I beam. She doesn't.
'You are?'
'Isabel Serranti. He is expecting me.'
She attempts a smile but actually just stretches her mouth taut across her teeth. 'Follow me, Miss Serranti.'
She turns back into the kitchen and as I follow her I notice that she is extremely thin and bony. Already we are destined not to get on. Her dark hair is swept back in a severe bun and I would guess she is in her mid-thirties.
I take a good look around the huge kitchen and notice with surprise that not one item of decor has changed. When I was a child it looked fresh and modern with its pale lemon walls and curtains and rustic, farmhouse-style units. Now it just seems faded and shabby, but maybe that's because of my older, more pedantic eye. The same enormous scrubbed oak table sits in the middle of the vast room, surrounded by chairs of all different shapes and sizes. There is a very familiar smell in the air which shoots me back to my childhood more vividly than any photograph could. A combination, I think, of dog, a particular washing powder and the smell of baking. Our progress is arrested by
Brideshead Revisited
is shattered by Aunt Winnie shouting, 'Come on, you bastard car!' into my right ear and we charge forward at quite a lick down the hill.
The house was designed by a former pupil of Lutyens and I can now clearly see hints of the master's trademark style. It sits in a perfect location in the cleft of a gentle valley, protected from the harsher elements and yet accessible to the sunlight. The gardens slope gently away while dozens of mullioned windows dot the house's façade and reflect the perfectly manicured lawns.
Aunt Winnie shoots up the drive, through an archway and into the cobbled courtyard at the back of the house. The front door was only ever used on formal occasions and I'm guessing this isn't one of them. On the other side of the courtyard sits the seemingly deserted stable yard.
'Looks like they don't own horses anymore, Aunt Winnie,' I say and point towards the yard.
'Simon sold them all after Elizabeth died.' She snorts to herself. 'I'll wait here for you. Good luck.' Aunt Winnie leans over and opens the passenger door, undoes Jameson's seatbelt and shoves him out. I push the passenger seat forward and clamber out reluctantly after him.
C h a p t e r 6
Contents - Prev / Next
A s I wait at the back door, I look down at my stomach and pull it in slightly. Five days of dieting has left me a wonderful three pounds lighter and I can already see the difference. Elle Macpherson I am not but I don't think anyone's going to divert me to the delivery ward now. I swivel round to look at Aunt Winnie, whose idea of low profile means heavyweight opera booming from the car. I make a couple of flapping hand gestures at her which she completely ignores.
The door clatters open and I swivel back. A tall lady with a very thin mouth stares expectantly at me.
'Hello! I'm here to see Monty Monkwell.' I beam. She doesn't.
'You are?'
'Isabel Serranti. He is expecting me.'
She attempts a smile but actually just stretches her mouth taut across her teeth. 'Follow me, Miss Serranti.'
She turns back into the kitchen and as I follow her I notice that she is extremely thin and bony. Already we are destined not to get on. Her dark hair is swept back in a severe bun and I would guess she is in her mid-thirties.
I take a good look around the huge kitchen and notice with surprise that not one item of decor has changed. When I was a child it looked fresh and modern with its pale lemon walls and curtains and rustic, farmhouse-style units. Now it just seems faded and shabby, but maybe that's because of my older, more pedantic eye. The same enormous scrubbed oak table sits in the middle of the vast room, surrounded by chairs of all different shapes and sizes. There is a very familiar smell in the air which shoots me back to my childhood more vividly than any photograph could. A combination, I think, of dog, a particular washing powder and the smell of baking. Our progress is arrested by
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