good-looking young man. Poor old Connor… Never mind. We’ll raise a glass to him – and his three-pipe problem.’
~
I felt obliged to ring Connor straight after lunch. It wasn’t often Phoebe was conscious of behaving badly, so I wanted to set her mind at rest. I left her with a cup of coffee and took the phone up to my old room.
My mother never had any truck with children’s wallpapers. I wasn’t allowed ballerinas, ponies or a creature called Holly Hobby. Disney was anathema to her and I grew up understanding that merchandising was exploitation of both parent and child. I knew better than to argue with Phoebe who, as far as I could tell, was always right about everything. She was certainly infallible on the subject of waste-of-space boyfriends, not that I ever admitted it. So I asked her how to decorate my room, avoiding the evils of commercial exploitation. I must have been all of twelve. She said, ‘Have nothing in your houses which you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.’
That was the beginning of my passion for design, textiles and William Morris, though I didn’t know then that she was quoting him. She went to the bowed, overloaded shelf where she kept her art books, took down a volume on Morris and handed it to me. Turning the pages, I marvelled at how he turned lilies, chrysanthemums, even humble larkspur and seaweed into repeating designs. It was love at first sight. Phoebe said my enthusiasm showed I had good taste and “an eye”. I didn’t know then that, in artistic terms, having one eye was better than having two.
Phoebe said I could have a William Morris bedroom. I asked how this was possible. Was she offering to paint my walls in Morris style? She explained that you could still buy Morris wallpaper and curtain fabric, but they weren’t cheap. They would have to last me until I left home, so I should choose my patterns carefully, but Phoebe assured me Morris designs were timeless and I would never get bored with them.
She was right. I never did. I chose a subdued sea-green wallpaper that featured acorns and oak leaves and paired it with the celebrated “Strawberry Thief” fabric for my curtains. When they were closed, the birds lined up in rows, staring hungrily at the crop of small, wild strawberries. I never tired of looking at those patterns, how they never began and never ended, just repeated over and over until you could no longer see birds, strawberries, acorns or oak leaves, you just saw colour and movement.
I hate to think what my new décor must have cost, but it lasted through my teens and is still in good shape. Phoebe says more than one young artist-assistant has been inspired by his stay in what came to be known as “the Morris room”.
It was the beginning of something important for me. That room made me happy and allowed me to feel connected to the garden even when I was indoors. It taught me that design – even of something as mundane as wallpaper – could affect how you felt. From the moment the first length of acorn wallpaper went up, I was a convert to the Morris philosophy and tried thereafter to have nothing in my home which I did not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.
I sat down, contemplated my dancing acorns and rang Connor Grenville.
~
‘Connor, it’s Ann de Freitas here. Have the agency spoken to you about your offer for Garden Lodge?’
‘Yes, they have. Twice, actually. Once to say my offer had been accepted, then again to say it had been rejected and that the property had been taken off the market.’
‘I’m so sorry to mess you around. There’s been some confusion, you see.’
‘No need to apologise. The agent sounded pretty miffed and so was I to begin with, but after I’d thought about it a bit, I realised I was pleased.’
‘ Pleased? That your offer had been rejected?’
‘No, that you’d decided not to sell. I don’t think you should. It’s a wonderful home and you and Phoebe are
~
I felt obliged to ring Connor straight after lunch. It wasn’t often Phoebe was conscious of behaving badly, so I wanted to set her mind at rest. I left her with a cup of coffee and took the phone up to my old room.
My mother never had any truck with children’s wallpapers. I wasn’t allowed ballerinas, ponies or a creature called Holly Hobby. Disney was anathema to her and I grew up understanding that merchandising was exploitation of both parent and child. I knew better than to argue with Phoebe who, as far as I could tell, was always right about everything. She was certainly infallible on the subject of waste-of-space boyfriends, not that I ever admitted it. So I asked her how to decorate my room, avoiding the evils of commercial exploitation. I must have been all of twelve. She said, ‘Have nothing in your houses which you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.’
That was the beginning of my passion for design, textiles and William Morris, though I didn’t know then that she was quoting him. She went to the bowed, overloaded shelf where she kept her art books, took down a volume on Morris and handed it to me. Turning the pages, I marvelled at how he turned lilies, chrysanthemums, even humble larkspur and seaweed into repeating designs. It was love at first sight. Phoebe said my enthusiasm showed I had good taste and “an eye”. I didn’t know then that, in artistic terms, having one eye was better than having two.
Phoebe said I could have a William Morris bedroom. I asked how this was possible. Was she offering to paint my walls in Morris style? She explained that you could still buy Morris wallpaper and curtain fabric, but they weren’t cheap. They would have to last me until I left home, so I should choose my patterns carefully, but Phoebe assured me Morris designs were timeless and I would never get bored with them.
She was right. I never did. I chose a subdued sea-green wallpaper that featured acorns and oak leaves and paired it with the celebrated “Strawberry Thief” fabric for my curtains. When they were closed, the birds lined up in rows, staring hungrily at the crop of small, wild strawberries. I never tired of looking at those patterns, how they never began and never ended, just repeated over and over until you could no longer see birds, strawberries, acorns or oak leaves, you just saw colour and movement.
I hate to think what my new décor must have cost, but it lasted through my teens and is still in good shape. Phoebe says more than one young artist-assistant has been inspired by his stay in what came to be known as “the Morris room”.
It was the beginning of something important for me. That room made me happy and allowed me to feel connected to the garden even when I was indoors. It taught me that design – even of something as mundane as wallpaper – could affect how you felt. From the moment the first length of acorn wallpaper went up, I was a convert to the Morris philosophy and tried thereafter to have nothing in my home which I did not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.
I sat down, contemplated my dancing acorns and rang Connor Grenville.
~
‘Connor, it’s Ann de Freitas here. Have the agency spoken to you about your offer for Garden Lodge?’
‘Yes, they have. Twice, actually. Once to say my offer had been accepted, then again to say it had been rejected and that the property had been taken off the market.’
‘I’m so sorry to mess you around. There’s been some confusion, you see.’
‘No need to apologise. The agent sounded pretty miffed and so was I to begin with, but after I’d thought about it a bit, I realised I was pleased.’
‘ Pleased? That your offer had been rejected?’
‘No, that you’d decided not to sell. I don’t think you should. It’s a wonderful home and you and Phoebe are
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