Dagenham spring

A gnarly old lemon-colored rose tree gripped a rotting trellis, fighting its way clear of the laburnum. The standard roses, of which there were several, had an easier time getting to the sun. Lined up like sentries with bulbous cockades of crinkly white and red petals, Mum's standards stood to attention right along the dividing fence between our home and the next door neighbor's.
"Look at my roses, look at the foxglove! And look, look at my potentilla!"
It was a huge sunburst of yellow.
"And my hydrangea. That'll be out soon!"
Six feet across, covered in green leafy frond-like leaves, Mum's shockingly pink hydrangea flowers would soon dominate the small garden and might even eclipse the potentilla.

One sherry too many

“Is Mum alright, Dad?”
“Don’t wake her, for Gawd’s sake!” Lew’s face registered fear. “She’ll start doing a ‘knees up’ or get all funny. Either way, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“A knees up?” Frances whispered. I explained it was an East London dance that is only difficult to do if very drunk, which is the only time it is ever performed. A “knees up” requires the linkage of arms, the stomping of feet, and high-kicking legs in order to get the required “knees up” while singing “Knees Up Mother Brown.”
The image of my drunken aunts performing like inebriated Rockettes, trampling on each other’s feet, was not far from my mind.

A math lesson to remember

“I was good at maths,” Lew said, casually.
“You what?” I blurted,
“Didn’t I tell you? When I was in the artillery, I calculated gun angles, so the shell would land on the target. Six guns, I had. Different elevations, different targets, distances... Lot of things to take into account. Logarithms – did all the calculations an’ that in my head. We had a contest. I had my guns set up and ready to fire when everyone else was farting about trying to calculate the range. I won. Monty himself came up to me personally, congratulated me, he did.”
“You never told me.”
“About Montgomery?”
“About the math.”
“It was a long time ago. Mind you, I can still do all your mother’s bets.”

Time to go!

“Where we going again?” asked Mum.
“Canterbury, Mum, Canterbury. Frances wants to have a look around. Might be interesting, it’s very old,” I conceded. “Can’t remember going there, myself.”
“All that way – a cathedral. Hmmm. I’ve seen one of them.”
“Well, if you want to go to Canterbury, we have to make an early start of it,” said Lew. “It’s a long way. And the traffic!” Lew shook his head ominously, as if he knew, which he didn’t. “Well, the traffic, I wouldn’t like to say.”

For whom the school bell tolls

“You weren’t much for school,” said Lew.
“Out when I was fifteen.”
“Not much older than when I left school.”
“You didn’t want me to stay on,” I said, wanting to know why.
“Wasn’t like that in my day. I got this lovely job, I did, at a bank. On account of me being tall. They gave me a uniform, with a lovely thick overcoat. And all I had to do was stand outside. But Mum found me another job that paid sixpence more a week. So that was that. I had to give up my job at the bank and give back that overcoat, all for sixpence more a week.”
“You could’ve said no,” I said.
“No? Naaaw! Didn’t say ‘no’ in those days. What your mother told you to do, you did. Gawd help you if you didn’t.”
“I never did what you wanted me to.” I said.
“You passed that exam, you got in the print. You did what I wanted you to do.”
“I think I really wanted to stay on at school.”
“Well, you weren’t much for it. Told you at the time. You weren’t good at maths.”
“Not much cop at algebra. Physics. The teachers...they weren’t bothered.”
“Gawd’s truth! You should’ve seen the teacher we ‘ad. The headmaster tried to cane me once. I broke his cane for him. Got me expelled. But,” Lew said expansively, “I was leaving anyway—”

OK, OK, here's a photo...

Lew, Jessie with Kate, and me

Another evening with Lew--and Jack

After the ladies retired for the evening, Lew remained in place, eyeing the Jack Daniels but saying nothing. Although they would never admit it, my parents were quite alike in some ways. I took the hint.
“Fancy a splash, Dad?”
“It’s a big bottle, son, be less to carry home if we do.”
So we lessened the load. I poured the drinks, putting less in mine and hiding the difference with ice. Lew took his straight. We sat there for a moment. I told him about the old schoolhouse we had seen that day at the outdoor museum.
“Not much different from mine,” I said. “Didn’t like it.”

At Weald Open Air Museum

“It’s a lovely day for walking,” Frances smiled.
“All sunny. All lovely!” Jessie piped in, and then, as though startled, “What is this place?”
“It’s a museum,” said Lew, ominously.
“There’re lots of old houses close by. From all different periods of English history! And a blacksmith shop,” said Frances, trying to muster interest. “After we walk a bit, we’ll go look at the animals. Kate’ll like that.”
“You go on and enjoy, darling,” said Lew, patronizingly. “We’ll see you in the caff.”
“What is all this exactly?” asked Jessie, who did not know what to make of the place.
“Like I said, Mum, it’s an outdoor museum,” I said, patiently but not very helpfully.
“Outdoor museum? I prefer to be inside, meself.”

Tea on the beach

Then, with the sun beating down on us, Lew suggested tea. Frances was innurred to the fact that my family and I drank hot tea in the height of summer, but she was amazed to find this strange predeliction actively encouraged right on the beach.
“The beach tray!” I said, with jokey effusiveness. “It’s part of the English seaside tradition! Like donkey rides, Punch and Judy, and saucy postcards, the beach tea tray is a standard seaside accoutrement.”
”You’re so weird,” said Frances evenly, shaking her head, trying not to give my blatherings any encouragement. I shrugged and, undaunted. set off with Lew to buy a pot of tea with extra hot water, a jug of milk, dishes of sugar, and proper cups and saucers and spoons, all of which we majestically carted back across the sand to our little bit of beach and half-constructed castle.

At the beach

“Did you bring Kate’s bathing costume?”
“A bathing costume?” Frances looked at me as if I were an exhibit in a museum.
“Alright, alright, but did you?”
“No,” said Frances firmly. Then she smiled. “But I did bring her swimsuit.”
In addition to my arcane bathing terminology, Frances found my family’s English beach etiquette mildly amusing. She watched as we staked out a piece of beach with deckchairs. Within short order, Mum had taken off her hat and shoes and cardigan, and begun studying racing form. Meanwhile Lew had unbuttoned his shirt, taken off his shoes and socks, and rolled up his suit trousers to his knees. I was still ripping up my jeans, trying to create shorts, as Kate rushed towards the water’s edge.

Parental chitchat

“Have we missed the East Enders?” asked Jessie.
“That was ages ago,” said Lew.
“Bugger it,” said Jessie.
And surprisingly predictable. She’d missed her favorite show, so she settled for what was showing. Lew had brought a book and was not bothered either way. When Frances entered the living room, Mum had already nodded off and Lew was looking at the racing page.
“’Glorious Goodwood,’ that’s what they called it. Glorious, my arse! Nothing special. Lose your money on that course as well as any other course.”
“We could visit Goodwood. If we had some binoculars, you could see the racing from the garden.”
“Naaaw, better to see the racing on the telly.”
“What’s going on?” Mum woke up, blinked at the TV. “Did I go to sleep?”
“You were out like a light, come on, time to get you up to bed,” said Lew.
Lew pried Mum out of the armchair and together they toddled upstairs.

High Tea at the cottage

“Right, Jessie, girl, let’s eat before it gets cold,” said Lew, rubbing his gnarly hands together. It sounded like sandpaper on wood.
“Nice bit of bacon, this. Not salty. Lovely it is. Lovely,” cooed Jessie.
“I forgot the tomatoes!” I said, jumping up again.
“Shall we carry on then, son?” asked Lew.
“I see you’ve got yourself a beer, Dad,” I said, somewhat peevishly, grabbing one for myself and Frances.
Lew raised his glass to me and smiled innocently.

Stocking up

We piled up on gourmet treats as well as English basics, including a few eccentric eats like pickled walnuts and gentleman’s relish, a kind of anchovy fish paste. Frances threw herself into this shopping spree as enthusiastically as I did, running off to the sweets counter to stock up on Cadbury Flakes, her favorite English treat, as well as Crunchy bars and Smarties, like M&Ms only better, or so it always seemed to Kate and me.
I got piccalilli pickle for Lew, who always slathered mashed potatoes with this dull, mustardy sauce with bits of pickled cauliflower and onions. I knew he’d like that. And sausages, good old Walls pork sausages, just marvelous with a thick, slightly sweet version of Worcestershire sauce called HP Sauce. Red, brown, black, green, yellow sauces, Britain has them all bottled. We also bought a small piece of crumbly Wendsleydale, marvelous with a slice of apple, a Cotswold cheese flecked with chives, and a creamy wedge of Stilton, gnarled and crusty on the outside.

A Brit’s Christmas in America

In Dickensian England, goose was the bird of choice for the big feast. When I was growing up in the East End, most families served turkey at Christmas or, in small families like ours, a capon, which is a fat and juicy, knackerless chicken. Since Christmas comes so soon after Thanksgiving, and perhaps because I am so far away from the Green and Pleasant, my American Christmas dinners are invariably roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, based on the traditional Sunday lunch.
For the uninitiated, a Yorkshire pudding is like a popover, only better. Sometimes made with beef drippings in a large tin, I prefer a pan with small indentations that proffer individual servings. This way everyone gets a pudding that resembles a golden, crusty well just waiting for lashings of rich gravy.
Mum was not always a bad cook, but she was always a surprising one. Sometimes her puddings would rise like golden mountain peaks, other times they would sit there, in a pool of meat fat, looking and tasting like a rubber bathmat. There was never any way of knowing in advance. Although inured to Mum’s culinary failures, we could still be buoyed up her erratic successes.
When it is done right, as it will be tomorrow, nothing can beat this classic Sunday lunch of a rib of beef, pink-to-rare on the inside, crusty on the outside, with a freshly made Yorkshire pud, crispy vegetables, as well as meltingly roasted potatoes and parsnips, and a little horseradish cream on the side. This feast is a thing sublime, with the looks, aromas, and flavors of Thanksgiving and Christmas all rolled into one.
Merry Christmas. Eat and drink hearty!

Christmas at St. Paul's

“Remember when Denny took us up to Saint Paul’s for a Christmas Eve service?” Lew asked Mum.
“Lovely. Lovely place, Saint Paul’s.” Jessie spoke with solemn reverence. “Lovely place. At Christmas – that’s when we went.”
“Packed it was. Packed!” said Lew.
“Anyone would’ve thought it was Christmas.” I could not resist.
“Don’t you laugh,” Lew looked at Frances. “Holy communion, they had, and everyone, I mean everyone, went up for it – everyone except us, that is. I couldn’t believe it, took ages. Do you remember that?” Jessie shook her head and shrugged. Lew went on, “Well, I bloody well do. You turned around and said ‘they’re tearing the balls out it,’ that’s what you said. ‘They’re tearing the balls out of it.’”
Frances looked a bit disturbed.
“The choir was wonderful,” I added.
“After midnight, it was. Denis had a car then,” Lew said, recalling.
“Just as well he did. That’s why he can get around and we never could.”
“Don’t start that again,” said Lew.

Dinner at the cottage

The pub was out. That evening, I sautéed the duck breasts we had bought, deglazed the pan with some red wine, then mixed in some blackcurrant jam for a sauce. I sliced the pieces with one passably sharp knife and served up the duck with some baked spuds. Mum and Lew seemed wary about eating rare duck, but quickly overcame their timidity and tucked in with great gusto. Even Kate liked it.
“Where did you learn to cook like that, son?” asked Lew.
“It’s fancy cooking. I never liked fancy cooking,” said Mum defensively.
“From books. When I lived over in Putney.”
“Ah, right, I remember—” said Lew. “Trundle Towers!”
“Well, at least I can say I’ve eaten duck now,” said Mum, with great satisfaction.
“You’ve had duck before, woman,” said Lew.
“I know what I’ve had. And I’ve not had duck. Never!” Mum said angrily.

Mum vetoes the pub

“I didn’t like that place. I didn’t like to say,” said Jessie.
“But you did Mum, several times, in fact.”
“I was just speaking me mind.”
“What didn’t you like about it? The food wasn’t that bad.”
“Wasn’t the food. Dingy. The atmosphere. Not cheerful. No life. I like a bit of life meself.”

At Arundel Castle

The family chapel was large, like the inside of a small cathedral. The vaulted ceilings seemed cavernous. The floor and some of the columns were made of khaki-colored marble. Down the center of the chapel was a massive oriental carpet. The altar had silver vases and heavyset candlesticks. Above all this was a very narrow stained glass window, like a bejeweled bracelet in a stone setting. The rest of the chapel was also made of stone and looked like fussily carved icing, as if someone had gone overboard in a cake decorating contest.
Down more corridors and through more doorways, we eventually found a room that appeared to be shoehorned from a well-to-do suburban house into the bowels of the castle. We were in a lounge and office with working electric bar fires and a dropped ceiling. Perhaps this area was used by the family when the gawking hordes had gone.
“This must be the private parts,” said Jessie innocently.
“Not that private, Mum,” I said with a smile.

Going nowhere fast

“What was it that happened?” Jessie shot a look at Lew, “Something happened.”
“Nothing happened,” said Lew.
“Something happened,” said Jessie, stubbornly.
“We almost got lost, but Pam knew the way,” said Lew, quickly.
“Oh that was it. He almost got us lost!” Mum recalled triumphantly.
“You going to tell the story, or shall I?”
“What story? What story you telling?” asked Jessie. “I like a good story.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I just got a leg over with me directions.” Lew fumed.
“It was alright, I knew where I was going. Used to come down this way a lot,” said Pam.

My Nan holds court at “The Vic,” part 1

“Like a Tartar, Mum was,” said Jessie. “A real Tartar. When the drink was in her.”
Jessie said ‘the drink in her’ as if her mother, my grandmother, had been possessed of a spirit other than gin. And Jessie could see it as clear as clear, as though it were yesterday. I thought I could, too: an aging lady, her looks, along with husbands and lovers, all gone – but there she was, holding court in that pub, holding onto what was left. Friday night was always the big night out, because Friday was pay day and the Vic, really the Victoria Public House, was the place to go. And Nanny Evans always came along. According to Lew, my old grandmother would sit in the corner nursing a Guinness. Then, suddenly, she’d be reminded of the vicariousness of her existence and the fragile jollity of her demeanor would implode into a searing jealousy of her daughters and their boyfriends. It was their time.
“And your Nan would sit there drinking and then, for no reason, she’s start in on one of us. For no reason at all,” said Lew, to me. “And God help us when she did. All us boys were fair game.”
Then Saturday morning would roll around and, I was told, she would happily remember nothing.
“You dreaded it, but you had to take it.” Lew sounded regretful, even sympathetic. “Had a hard life though, your Nanny. They all did in those days.”