|
LUNCH WITH SIR JOHN SIMON, K.C.B. (1816 - 1904) By Avis Yarborough Simon (1893 - 1987) STONE CREAM There was a most important visit to be paid twice a year. This was to my father’s oldest living relatives – his uncle Sir John Simon KCB, and Sir John’s wife Lady Jane at 40 Kensington Square. Mother, pretty reasonable as a rule, took great pains when these ordeals were imminent to instruct us in all round good behaviour, and she also gave Nanny orders about such things as “best clothing”, “doing Miss Avis’ curls”, etc. This was quite understandable – our host and hostess were Daddy’s relatives not hers, and naturally Mother tried not to be caught on the wrong foot as regards his children. She always managed to sit next to me at lunch in Kensington Square so as to curb sotto voce excesses of any kind on my part. My sister was less of an anxiety, being five years older than me. She was however a little inclined to consider herself an adult, and this led to attempts to mingle rather too freely with the grown-ups talk. All mother could do when this occurred was to send a warning frown across the table to Molly. (as the writer’s sister was known at home) These visits, as I said, were twice yearly – when saying “Goodbye” at the close of visit number one a tiny parcel containing a half sovereign wrapped in spotless tissue paper was slipped into our hands which were then patted on the back. At the close of visit two (usually within easy reach of Christmas) each little parcel contained a whole sovereign instead of a half. When the fatal day came we travelled with Mother from South Croydon to East Croydon there we changed platforms and waited for the London train – “London Bridge in front, Victoria be’ind”. We always liked this part of the journey, except for the frightening bit where the train stopped on Vauxhall Bridge to have passengers’ inwards tickets taken. As this was apparently a mostly wooden bridge which trembled and shook with every movement on it, this was sheer terror to us and it seemed like tempting providence to hang about doing silly things like taking tickets. Then came a short but enjoyable bit through busy Clapham Junction to Victoria before a very bad time started viz. the journey on the original Underground from Victoria to Kensington High Street. Though fairly small, the engines on the old District Railway were steam engines and the stifling tunnels belched thick smoke, on which were reflected from time to time the flames of the engine fires. It was a happy moment when we emerged safely at Kensington High Street station, walked a short distance and then took a turning which led us straight into the famous square, and we found ourselves at the front door of number forty. I cannot remember what happened next, but before long we were ushered into the dining room through the little outer anteroom which most of the main rooms of upper class houses of the period contained. The table was beautifully laid and lavishly furnished with fruit, flowers and cold sweets. Uncle John and Aunt Jane were opposite to me but I am afraid to say that I did not even notice Great. Uncle John – pioneer of sanitation, author of several books, knighted by Queen Victoria and made a KCB, a bust of him being placed in St Thomas’s Hospital. I speculated on Aunt Jane because she was obviously a lady with whom one would sooner or later get involved, though I do not know who she was when Uncle John met and married her. She was large, stout, with a big, plain dead white face, spare grey hair and a commanding manner – sharp to the maidservants, patronising to Mother and repressive to the young if they showed the least sign of uppishness. I took note of her, but what my horrid little mind was really on was a beautiful snow white sweet in an oval shaped cut glass dish. It was not blancmange, that nursery penance. It was firmer and a different white and was decorated with preserved cherries, which were real in those days, not synthetic as now. I meant to have as much as I could get of it. It so filled my mind that I don’t remember how I tackled the first course or what it was, but I was vaguely interested in a thing called an “entrée” which was handed exclusively to the grown-ups, I felt that I had been rather overlooked. When pudding time came and I was asked which I should like “THAT” I said firmly, pointing to the cherry covered delicacy, which I knew was called “stone cream”. “That’s not the way....” began Mother, but she was cut short by Aunt Jane who ordered the parlour maid to take a nice helping to “the young lady”. I took a big spoonful and put it into my mouth, then threw the spoon down. It was only thanks to the cherry that I managed to swallow the mouthful. Have you ever tasted arrowroot? It is wonderful stuff in illness, or after over-eating, and was used a lot in those days by doctors and mums, but it is utterly without flavour, utterly without sweetness, and far more suitable for adults on the morning after the night before than for sweet-loving children. “There is something wrong” boomed Aunt Jane, cutting across Mother’s attempts to gloss over the disaster, “Dora,” to the head parlour maid “bring me little Miss Avis’ plate.” She tasted the pudding, and like me flung down the spoon saying “The child’s quite right. This sweet is unsuitable and unappetising – take the rest of it out to Cook, and ask her never again to send such rubbish into the dining room.” I only hope the cook could afford to give notice, but I doubt it, poor woman. “And now,” continued Aunt Jane “little Avis must suggest something to make up for the disappointment - What shall it be, dear?” “Gooseberry fool and whipped cream, please Aunt Jane.” I said happily, and in a very short time in the way in which almost anything you fancy can be had from rich people’s kitchens I was tucking into a huge portion. No more was said by anyone regarding the incident, and when goodbyes time came about the half sovereigns were given as usual. I expect the hazards of the Underground and Vauxhall Bridge were there as usual on the return Journey, but I slept heavily all the way home with my head resting against mother. A.Y.S.1985 (reproduced by courtesy of Avis' daughter) |