Shuffling

What with the end of term in sight, and the end of Ben’s exams today, my mind has started tripping forward to a little reshuffle around the house. It’s already started in the sitting room: the chaise lounge, which I’d intended to move into the bay window as soon as we stopped lighting the fire, has finally been settled into its new place. Too cold for the winter, it’s perfect for summer evenings, and in the mornings we’ve been coming down to find Seb or Ilse tucked up behind closed curtains, under a blanket, lost in a book.

I like moving things around from time to time. Twice a year, when the equinox throws us from shorter days to long, then back to short again. It almost passed me by this spring, busy as I was in the garden and elsewhere, but it’s never too late for little changes. In truth, I’ve been waiting for Ben’s exams to be over, to put a long-planned scheme into place. He’ll be leaving home soon, slowly at first, with little hops out and back again, and will need a room to call his own for quite some years to come. Yet at the same time there will be long stretches when his room lies empty, and could be put to better use. He’s had one of the two nicest rooms in the house: a sun-drenched double bedroom which mirrors our own across the landing, and it seems a shame to let it be used less frequently. So he’s swapping with Seb, and moving into one of the back bedrooms.

We’ve never had a guest room – having as many people as rooms does that to a family – but things changing seems the perfect opportunity to make two rooms in one. I love spaces which can be one thing and then another: a dining room one hour, children’s study the next. We have lots of such spaces in this house, deliberately, and keep surfaces and other tables free so that they can be put to use for whatever takes our fancy. It takes a bit of thought and planning but really, in the grand scheme of things, university student’s bedroom/ guest room is an easy one to master. It’s lots of fun too, working out just what might go where, how much storage space is needed, how a desk can be a dressing table too. I’m even looking forward to taking down the curtains and having a clear out with the boys.

Nothing is ever static, and things change even faster when there are children in the mix. They insist on growing up, on changing, on moving on to something new. I could keep things just the same, and sit in his room when he goes away, feeling sad. But I suspect there be quite enough of feeling sad as it is. In which case, a little project seems just the ticket, to keep me busy and focused on good things: all the friends we’ll be able to put up in comfort, and see so much more easily. It’s not an end – nothing’s really coming to an end. It’s just a spot of shuffling around, as usual.

Mornings, in summer

There is everything to love about waking up on a summer’s morning. The sun already seeping through the curtains. Sheets and blankets half kicked off. The yellowness of the light, telling you that it’s going to be another sunny day. A tea tray, with a pot that stays hot while you potter out of bed, through the laundry basket, into the bathroom and down the stairs. Wandering down the garden in your dressing gown and wellies to pick something for the pan: spring onions, perhaps, or chard. Hens already up, the day’s eggs waiting smooth and warm in the clean dry straw. Sending children off on bikes in the good weather, with no moans about wind or cold or misplaced gloves. A quiet breakfast on your own, once the house has emptied. The sun, lingering in the high sky, so that the day yawns on before you. Time, then, for another cup of tea on the patio.

How I love these blessed summer mornings. And noons, and sultry afternoons. It’s hard to feel stressed with the hot sun on your back, easing your muscles into buttery relaxation. Why bother dragging yourself in when there are so many things which can be done outside, instead? Yesterday I popped out to water the tomatoes and came in, four hours later, the beds weeded and watered and generally tidied up. It’s hard to mind about a bit of dust in the house, or the roses which are dropping their petals all over the kitchen table. Leave it for a rainy day – and there’ll be some of those soon enough.

Instead, wander around outside and look at how everything’s grown. The marigolds are ready to bloom. The broad beans are in full flower. The first nasturtiums have popped open, and we’ve hung a basket of their cheery blooms on either side of the front door. Just flowers, just in my back garden. What’s bloomed and what’s not doesn’t really matter to anybody else. But to me, each unfurling petal is a little wonder. A win. A tiny celebration of the summer, new and soft as it still is. I love each climbing bean, each burgeoning lettuce, each visiting bee. Each meal on the lawn, each supper with the french doors flung wide open. And the mornings, of course. I even love mornings, in summer.

A good year for roses

I can’t remember my garden ever being quite so full of flowers. The  roses by the hen house keep coming in flush after flush, filling my arms with vasefulls for the house. By the side gate they are pink and open and heady with old-lady scent. The creamy rambler I planted in the hedge two years ago is beginning to do just that: stretch its arms up into the hawthorn branches and twine between and betwixt them. The patio pots are in bloom: pinks, violets and blues, and in the new bed the little plugs have settled in and are commencing their own summer show.

Perhaps it’s the long spell of proper summer weather. Perhaps it’s the sense of things winding down towards the summer break. Perhaps it’s the coming to fruition of so many things at once in this particular corner of York, but this moment feels important. I have a strong sense that it is, in part, to do with the children and who they are just now: each at a different age but all with that peculiar combination of independence, willingness and trust which is so precious. While Ben is on the cusp of the wide world beyond school and home and all that’s familiar, Ilse is running her own little cafe  selling everything from sweet peppermint tea to rose water from an upturned box on the lawn – yet both of them invite us to be part of their endeavours. Add that to Seb and Fliss growing more like themselves with each passing month, and all of them wanting me rather than needing me as much, and this is a lovely time.

Today the sun is shining bright as ever, with temperatures set to soar once more and there are many, many jobs which should be done. But. I think I’ll pause to smell the roses, sit on the patio and spin for a spell, before taking the children for ices after school. First, though, I’m off to gather another bunch of roses to set in water around the house. They don’t bloom like this every day. No, this is most certainly a good year for roses, and I’m going to enjoy every single moment of it.

History lessons

I went on a school trip yesterday, accompanying Ilse’s class on a visit to Fairfax House and a walking tour of the centre of York. It’s a Georgian town house, built by the Viscount Fairfax for his daughter Anne. Sumptuous and elegant, the upper floors of the house hold clues to the family’s Catholicism in dangerous times: scrolls of parchment in the plaster, ironwork roses in the balustrade, and, in the privacy of the four poster beds, crucifixes watching over the family as they slept.

Of all its treasures I love the textiles most of all. There are chintz hangings on the beds, and damask ‘papers’ on the walls. The conservators found fragments of Chinoiserie birds and plants adorning the walls of the lady’s bedroom, and had the company, which still exists, hand block the same design so that, standing in that space, you can see what she did, all those years ago.

The salon, with its crimson silks on walls and furniture, reminds me of Jane Eyre’s Red Room more than anything, even though it is a place for cards and socialising instead of sleep. On such a hot day the stuffiness seemed to concentrate itself in there, and although the keyboards and stucco were truly fascinating, I did wonder whether I, like Jane, might find it all a bit too much. It is a house built for winter warmth, with very little in the way of friendly draughts, and it was with some relief that we headed out into the fresh air of the pavements, in search of a patch of shade.

In a city like York, inhabited by Vikings and Romans, capital of England for one short season, home to the chocolate empires of the Quaker elite, you expect there to be history under your feet, but I wasn’t prepared for quite how much the area around the castle had changed since Georgian times. Who knew that Clifford’s Tower, the site of such anguish, once masqueraded as a folly in a wealthy gentleman’s garden? Or that the courts, so imposing, are a vestige of a fortress built by the Victorians to keep undesirables under lock and key? I certainly didn’t. I imagined that the ancient parts of town had always looked like that, just with the rest of the castle complex where the modern tea shops stand. I learned a huge amount, despite the heat, about the assumptions that I make.

We were all rather hot and sticky when we arrived home, pedalling in from our disparate starting points. Tea was a simple affair: bread and butter and gooseberry jam. No scones or anything I’d need to light the stove for. It was during this meal, on a rug in a shady patch of lawn, that I decided that supper would be of the same, cold, variety, so once the plates were cleared I took my basket to the shops for some cheese and ham and other simple things. Waiting my turn to be served, I had to wonder what this little building was before it became a grocers, and what the Georgians might have popped out for if they were too hot to cook. Oysters, perhaps, or pies. And I wondered what the choices might be in a hundred years time – foods not even dreamt of yet: the marmite and cocoa of future generations. History isn’t just in books, especially in a city like this. It’s under our feet, and in the empty spaces where buildings used to stand, and in the foods we eat.

One evening in June

Lovely days in June can’t be depended on. You have to seize them. So it was when I collected Ilse from school and bumped into the others, flying home on their bicycles in their shirtsleeves, ties flapping in the wind. We didn’t go home at all, but instead to the park, where we had tea and buns in the little cafe and we all had a go on the pedal boats. The drakes strutted about on the concrete edges of the lake, losing their dignity the minute a child appeared with bread to throw. A man rode round with his trike of ices. And we spread blazers and cardigans on the cool green grass and lay back and drank in the sunshine.

We don’t often just head out like this, abandoning the tea I had prepared, leaving the laundry flapping on the line. We found a public telephone box and rang John, telling him of our plans, asking him to join us. He arrived just in time for the last of the evening warmth, as the park began to empty.

When we got home there was supper to put on, ironing to fold, prep and piano practice that had to be done, all in a jumble at once. But never mind. This is all part of my summer plan, breaking up the tedium and the tiredness with something unexpected. Nothing special, or expensive. Just a trip to the park, one evening in June.

 

Taking care

This time of year is always a bit of a slog. It should be wonderful – the weather is warm, the school year nearly over, sometimes the sun even shines. But we’re not quite there yet. Ben’s exams run for the next three weeks. Fliss has a ballet exam soon, and the extra lessons that that entails. John is busy at work, getting everything in place for the Christmas chocolate frenzy. In the garden there’s lots and lots of salad, but not a great deal else. All those things that we’ve worked so hard for have not quite reached fruition, and we’re getting tired.

So I have declared the next month to be the month of Taking Care. Early nights. Good food. Jaunts out at every opportunity, for a little change of scene. Adjustments to the routine, and little treats for everyone when they least expect it.

Outside in the garden, which is so tantalisingly close to the start of the harvesting season, the weeding and watering must go on. There are plants to be staked, and successional sowings to be made. This morning I planted out ten baby fennel bulbs and two rows of fledging lettuces, before sowing more seeds indoors. And although I still pick a bowlful of lettuce each and every day, there are now rocket leaves and baby chard to add to the mix. Seb slipped out before breakfast to pick the first of the raspberries. And there are so many roses on the bush behind the hen house that I’ve filled a vase to overflowing, and more are still in bud.

By contrast, the cutting garden looks quite bare, with pale spears gladioli just breaking through the surface. Beside them, the marigolds are settling in, as are the dahlias, sweet peas, alstroemeria and starflowers. The sunflower seeds have sprouted fat dicotyledons. They are all working very hard, and would benefit from a bit more sun, and I know that there will be flowers sooner or later. To settle our impatience the bedding plants are doing splendidly in their new bed, and putting on a show in purples and pinks and blues. Better still, you can see them from the sofa in the kitchen, and from the sink, and the table, and even the back bedrooms upstairs. It’s brought the garden closer to the house, that bed of Ben’s, so that even those of us who don’t have the time to get out there every day can enjoy the pleasures of June.

Further back, the elderflowers are already beginning to brown and drop their petals. I could be rushing around, making one more batch of cordial to carry this month into the winter. But we’ve plenty of that in store, and of jam. In fact, we’re eating things up at the moment, to make room for this year’s bounty. Sunday evening saw the last jar of 1931 blackcurrants stirred into a marbled, creamy fool. The remaining spring cabbages came straight in from the patch to the pan. Jars of Emergency Pudding (a phrase the children love) mean that there are always mulled pears to satisfy that need for just a little something sweet. There will be time enough to restock those larder shelves. During the summer, when we will have nowhere to be and nothing to do but the things we choose. When a whole day’s agenda might be: Make Chutney. For now, though, we’re taking things as easy as we can, and making life comfortable. Dropping anything which isn’t strictly necessary. Slowing down. Taking care.

Diamonds

In the end, it flew straight off my lap and onto her bed, with her already in it, too excited to sleep. I’d promised it for Sunday evening and sewed all that afternoon, square after little square, until the chicken was ready and we sat down to eat together. There were six more still to go. Get ready for bed, I told her, and I’ll tuck you up in it while you sleep. But six small squares don’t take long, and her eyes were still open when I carried it up to her room.

I have been waiting, throughout the making of this quilt, for those squares to turn into diamonds. I kept thinking that it would happen at the next stage of the process: when the top came flying together, when it was bound, or when I started to quilt it. But they never came. All I could see were patchwork squares, old bits of this and that salvaged from summers past. Blouses and shirts, frocks and flimsy cotton skirts, old sheeting worn out in the middle, a woollen blanket of my grandad’s. Snippets of new fabrics, and remnants from dressmaking projects. Lovely things in their own right, worn and faded and soft. But not diamonds. Never diamonds.

Until, that is, I had tucked it around her and kissed her goodnight and was tiptoeing out of the room. I looked back for one last sleep tight and there they were: a whole grid of diamonds, criss-crossing one another in their abundance. A quilt full of them. A few steps away, a new perspective, and there they were. Diamonds for a little girl, soft and floral and warm.

Bronte country

Can you remember how old you were when you first read Jane Eyre? I can. I was ten, and my grandad had given me a set of all three Bronte classics for Christmas just a fortnight earlier. Fliss has read it, of course, and Ilse knows it from a wireless adaptation, and I’m sure Ben must have read it though he claims no recollection. Seb was the least thrilled when I announced that our half term day out was to be at Haworth, visiting the village and the moors but, most importantly of all, the Bronte Parsonage.

It’s hard not to think of it as a sad house, especially as the first death, that of their mother, occurred very soon after moving in. Then were the deaths of the two eldest children, both girls, both of tuberculosis contracted at school. Then later, the deaths of Branwell, Emily and Anne, and finally Charlotte, a few years later, the longest lived of all the children, aged only 38. Imagine, to have all six children and your wife to survive childbirth and infancy only to lose them all, one by one, until you were alone again. No wonder the house feels sad.

And yet there must have been a lot of fun in it, between times. There was an awful lot of life to be lived between each of those deaths, and you can’t help but come away with a sense that those girls made the very most of what they had. Their home is bursting with their sketches, embroidery, tiny childhood manuscripts, family newsletters and the like. It is a house full of industrious play – the sort of play that Emily and Anne and Charlotte never really grew out of, channelling it into their novels instead.

They played on the moors, too, just a short walk out of the village, and when we visited it was the hottest day of the year so far and everything was blooming. Fliss even complained of the lack of bleakness. Everywhere were flowers: buttercups, umbellifers, rhododendrons and forget-me-nots. We sat on a great slab of stone and looked out over it all, from the vibrant moor to the blasted hillsides and the grey stone village nesting in between, and had to be quiet so that Ilse could be inspired. She’s started a new novel: The Return of Wuthering Heights. I think there are a lot of ghosts in it, because later that night she came into our room with a nightmare, too scared to go back to sleep in the dark. There were fingers scratching at her window, even after I assured her that it was only Humbug the hamster’s squeaky wheel.

And now our copies of those novels are off the shelf and to be found on beds and garden benches. There are lots of discussions about which is everyone’s favourite, and why. It’s Wuthering Heights for me, in case you’re curious. Because of the sympathy between people and place, and the blurring of lines between the past and the present, the dead and the living. It embodies everything I think I know about the Brontes, and the lives they lead, and the place they came from. In fact, they are so strongly associated with Haworth and the moors above it that its new name seems entirely appropriate, and not a mere anachronism: Bronte country.

Patience

The beans came up this morning. I called the children out to see them, still blinkered in their little purple shells, and choose one each to watch. You don’t need much patience to watch beans grow. By the end of the day they’ll have spread their arms out in the light. By next week they’ll be twining round their poles.

Everything is taking off out there, and as fast as I tick tasks off my list I have to put more on. The potatoes, which should have been earthed up last week, were a good 18 inches by the time I got to them. The rocket is, predictably, rocketing. Tender broad beans need strings to guide them upwards; lettuces need picking every day. The hens are feasting on the last brassicas to be cleared from their winter quarters. The first tomato is in lemon yellow bloom.

Elsewhere, I am having to be more patient. The cutting bed, which will ultimately be mostly full of perennials, is housing a block of dwarf sunflowers this year. There are gaps between the three aquilegia while more grow on from seed. We brought only two alstroemeria home, and I’ll divide them when they’re ready. Lilies will have to wait until next year, when they can emerge from August-planted bulbs. Tempting though it is to fill the motor with full-grown specimens, it isn’t very economic, so we’re making do a little, this summer. I’ll have it the way I want it by next year. This year it’ll be full of dahlias and sweet peas, borage and echium, sunflowers and the few larger plants we did splash out on. Cheerful annuals, to bring in the bees and brighten bare parts of the bed.

What I hadn’t expected was to be planting up the new bed by the house just yet. It transpires that a bit of manual labour is just the ticket between bouts of revision, and Ben has started and finished the job in a couple of days. Gravel shifted, paving slabs relaid, bucket after bucket of compost carried from the far end of the garden and there it is: a new bed to fill with colour. Really, I’d only just filled those pots. I think I know what I want to put in there. A screen of climbing nasturtiums, scavenged from the cutting bed where they self-seeded last year. A swathe of pot marigolds, to bring the sunny orange down to earth. A couple of left over dahlias. Perhaps a cool blue hydrangea or two. There are so many possibilities that really, a plan is called for.

So I think I’ll take myself off to that chair and sit a while in the dappled sunshine, now that its moved around. It’s hardly a chore, sitting by the herbs and geraniums in their pots while dreaming up the rest of that space. And while it might be a few days before I can collect all the plants, and even longer before they come into bloom, it’ll be worth the wait. Or so I tell myself. Patience, Cecily. Patience.