BY PHILIP LOWE

My dearest wife has written her own memories in a book and has inspired me to write my own. I feel a little cautious in sharing my own memories of relationships and journeys. As long as everything I have experienced has brought me here, it is excusable.

I pray that our children do not experience the doubt, duplicity, and pain that I had.

I do not wish to deny the work my father must have effected, yet I believe, as my own future has taught me, he could have behaved differently—not only towards me.

My early teenage years became ripe picking fields. As I grew, my opinions changed.

At times, I recalled memories I thought were lost. Some were too uncomfortable. I have been able to reflect many times on motives and aspirations, yet it seems there has always been a different hand directing my path.

I do not know how my wife has relieved her life and her own difficulties. She must be so much stronger than me. Reader, I love her.

Mumps

To be honest, having had time to think, it was a relief to discover that my mother was not whom I thought. I was never that close to her, and her revelations explained her closer connection to Pierre.

I still felt lonely, yet at the same level as I always felt. One would have thought her description of my father’s actions would have put her firmly on my “side,” so to speak, yet no such thing happened. It just made me wonder more why she would choose to reveal such things to me at that time.

Pierre became ill. He would refuse to eat for a few days, complaining to staff that chewing was painful. Therefore, a member of staff was quickly dispatched to fetch a doctor. Within an hour, remarkably, a carriage and two arrived, driven by a doctor and another man who turned out to be his apothecary. It was a really hot day.

The doctor went upstairs to treat Pierre, leaving me with the apothecary, a young man called Steven. He was friendly and smiled at me and dressed as a gardener on a hot day, strangely with green stains. He said to me that it sounds like swelling, often known as “mumps,” had affected Pierre. He asked me if I had seen any swelling on his face. I was surprised and honoured that he should ask me and put so much weight on my responses. I said to him that I had not seen much of him for about four days.

The doctor came downstairs and nodded to Steven. He said it was obviously mumps and asked Steven if he had read the latest from Edinburgh. Steven said no, the doctor smacked him in the face and asked what he needed to get.

Steven—incredibly—said nothing about the slap yet said he needed to get some dittany—he had everything else, he said. The doctor said, “And get some Donkey’s winkers; I shall prepare a poultice while you are away. I shall also insist on fresh air and get as many windows open as possible.” Steven asked if he could take me with him. Mother nervously said from upstairs, “Of course.” I think she was relieved to be rid of me.

Steven said to me, “I trust you do not mind coming with me. I have travelled a great deal alone already today. I assume you had no other plans!”

I ventured, “If you do not mind my saying, the doctor slapped you…” I felt comfortable enough with him to ask such a personal question. Steven laughed. “I barely notice that anymore! It is rather like a nervous, repetitive motor movement that he has. He often uses it as a sort of reprimand. Hah. In this case, I suppose it was for not being as well read up on mumps as he was. You know I have a lovely Spanish wife; I can not remember exactly what was said. He moved to hit her in the face once, but she rather speedily grabbed his arm and kneed him where he did not want to be kneed. I do not think he would do that again to her!”

My view of Spaniards was rather negative; I held my feelings in check temporarily. Yet Steven was easy to talk with and ready to smile and laugh. I had not known the like before. He chatted the whole way; he drove immediately to get some “dittany”—which looked like a plant with purple flowers. He said I should leave the carriage if I found my surroundings too oppressive. Actually, he said, “stuffy.” He got the dittany from a man who looked incredibly old and who had stained hands. They chatted while I was in the carriage, then I climbed out, and they laughed a lot. I looked at what I assumed was a pile of towels. It turned out to be a naked woman lying on her front in the sun. She made a very small movement and a yawning noise as she adjusted her position.

I had never seen a naked person before, let alone a woman. Does the Bible not tell of punishment befalling someone who accidentally saw a naked body?

Steven returned and said, “Got it. Now let’s briefly go to my house. It is only a short ride.”

“What about Pierre?” I asked.

“This will make no difference. He will enjoy the wee concoction I shall prepare; in any event, I have to pick up some donkey winkers. The doctor still believes in their efficacy if placed on the patient’s head. Myself, I think this is a load of old nonsense. Are you not hot under those layers?”

I removed my outer layers of clothing.

We arrived at his home, and I enjoyed the breeze against my freshly undressed body. There were two main buildings and a huge series of rows of growing things. There were about twelve people tending to the plants, singing, and talking to each other. A woman with long black hair who had seen our carriage arrive walked up to us—she was obviously very pregnant. She and Steven kissed passionately, and he put his hand on her swollen belly. Steven introduced me and asked her if she minded looking after me. She introduced herself as Assumpta, then fetched me a glass of lemonade nearby. Steven addressed her as Con, a shortened form of Conception, an appropriate name. She then rang a bell, and workers in the field slowly began to move towards us. Another woman with white hair, whom I learned later was her mother, Beatriz, brought a tray of “patatas bravas,” and other women brought more jugs of lemonade and more glasses. I loved it. It appeared to be normalcy here. I was overwhelmed by Steven’s informality and the free laughter of the workers.

Steven also told me how he would prepare a mixture of many things apart from the dittany—I remember marshmallow and laurel oil. He also told me how the doctor would prepare the poultice using flax seeds, barley, and fenugreek—he said this was odd, as he usually prepared the poultices himself. The welcome I received was tremendous—even more to think about.

On the way back to my house, I remarked on the magnificent welcome I had and thanked him; Steven suggested idly that I visit there again, if he were near my house, he would look in on Pierre and drive me to and from his home. This may not be for a month or so, as business would take him away. I believed his story, unlike the stories that emerged closer to my home. He mentioned that the house—before his tenancy—once occupied the illustrious Launcelot Brown. I was completely ignorant of who he was. He also said that Humphrey Repton had a hand in designing his gardens.

As we reached the open front door to my house, another carriage was being made ready to leave; horses were being attached, and cases were being loaded. Steven rushed to see the doctor and handed him several packages. The doctor disappeared towards the kitchen while Steven spoke to several servants who dealt with Pierre. The doctor re-emerged as my mother descended the stairs with Pierre, who looked very pale and swollen. He was taken into the carriage, followed by my mother. The doctor handed my mother some fresh packages and went to his carriage. Steven said goodbye to me as my brother and mother left. Then Steven did. 

I believe my mother went to stay with a friend, Agatha, I was told. She did not even say goodbye to me. I was left alone with this whole house and, I feared, my father—should he be there.

I discovered he was not. The relief I felt must have been insignificant compared to that of my mother and perhaps explained why she was so quick to leave.

I thought a great deal about the relationship Steven enjoyed with his wife and about the ease I enjoyed in both his company and at his house.

I thought about the varied ingredients Steven searched for to look after Pierre, and when I was next in the kitchen, I asked to see if I could find out what went into the dishes. I was met with disinterest or puzzlement, and some staff members even showed me hostility.

One member of staff took me under her wing and cooked something for me as she spoke. I was amazed at her skill in whisking eggs. I think she was French, yet her command of English was enough to tell me the names of some ingredients. So many. Eventually, I thought that talking about the additions to a dish was rather a silly enterprise. In any event, I could not hope to remember everything she said.

She said that she was used to using more butter. From what I saw, however, a great deal of butter was used. She spent a while trying to remember the English word for what turned out to be nutmeg. She spoke of wine in butter and tried to describe a number of dishes her mother had shown her, unfortunately, as far as we got was the French grate.

She said she would talk to me about almond milk and jellies. She left me quickly with a yearning for more knowledge and the “white pot pudding” I had been promised.

I assume that our staggered conversation was because of her native language.

She had to leave, she said, to welcome some others to the kitchen. I had noticed that more people were arriving in starts.

I do not know what happened to the whisked eggs.

I was told to look at the ice closet. I was taken outside, very close to the kitchen, and I saw several men pulling back a cover over stairs that went down into the ground.

The men who drew back the cover left, and I was encouraged to go down the stairs. I noted how cold it was getting; another door was opened in the “ceiling” further down. Some men were down here cutting large blocks of ice. I was freezing cold, yet they were not particularly dressed for the cold. I wished I were when I climbed back to the surface.