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.
Dover
One Sunday, there was expected a royal visit—there was talk amongst the kitchen staff of the Prince of Wales! I remember a discussion about the King’s health, the discussion turning towards the Prince’s status as viceroy. I link these things as childhood memories do—I recall the status of viceroy being mentioned as a notification that the visit was cancelled. My father was very angry: I saw him stride out of the house with a dog soon after he had heard of the cancellation. I was so excited to see a dog. He yanked on the leash as if to illustrate his feelings. Odd seeing him with a dog; like a maid, I never saw the dog again.
Later that day, I heard what I assumed was my father venting his irritation towards Mother. The next morning, I saw her eating breakfast with fresh bruises on her face. I did not see my father for a few weeks.
When he returned, I saw that he was deeply coloured by the sun and unshaven. Characteristically, he seemed cheerful. I even saw him smile. Yet not at me.
Outside, there emerged very quickly a huge and gruesome wall. For some reason, a wall surrounded our house (I shall not call it a home, as that seems too warm and welcoming—which I never thought it was). I watched the wall grow as I was growing—not quite to maturity.
Teams of men arrived and studiously examined building plans with their spectacles. I believe that we may have carried, and I thought one man used what appeared to be lorgnettes here. Very odd, I thought.
The wall slowly circled the house as it grew over several months.
I saw the end of various elements of my early days. Now I only see incoherent speaking, places ànd figures. When I was very small, I was with an old gardener with whom I ate my lunch; maybe I was not with him often, but I recall his bent and blackened thumbnails. He walked with a stick, and a robin redbreast would eat the scraps he would share. I recall his slices of bread and seeds. I attributed to him a little lake with tributaries which he cut with me—I must have been small and positive in outlook indeed when we worked on this. The lake and its tributaries were destroyed as the wall was built.
As it was being made, a priest looked at the workers and said that the Bible tells that the Hebrew slaves were ordered by their masters to use the flesh of their children if they ran out of material for the bricks of the storehouse they were made to build.
I abhorred that wall. It was not until some time after its completion that I learned that it did not encompass the grounds, just the main house. I promised myself that I would knock the wretched thing down when I became Master.
Any concerns I may have had about the wall would, I knew, have been ignored.
Looking back, I believe that the most painful stripe of all is being ignored, or being nothing in the minds of those you love the most; I still wanted to love and honour my parents as the Commandments instruct, but I found more solace and care from my nannies and valet.
I became more theatrical—I assume this was after visiting my grandfather. I wanted to be an explorer of the house as I became more aware of its rooms. Even though a tour of the upper levels of the house would have taken only an hour or so, I approached the mission like a military campaign and even tried to dress like a soldier as much as my wardrobe would allow.
At the time, I must have been very enamoured of the buccaneering exploits of Alexander Selkirk and Robinson Crusoe. I must have felt very self-important. My childish voice declared to the staff that I would begin with the higher levels of the house. My tiny audience must have been most amused.
When I decided on my adventure, a member of the kitchen staff really surprised me; my laughter at her story belied my self-importance. She dismissed out of hand a theatrical approach. I overheard her talking to another staff member—she said that a friend of hers was married to a man whom she did not know at all—it transpired that he had another family she knew nothing about. They even arranged to celebrate birthdays and high days together, then he would use his work to excuse his disappearances. Just like my father and his businesses I felt were covering his tracks. She heard that the law had become aware of this; she assumed he would have his ears cut off. The maid’s friend laughed with her as she left, saying, “It sounds like he should have some other things cut off!” They both laughed and left my earshot. I did not think my activities were as serious.
I had to establish myself in the house somehow, as I have mentioned. I made it my routine to look around the dining room and under the table for any scraps of food or anything. I then trotted down to the kitchen and reported back—my excuse to receive the odd biscuit or something sweet. My biggest find one day was an earring belonging to a very relieved maid who rewarded me with a package of rather unusual but delicious “franzipan tartlets,” she said. Somehow I was allowed to take them to my room and savour them without anyone’s knowledge. Strange, this had never happened before. This must have been John, my valley’s doing.
It must have been a short time later, but after my dinner, I heard a female shriek and male laughter. This strange noise was ignored by everyone but me, and silently, they continued with their lives.
The next day, I remember dressing very early. John seemed to appreciate that I would not approve of the day’s activities. I joined my father in his cabin on a journey to what turned out to be the Dover docks. So another business journey for him. To my relief, he did not speak to me, seeming immediately to want to be asleep. At Dover, I stirred to the shrieks of the gulls there. I must have fallen asleep. My father unceremoniously and without a word to me disembarked from our transport. Through the window of the carriage, I saw him talking to some other darkly clad and be-hatted men.
The next thing I knew was the driver opening the door, handing me a pail and saying, “Vittles.” The pail contained bread, cheese, and meat. Before I could fully see its contents, the carriage shot off. The carriage then slowed down and stopped, and the driver, as before, opened the door and gave me two flasks, one containing water and the other a repulsive concoction I could not bear to taste.
We then embarked on the journey home. I assumed. The hours went by, and a few stops to change horses were made. As the light began to fade in the sky, the carriage stopped again, the door opened, and the driver pointed me towards a small shack, where the driver said I should “do my business.” I entered a very small and very dark shed, which had a plank with a hole in it.
Returning to the carriage, I found myself more comfortable and sat looking at the clouds as I travelled.
I then began to weep. Everything seemed to hit me—the lies, but mostly the abandonment. I had been left alone to fend for myself. I just wanted love. I wept a great deal for a long time. I was not going to get love from anyone I knew day to day.
The carriage stopped a few times as horses were changed. At one stop, I saw and heard some workers laughing heartily with each other. A world apart from the one I experienced.
Arriving back, I was left to my own devices yet again.
A few days after my return, I recall looking out of the front bedroom window and seeing my father—now returned—walking away from the house down the drive towards that hated wall in the company of a few others. As they got closer to the gate, one of the characters became very animated and so loud that I could hear some shouting where I was; one turned to push my father. A small fight seemed to ensue. Both men then turned, and I noted that not only were they wearing what looked like identical grey suits with waistcoats, but they both sported massive, unusual moustaches. The scene became less animated, and the man who had pushed my father put a friendly arm around his neck, and smiling, they walked back towards the house.
This may also be the first time I noticed a freshly dug pond at the centre of the path. I did not recall the cart or horses having to turn to accommodate that; perhaps children only remember things incompletely.
I saw that a small dog quickly joined the small party. One of the mustachioed men threw a stick, and the dog ran astonishingly quickly for it, clearly loving the game. I had never seen or noticed this dog before.
I was without a friend and company like the camaraderie I had seen at work in the kitchen.
I do not think I ever said this to anyone. My mother must have observed me. My younger brother was too immature. The only others I knew were those who worked in the house. They showed me a leather ball. I took it to a nearby alcove outside and could bounce it off the wall and stop it with my feet. That was all I managed to do. I was warned by a staff member not to hit the plant that was growing there. A hoya, I think it was. The staff member encouraged me to moisten my finger and then touch the plant, and taste its sweetness. Tasting it, we both smiled.
