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.
The Meal
A day later, a big meal ensued, so the increased staff number was explained; it felt like an imminent celebration. People I had never met before were involved; maybe I was just waking up to seeing new people.
My visits to the kitchen and the kitchen staff were curtailed. I was told that they would be too busy to see me. This message must have come from my mother, who suddenly appeared as if she’d never been absent. My younger brother appeared well yet needy, especially for the attentions of his mother. In terms of the meal, my mother seemed to be controlling things. It was more of an event than a meal.
Deliveries arrived apace even up to the final stages. Table linens had been lain out on the wee tables under my mother’s supervision. A great head table had three arms emerging from it. At this late point, our dining room was able to accommodate about one hundred diners comfortably.
That morning of the event, I found myself missing my man John—he or his wife Mary, who would always see I was appropriately prepared for such events; I believe John was involved in some building work at Ferndean about thirty miles away. He always called me his “cadet,” and I missed him; I recall his wife saying she was too busy for talk.
At the entrance to the dining hall, there were fire-breathers (I later noted there were no jugglers); all the entertainers were wearing masks. At one point, a signal must have been made as a large woman began to sing, walking into the hall and leading the crowd.
Walking into the room, we were met by the newly lit candles, reflected in their candlesticks, their light shining in the silverware, the ceramics, the tableware, the placemats, and the napkin holders. I was overwhelmed by the loveliness and the majesty of everything. It was also dark outside, which somehow made everything more special.
My father went to the top table; with him stood a woman I’d never seen before. She was much closer to my father than anyone else.
There followed the saying of grace in Latin (not everyone honed in), and everyone sat after the chime of a bell. It was then that I noticed some dark faces present. My father did not seem to mind despite the intolerance I noted he displayed with people of a dark skin colour.
Looking around as the chat became louder and soup arrived, there were many faces I inevitably did not recognise. At this time, I noticed that the blackamoor people were served by other blackamoors, kitchen servants whom I had never seen before.
Towards the end of the meal, firecrackers sounded outside, which drew everybody’s eyes outside, and the curtains were swiftly opened by the staff. Though frightened at first, I loved such a spectacle. I stayed at the window for as long as I could, but puddings were brought out, and I love puddings, so I returned to my chair as quickly as possible. A large man I was walking behind abruptly stopped, then let fly a long and voluminous fart.
I absolutely adore chocolate. I was delighted when what looked like chocolate was lain out, but I was told to wait by one of the serving staff who spoke to me kindly. To my delight, more dishes and bowls arrived.
Much later, I discovered that what was lain out was called “black sapote”—not chocolate at all and not as good tasting; there was also zabaglione, rice pudding and plum pudding. Heaven knows what this all cost.
My love of chocolate extended beyond the hot and milky stuff I consumed daily. Occasionally, I would have pastilles or twists or tablets of the stuff in a more solid form, courtesy of Fry and Sons. There was an ongoing debate about whether chocolate was a drink or food, affecting the church’s fasting practice. I did not care, though.
The loveliest thing I have eaten—maybe better or equally nice to chocolate was from, surprisingly, one of my father’s travels. Well, he did not pass it to me; as far as I know, he gave the recipe to the kitchen, so I do not know if it tastes like the original; it was a sort of bread that tasted like velvet, if velvet had a taste. Our chef told me, days later, that the recipe was yeast, flour, water, fruit zest, and almonds. She said when she had tried it in Germany, it was then covered with powdered sugar, and although the recipe was different from hers, she said she would add marzipan. I begged her to try to make it, and within a day she had! It was lovely.
She said that she had very strong (not to her taste) coffee with it and had seen people adding butter and jam to the dish and eating it with mulled wine. She said before she left me with her little steps that in Germany, it was commonly eaten at Christmas time and was known as Weihnachtsstollen.
She told me and said she had seen such a cake cooked in a ring and hanging on a door like a wreath. Then she trotted off for good (I never saw her again). Well, until she baked for me, and at the meal, a cake was carried, but not by her.
After the meal, there was a short operatic performance near the window; at its end, there was applause, and the women took themselves out.
She returned to the dining room, and I saw my mother give a hate-filled stare to the woman who sat near my father. I heard her shouting as she moved further away, and the doors were closed. The remaining men lit their cigars and what I believe are called their “cigarillos” by the candles. Still no speeches.
Someone with silver hair, a moustache, and a huge beard spoke to me, which was odd as I must have been the youngest there. I recall at first he repeatedly said, “I am Dagguere! I am Dagguere! Remember me.” He smelt very powerfully of alcohol.
He seemed then to note that he would have no other audience. His voice quietened, and he spoke to me almost conspiratorially. He said that he had always been fascinated with “optical machinery” since childhood. As the language became more technical, his command of English seemed to fail him—or perhaps the alcohol was taking effect.
He said that he was introduced to the Camera Obscura as a boy and used to sit in it for hours. It shames me to admit that my French is not good at all. Fortunately, he seemed to know a lot more English than I knew French. Perhaps one day I will learn. One day, hah. One French teacher here seemed rather uninformed about what I needed. He spent most of the time pointing to places he had seen in France on a map affixed to the wall.
I was alerted at the meal when “Daguerre” mentioned Thomas Wedgwood. He then spoke a great deal about a “Niepce” (I think I have the correct name) who was very instrumental in his thoughts and work. He sat back and suggested that his work involves a great deal of waiting. He then began to laugh and stood, taking off in a staggering walk into the smoke. As he disappeared, I couldn’t still hear him announcing, “I am Dagguere!” I assume he found an audience, as I think I heard his name a few years later.
As he left, I noticed a disturbance under a nearby table. There were two couples involved in what I assumed was an extravagant cavort. There were two women I heard; one laughing excitedly and the other weeping. The men they were with did not make any noise. The space must have been dark and confined, and they were lain on the floor. I remember thinking at the time that the women were behaving like those theatrical masks.
The men drank more comfortably (those who had no women to check them, I suppose)—and I was offered a sip of some red liquid by a neighbour. It was revolting, and I spat it out like the black liquid I had tasted at my grandfather’s—spitting to hearty laughter. I quickly found a glass of water and left the room immediately. I opened the door and took a few steps before the door was shut for me; looking behind me, it looked like I was leaving a wall of smoke veiling people shaking hands.
I found my brother upstairs, on the third level, I should say. He said, “Mama has just been here—she’s really upset and angry.” She then appeared in the room, breathless. “Pierre, Edward, pack your things. No, actually—Edward, you can stay here.” Then she left as quickly as she’d arrived.
I assumed it was something to do with the woman who had sat near Father. Pierre said her name was “Helene” and that she was very nice. Mother flew in again, “Nice? She’s not nice, the money-grubbing—didn’t I tell you to get packed, Pierre?” She breathed heavily, trying to control her temper, I think.
Everything happened so quickly then. Mama packed a few things for Pierre, then flew downstairs with him trailing in her hand. She shouted at a servant to ready the carriage. My father appeared from the dining room.
“Now stop. What is the problem?”
My mother looked terrified and, to my surprise, held out a knife, a warning for my father, I suppose. I remember feeling very proud of her.
She said, angrily and fighting against tears, “Don’t you see the hold that wretched woman has on you? That Helene? I tell you she won’t get a penny or a brick of this place. I don’t care what she organises, as I have said. She’s a vixen, a two-faced thief. She may well bring in some money, but if you only knew at what cost.”
My father then held up his arm and, clumsily evading the knife, slapped her face with tremendous force.
When this happened, she looked at me and quickly made her way to the carriage, Pierre in hand, and it had started to rain.
Pierre started to cry with worry. My father looked totally unshaken and made his way back to the dining room after a short while. He looked at me, and I started to raise my arm. He looked at me as if to say, “Do you dare?” I quickly lowered my arm. I acted like I did not mean to make a threatening gesture at all.
Quickly, my father strode back into the dining room, making sure the door was firmly shut behind him.
The door had been opened at the front of the house, so I was able to smell the wonderful smell of those dead firecrackers and left the house behind, despite the rain.
I thought about the meal my father had organised. To what end? I assumed it was to encourage other businessmen to invest in them or him. I did not and could not care less. I began to sleep and hunched over myself, my knees drawn up to my face.
Just then, John returned to the house. A friend had brought him back in a carriage, which left him and drove off, carrying other singing men. John waved them off.
Then he turned towards me and saw that I was crying. I quickly stood, and he approached, then held me.
He said gently, “Come now. This will not do. Let us get you in, out of the rain. You will catch a cold.”
I clung to him and his soft words. He led me inside and up the stairs, instructing me to get into my room and get ready for bed. The rain hit my windows with greater ferocity as I climbed into my pyjamas.
John must have acted quickly, as hot milk and a few pastilles of chocolate were brought to my room by a female servant I had never seen before. As she carried away my wet clothes, John stuck his head briefly in the door and whispered, “Good night, son.”
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