Cider with Lorna

Dearest Emily,

This October has been adorned by the most glorious weather. Indian Summer again- seems as though the last four have been just so, and it certainly makes up for the lack of summer sunshine in August.

Something lately has jogged my memory back to early autumn in 1991.

A group of friends- myself, my partner Rudge, Chrissie, and Julie set off from London to visit Tim and Sussex friend Rob, for the weekend-staying over in an old Caravan at Binstead.

Tim lived in this Caravan, in the grounds of a farm, in order to keep an eye on an elderly lady- Mrs Wishart who lived in the big house at the end of the drive.

We bumbled down on friday night in Rudge's old work van, followed by Chrissie's mini- and parked up- unloaded and set off for the local pub. A game of darts was played, and conversation gave snippets of info about where we were.

It was described to us that Mrs Wishart was the last surviving member of the Bloomsbury Set, and that her artist son, had asked Tim to keep an eye out for the still fiercely independent lady. Tim had lived agreeably in this manner for the last six months.

The evening was passed pleasantly at the pub, tucked away down a lane- with no apparent regard for licensing hours. Old friends Rob, Tim, Rudge and myself caught up on life's happenings- and London friends Julie and Chrissie enjoying their weekend in the country.

Eventually, we all ambled back to the caravan, and set about designating sleeping areas.

At some point in the night- I was awoken by a jolt. The big old caravan seemed to move- not really of course- but it felt like it. I looked around- no-one awake here- just Rob issuing a loud snore, and turning over on the bunk nearby.

The next day, we all decided upon a barbeque that evening, and purchased all we needed in nearby Arundel.

In the afternoon- we all set off for a walk across the fields, Tim telling us more about the land (he was working on the gardens at Arundel Castle at the time.)

The barbeque was fashioned by bricks and a grill, and guitars were brought out to accompany our party- now set up in the gardens of the house. The overgrown lawns were interspersed with statues, and we pressed down areas for rugs, made up tables from crates, and the cider started flowing.

Another atmospheric, heady enjoyable night- accompanied by Tim and Rob singing and playing guitars, we ate, we drank, we wandered and chatted- eventually settling down once more to sleep in our quarters.

Again- I was awoken by a jolt. Again- no-one else appeared apart from Rob, who grumbled this time- and turned over again.

Late the next morning- one by one and bleary-eyed we appeared for breakfast- sitting outside the caravan at the bottom of the drive to the house.

Mrs Wishart appeared and Tim went off to talk to her. I remember a striking looking old lady with dark hair and wide soulful eyes.

Chrissie sat on a stone mushroom, next to a barn- and Tim mentioned that in the barn was the Hogarth Press- which was presumed lost, he said.

No-one paid too much attention to this, accepting it as a fact, along with everything else in this strange, forgotten place.

As we cleared away the detritus of our barbeque- I asked Tim whether he, Chrissie and Julie had been  woken by a jolt over the last two nights.

"Oh, that happens all the time. I just ignore it. According to Mrs Wishart, it's the Old Gamekeeper- who came up one day to shoot her."

Okay... That's that solved then.

Years later- the Hogarth Press comments ignited my interest. All I could glean was that Mr Ernest Wishart had his own Printing Press. That was more likely I thought- and filed it away in my memory box.

Until earlier this year.

An artist friend was researching D.H Lawrence in Sussex, and I told her about Binstead, as she was heading for Arundel.

A week later- a box of books was brought in to my shop for perusal. These had belonged to an artist who lived in Brighton, and his son was trying to sell them. There was a book of works by Michael Wishart- the son of the Lady on the farm. I've used one of his works to decorate my story here Em. (It is called 'Chinoiserie- Cache'.

Leafing through the pages, I started looking up more about Lorna- Michael's mother.

Absurdly- it turns out- that she was Laurie Lee's mistress- and her long-suffering husband Ernest- used to turn a blind eye, as she set off to meet him for lovers trysts- in the caravan we stayed in!

Even more absurdly- the story about a 'Gamekeeper' who came up to shoot Mrs Wishart- wasn't quite true...

The truth of the identity of the man who came up to shoot Mrs Wishart- was jealous lover- Lucien Freud.

Oh, well, that's that story explained properly then!

Looking forwards to seeing you and Annabel for half-term next week dear Em. We may even have a barbeque if the weather holds. No game-keepers here though!

Your ever-loving Grandmother,

GiGi XX