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185 Poynders Gardens, sw4

      [August 1967]

      Dearest Tina,

      You can easily imagine what it’s like here when I tell you we are just packing and cleaning up before going to Elba tomorrow. I have been mending my sandals with plastic wood (unfortunately Woolie’s only had ‘antique walnut’) and rather good new plastic soles, also from Woolie’s: but Ria says they’re horrible. I’ve also cleaned the oven and put clean sheets on the beds and checked over a very long itinerary – Daddy, very reluctantly, as he had lunch very late and no rest, is fixing up a curtain-rail for himself, and Maria has filled up his suitcase already with li-los, suncream &c. and he hasn’t even started putting his clothes in.

      Sporting news is depressing as this American runner, Jim Ryun, wins all the miles and half miles by practically a lap, and the others have given up trying, and the crowd actually attacked the Yorkshire team with umbrellas because they played so slowly – the bowler actually stopped to dry the ball between each over. – Michael Miles has apologised for being drunk at the airport and giving the name of Hughie Green; and murdered Joe Orton was cremated in a maroon coffin at Golder’s Green and Harold Pinter read a poem, part of which ran

      If you’re sad that he’s dead

      you’d make him sad

      that you’d missed the point

      of his best bad joke

      When the wretched man was hit on the head with a hammer!

      Lord Boothby’s tasteless engagement to a lady croupier from Soho is condemned by all.

      I expect Maria has written to you about our strange trip to Bedford to see Miss Charboneau – Mme. de Baissac (delighted with your letter, by the way, so I’m so glad you wrote it) has become rather Victorian Society and v. enthusiastic about the graceful railway arch at St Pancras – Bedford a dreary red-brick and green tree place full of Italian brickworkers – terribly embarrassing as Miss C. had prepared a vast lunch, liqueurs &c. which we couldn’t possibly eat.

      Yesterday we went up to Grove Cottage, grandpa looking rather frail but very spry; he has a new (mild) mania that Rawle may want to take Indian nationality, I do hope not.

      I don’t know whether I told you that I met Myrtle, my old pottery teacher – at the Hampstead Open Air Exhibition. She now has a studio and bookshop in Rosslyn Hill.

      Ferdie pecked me sharply on the way to the Budgie Hotel – but he was greeted by the Hansel and Gretel lady as ‘dear Ferdie, and Freddie’. Many other cages including cockatoo, and much excitement – must put Daddy and Ria to bed now: Daddy’s dirtied up his new room already.

      much love darling

      Mum

      

      [postcard]

      22 August [1967]

      Thankyou for lovely letters, but you were right as usual, we may be moving, as beach here is stony, though we are in a nice friendly hotel with plenty of pasta, and grapes growing round washing-line. We came here on a hydrofoil from Pisa – very rapid. Maria devoted to task of getting brown. Much love from all X Mum.

      

      On board cronky ferry-steamer

      23 August [1967]

      Dearest Tina,

      We’re just crossing to the mainland for a day’s outing. NOT on the grand hydrofoil we came on, but on the ferry boat, which I should say is an old British coastal craft fitted up by the so-called ‘Tuscan Navigation Company’ – We’re going to take an excursion to Florence, from which I’m sure we’ll return very hot and tired, but as I’ve never seen Florence and keep thinking I’m now somewhat declined into the vale of years (but that’s not much) I may not have the chance to see it again, and Maria is an intrepid sight-seer, here we are. Our hotel, which is not an efficient place though nice in some ways, has FORGOTTEN OUR PICNIC but fortunately we were able to buy some of the inevitable ham rolls in the shoddy galley. Maria has had to take to lemon in her tea as the milk here is so terrible (worse than Froggyland I’m sure) and I’m not surprised when I see the cows, each one is miserably pegged to the ground with nothing at all to eat, except some withered corn stalks.

      A nice thing in this boat has been that Bruno, the CEAT man, retrieved your letters from the Arcabaleno where as you so justly point out we’re NOT staying, and we were able to read them on deck, going through the blue sea, past the misty islands (Ria wrapped in Daddy’s jacket over her unsuitable skimpy ‘flower-power’ dress) which is lovely, and we do enjoy your letters, I hope you didn’t mind my showing them at Grove Cottage as they gave such pleasure and Grandpa of course said ‘they should be published’.

      Well, as I said, our hotel isn’t very efficient, being run by a peasant, his fiancée 20 years younger in a faded black dress, and alarmingly smart in the evenings, and a dwarf only 3 ft. high who is a nephew who helps out in the evenings. But the food is nice and so is the wine and the mineral water, which normally I can’t bear, but this is called (of course) Fonte Napoleone and comes from a spring high up in the mountain. It’s nice eating under the vines and the English people are not from Lunns, but decorous Erna Low clients with Nigelly sons who play ping-pong (also under the vines and glorious Bougainvillea) – they are clergymen and schoolteachers with open-necked shirts and panamas and one is actually reading Pendennis.

      We’ve been to Napoleon’s town house in the capital – the one he escaped in a brig from – he seems to have done himself very well and had lavish furniture and a bed covered with golden eagles imported from France. He amused himself for a few months organising the chestnut gathering, brickworks &c. – no trace of this organisation now I may say. Vulgar washbasin, also with eagles.

      

      We are quite tired out today with yesterday’s trip to Florence – we had to start at 6 and were back at 12, but it was a great success really, and Maria and me of course had never been there before. We crossed in the steamer this time, 21/2 hours in bus with unintelligible commentary by Bruno (Italian version of Gilbert, under Daddy’s thumb) and were shown everything in a few hours by an alarming countess who had lost everything (either in the flood or elsewhere) and was at the same time royalist and anti-clerical (you will cover your arms in the Duomo but not in Santa Croce – the Franciscans care nothing for nudities). We had lunch right on the hill overlooking the city, just like Henry James – that was lovely, and we finished up with the Uffizi (Maria still game though longing to take off Dr Scholls on the shining marble floors) and the Primavera &c. (all details remembered from Ria’s art books) and there was a coffee-place on the roof where you could overlook the square and all the statues.

      So glad mosquito stuff arrived and you are coping so wonderfully with the strange aristos. We do love your letters – forgive bad writing – love from all Mum

      

      [postcard of Napoleon]

      24 August [1967]

      

      I’m sure you won’t mind keeping these p.c.s for Ria’s scrap book (unluckily we’ve only got a primary school geography book with an Arab on the cover. Why?) You won’t be surprised to hear that we’re sitting on the harbour front drinking cappucine (?) after fatigue of walking from one mountain village to another, about 3 miles, terribly hard on those wearing Dr Scholls exercise sandals. Lovely Spanish chestnuts, palms &c on mountains.

      

      [August 1967]

      

      Dearest Tina – I’ve just been allowed to add a page to Daddy’s letter as we’ve just received your wonderful exam. news, I’m so delighted, not only in a school-teachery way but I did think you deserved it so, you worked so hard and were so well up to it, but I thought it might all be spoiled by the badly phrased questions, or by your being over-tired – it really is something to be proud of, an A over all the papers, and so many good things come from it – you’re justified now in having asked to take the exam. earlier

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