Crossing the line - 24. Lunch and Tea

The gift from Paola and Tony was for dinner at Tonelli, a high-end Italian restaurant in central London. But Dan had made a joke that it was a shame we couldn’t take Gran. Somehow a mad idea became a reality, dinner for two transformed into lunch for three.

We had had the even crazier idea of including Mother as well, but I had quailed at the thought of coping with Mother and Gran together, and Dan had laughingly agreed with me. Perhaps we’d take Mother somewhere when we went to visit next. In fact, it was easily solved, and we soon had a pair of engagements. Lunch with Gran at Tonelli, (note the trendy lack of a descriptor – ristorante, trattoria or whatever), and tea with Mother at Claridge’s followed by a cocktail. She’d laughingly suggested that she’d be squiffy on the train, but that was perhaps half the fun, evoking her racier youth.

Tonelli was in an unattractive post-war block towards Paddington. It wasn’t very promising from the outside, and Gran certainly tutted. But then, coming in a taxi from Charing Cross, where we’d met her train, was a step too far for her as well.

She was wearing her best coat, 15 years out of date and almost fashionable again, plus a toning hat in a style I’d not seen in ages. She visibly unwound when we went inside the restaurant and a young man greeted us and chatted to her in Italian, as he took our coats. It was charm act, but a slick one.

Coat off, Gran was a sensation. She was wearing a very striking dress, bias-cut heavy silk, two colours, geometric with contrast of colour and texture. It suited her and screamed designer. I named one and she grinned gleefully. Her friend Maria at the centre had a granddaughter who ran a dress exchange which, as Gran was keen to point out, was just a posh name for a second-hand clothes shop. Maria’s granddaughter had brought Gran a few dresses in her size, and this had been the best fit, at a good price. All she had to do was find an excuse to wear it again. I’m not sure what pleased her most, our reaction, having the right dress for the occasion, or getting a bargain.

The interior was luxurious in a rather over-the-top way, slightly too much plush velvet for my taste. Certainly, the seating was comfortable, in booths which gave a nice sense of privacy. And Gran definitely approved, this was how a restaurant should be.

We were silenced by the menus, as Dan and Gran both paid them detailed attention. Then the waiter was called over and he was quizzed about further details, which led to the maître d’hôtel coming over. Gran, I think, revelled in the attention but seemed to know her stuff. Finally, we were ready to order. I decided to be bold and asked Dan to recommend things for me. Or perhaps it was simply abnegating responsibility and putting it on him, but he seemed pleased.

It might have been only a set lunch, but there was plenty, and there were little appetisers between courses, the lot. We talked mainly about the food, and Gran would reminisce about memorable meals past. In fact, both she and Dan did, the two clearly identifying particular memories with particular meals and particular foods. It was only when we reached the coffee that the interrogation began. After briefly checking on the state of our careers, there came the question, when were we getting married?

It was Dan who explained our space dilemma, though admittedly we’d done nothing about finding Dan a place near me. Gran was dubious, but practical. She had two friends whose granddaughter and grandson, respectively, were both estate agents. She’d ask.

I could see we were being organised.

The visit had a strange corollary. Gran had insisted on hearing about the visit to Verona. She was less interested in the exhibition than in the Villa and the people who owned it. Without even telling Dan, she’d written a letter of thanks to Paola and Tony, and received a pleasantly chatty letter back from Paola with the apparently throwaway line that next time we came we should bring her.

It might have been a pleasantry, but I don’t think Gran regarded it as such. We tried to get our heads round taking Gran to Villa Torronia and failed entirely, in fact Dan collapsed in laughter which I think had a rather nervous edge to it.

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Mother was far more accepting of a taxi-ride from the station, commenting ‘what a treat’. She had on her best coat (bought in Peter Jones’ sale a few years ago) and a new dress made by a local dressmaker. The result was smart and practical, always Mother’s aims when coming to town, but lacking Gran’s sense of style.

We got the cab to drop us some distance away, and had a wander down Bond Street, with Mother alternately commenting on how it had changed and exclaiming over what was on offer and the sights. This provoked some serious reminiscence as she relaxed over tea. Service was attentive, there was a pianist strumming what one might term café jazz. The décor was hideous, modern decorator with the room’s 1930s bones rather well hidden, alas.

Mother commented how different it looked from her first visits, prompting stories of coming up to London with the girls, shopping and a cocktail, or tea at Claridges. When shopping, Bond Street was a pleasure, or going to Peter Jones and the Merchant Trading Company in Sloane Square, a delicious little coffee bar in Walton Street.

She looked at Dan, “All this must seem terribly decadent, but we had a knack of doing a lot on very little. And every few months, it was a treat. Vaughan’s Father’s idea of a treat was more sedate, or perhaps more cerebral, but he did like enjoying himself too. When Vaughan came along, we’d go to a museum or I would leave them somewhere and go shopping, and we’d end up at the café in either the Royal Academy or the V&A Museum as Vaughan used to get so hungry.” She smiled, “Growing boys get ravenous, yet Vaughan was always so picky. We learned the hard way that certain places had food he liked.”

Thank you, Mother!

There were crustless sandwiches to select, then tiny scones and finally elaborate fancies. It kept us entertained, and remarkably well fed. At some point we produced a reminiscence of Norton Priory.

“Norton Priory, why good Lord. Marjorie lived there.”

I looked at Mother, “As in Auntie Marjorie and Uncle Norman.”

“Yes. It was where Norman worked.” She turned to Dan, “Marjorie was a school friend and married the estate manager of the Norton Priory Estate. Nothing grand, but they got a tied cottage, house really. Marjorie and I kept up and we’d meet up occasionally. We even visited them on the estate”, turning to me, “So you’ve been there.”

“Norton Priory? That’s strange. I remember Marjorie and Norman’s house, but not the setting. I didn’t recognise anything. How could I forget?”

Mother smiled, “You were always more interested in Norman’s books. He had an amazing collection of art books, picture books really. Marjorie used to moan at how much he spent on them. But Vaughan here loved them and would pore over them. I’d liked to go back, a friend of yours works there?”

“At one of the businesses on the Estate. Martin Potter, who owns the Estate, has created a hive of arts, craft and such. Artisan bakers, butchers, brewers, and Greg works at the artists’ studios.”

Mother shook her head, “It was such a sleepy place. Very down at heel. Oh, Marjorie and Norman’s place was well kept, the Estate looked after, but nothing seemed to happen. Your Father called it the land time forgot. We met the old Earl a few times; a nice old gentleman, walking round the Estate with his cane and his dogs. It was such a shame, his son died in the war and his daughter inherited, but the title died. This Martin is presumably the old Earl’s grandson?” I nodded, she paused, considering. “Yes, I should like to go. Do you think we could arrange a visit?”

I gave a non-committal answer but said we would look at logistics and chat to Greg.

We went for a brief stroll after tea, walking up Bond Street and South Moulton Street. Here there were comments on the clothes for sale and the new outré fashion, notably how much flesh the girls were revealing. Then a rather cute young man floated past, a skimpy tight-fitting vest and ripped jeans that clearly revealed plenty of flesh, veering from the suggestive toward the indecent.

I thought Mother would be shocked, but she laughed, “I can remember being shocked at the London fashions, so much more revealing than those back home. We’d giggle over outfits none of us dare wear. Now anyone can do it. I presume that young man is angling for attention.” She turned to Dan, thankfully, “Do you find him attractive?”

Dan laughed nervously, “Attractive? No. But it grabs my attention and give me ideas.”

Mother laughed, a rather throaty, filthy laugh that surprised, “That is what is for is it not?”, she sighed, “Oh how I longed to have courage to wear one of those outfits. Too late, now.”

We returned to the hotel’s cocktail bar, which seemed to be largely catering to shoppers. But it was a delightful blast of the past for Mother. She was squiffy when she got to the train but not worryingly so. Her last words to me were, “I’m a big girl, don’t worry. Ray is collecting me”, Ray was the local taxi firm.

All we had to do now was work out how are we going to make our visit to Norton Priory Estate a success.