Martin Fone's Blog, page 78

Flying The Aspidistra

Look at a photograph of a Victorian family posing indoors and there is likely to be a large upright plant with leathery, lance-shaped leaves lurking in the frame. Its sculptural form enhanced the composition, but its presence was much a statement as an artistic prop. For the aspiring 19th century middle-classes owning an aspidistra was a sign of arrival, of success, of having enough disposable income to spend on home decorations. It was the must-have status symbol.

Even those down on their luck saw their aspidistra as the last vestige of their self-worth. Frank Owen, the starving carpenter in Robert Tressell’s The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists (1914), was prepared to pawn everything other than his aspidistra. For George Orwell, though, in Keep The Aspidistra Flying (1936) it was a symbol of British contentment with the status quo, the antithesis of the revolutionary spirit, an “awful depressing thing” and, according to Gordon Comstock, who attempts unsuccessfully to kill the mangy specimen in his rented room, “the first thing one buys after one’s marriage”.

At first blush, the aspidistra is a surprising choice of plant; it is neither elegant nor does it provide a beautiful display of flowers to merit its place in the living room. The clue to its popularity lies in Comstock’s doomed attempts to kill it; it was well-nigh indestructible, not for nothing dubbed as the cast-iron plant.

The Victorian drawing-room was not a particularly pleasant environment. Ill-fitting windows and doors made it draughty and the reliance upon a coal fire for heating meant that when it was not lit, room temperatures varied dramatically. Anxious to rid themselves of the gloom and smell of tallow candles, the middle classes eagerly embraced the latest advance in domestic illumination, gas lighting.

Gas lights, though, did not come without their disadvantages. They emitted toxic fumes which induced headaches and nausea, as well as blackening ceilings and flat surfaces with soot, discolouring curtains, and corroding metal. While most flowers and houseplants wilted, the aspidistra proved to be remarkably impervious to such noxious conditions.

It also proved adept at surviving studied neglect, capable of withstanding infrequent watering and low light, making it ideal for tucking in a corner of a room, as well as concerted attempts on its well-being. Known as the beer plant, publicans would tip the dregs of beer glasses into the pot of the aspidistra perched on the bar. Comstock even tried grinding hot cigarette-ends against its stem and mixing salt with its earth, only to find that the “beastly things are practically immortal”. Not quite, but the natural lifespan of an aspidistra is around fifty years.

Native to south-eastern Asia, aspidistras are perennial herbaceous plants, belonging to the same family as the asparagus, and in the wild grow from rhizomes in shade under trees or shrubs. Their leaves, either solitary or grouped in small tufts of two to four, rise from the rhizome rather than growing on stems. Their flowers, often brown or maroon, follow suit, appearing either just above or slightly below ground, making them difficult to spot. Many an aspidistra has flowered unobserved by their owners.

Lost Word Of The Day (58)

Are you ticklish? Are you lost for a word to describe the sensation of being tickled?

The answer to your prayers is gargalesthesia, a compound derived from the Greek word gargalos meaning itching and esthesia is the scientific term for the sensation caused by tickling. In 1897 psychologists, Stanley Hall and Arthur Allin, found it necessary to differentiate between knismesis, a light, feather-like form of tickling, and gargelesis, a more hardcore, laughter-inducing form of tickling.

The most ticklish areas of our anatomy are the feet, neck, navel, and ribs and Charles Darwin noted that tickling can strengthen the bond between parents and their newborns. For those of a particularly ticklish disposition, laughter can be induced by the anticipation of tickling.

Gargalesthsia can also contribute to weight reduction. Ten to fifteen minutes of laughter, according to the International Journal of Obesity, can burn of between ten and forty calories a day.

Let the tickling begin!

Lost Word Of The Day (57)

We are familiar with egregious which means outstandingly or shockingly bad, but is it not time to restore its antonym, eximious, to favour. Coming from the Latin eximius, which means set apart or select, it means select, distinguished, excellent.

It was first recorded in the English language between 1540 to 1545, one of a wave of words, such as gondola, horizon, mandate, telltale, and vacuum, that entered the language at the time. Unlike the others, though, it soon fell into obscurity.

Its return to use would be an eximious event, for sure.

They Do It With Mirrors

A review of They Do It With Mirrors by Agatha Christie – 230712

One of the problems with picking up an Agatha Christie novel is that they have been done to death, so to speak, on film, television, and radio that it is difficult to approach them with a fresh and unjaundiced eye. One thing is for sure, though, that if you do decide to read one of her tales, you are guaranteed a light and entertaining read, even if the complexity of the plot might leave a little to be desired. They Do It With Mirrors, the sixth in her Miss Marple series originally published in 1952 and known in the States as Murder with Mirrors, is ideal holiday reading fodder.

Christie employs a slight twist to the country mansion murder by adding a home for delinquent youths in the building adjacent to Stonygates, the home of philanthropists, Lewis Serrocold and Carrie Louise. Carrie Louise is on her third marriage and has a collection of close relatives living with her, her daughter, Mildred Streete, granddaughter, Gina, and her American husband, Walter Hudd, along with the forbidding and austere secretary and companion, Juliet Bellever. Her stepsons, Stephen and Alexis Restarick, are frequent visitors and are there when Miss Marple pays a visit at the behest of Carrie Louise’s sister, Ruth van Rydock, who feels that something is not quite right at Stonygates.

Where Miss Marple gingerly treads, the Grim Reaper is sure to follow and barely has she had time to put her knitting needles down than a series of alarming events occur which lead to the murder of Christian Gulbrandsen, the son of Carrie Louise’s first husband and Mildred’s half-brother, who is a trustee of the fund that is funding the home and is down for a surprise visit. Shortly after a single shot is heard, presumed to be the one that killed Christian, Lewis Serrocold is engaged in mortal combat with Edgar Lawson, a young man with psychotic delusions and paranoid schizophrenia, in a locked room and the assembled company hear two shots, but both emerge unscathed.

To add to the drama, the lights had fused at the vital moments, Walter Hudd leaving the room to sort the fuse out, and Alexis Restarick has just turned up out of the blue. Oh, and there are concerns that Carrie Louise is being poisoned, the icing on the cake being the arrival of a box of chocolates into which poison has been injected. Alexis’ card is in the box.     

Anyone feeling cheated, after all there are usually three murders in a Miss Marple story, need not worry as towards the end Alexis Restarick and Ernie Griggs, a youth in the facility who made the mistake of boasting about what he had seen, are killed in an “accident” in a barn and Lewis Serrocold is drowned in a vain attempt to save Edgar Lawson from a sinking boat. The latter four deaths are dealt with in a rather hasty and summary fashion by way of a letter from Gina detailing the extraordinary goings on at Stonygates.

Although for Christie murder most foul is foremost and central to her stories, the gruesome details of death are sanitized for the reader and this along with her highly engaging style is a major factor that contributes to her success. There is no gritty realism to be found in her pages. She constructs the cosiest  of cosy murder mysteries and while a seasoned reader of detective fiction can easily discard the chaff and work out whodunit and how and possibly even why, the lack of mindboggling mystery does not detract from the pleasure of the book.

If you had not come across the story before, the title which refers to the legerdemain of magicians rather gives the game away.

Shivering Mountain Early Harvest Gin

Being a sucker for a stunningly well-designed gin bottle, I could not fail to be impressed by the one housing Shivering Mountain Early Harvest Gin. It is bell shaped and the punt, the indent at the bottom of the bottle, is exaggeratedly large and green in colour, and the textured glass designed to refract the light, gives it a shimmering effect. The bottle is meant to represent Mam Tor, a 517-metre-high hill in the Peak District near Castleton, which is also known as the Shivering Mountain, which, because of the soft limestone deposits that wash away during the not infrequent rainy periods, gives the impression that the hill is moving and shivering.

The co-ordinates of Mam Tor are embossed on the bottom of the bottle and “Forged and foraged for Peak perfection” appears on its slender shoulder. “Shivering Gin Mountain Distillery” is embossed just above the bottle’s centre. The neck is slightly longer than the norm and leads to a copper top with a synthetic stopper. The labelling on the neck uses green and copper to good effect making it a rather stunning piece of design and a serious contender for my Bottle of the Year award.

One surprise is that the label at the back says that it was made exclusively for Craft Gin Club members, although that did not stop me from finding it on the shelves of the excellent Constantine Stores, home of Drinkfinder UK. Perhaps there is exclusivity and exclusivity. It also tells me that “we’ve harnessed our landscape’s immense forces, the micro climate, spring waters and botanicals to create a range of gins with a unique character, nose and finish. We call this Ginology”.        

Shivering Mountain Distillery sits on a hillside, their informative but slightly clunky website informs me, overlooking Hathersage and in its grounds, now marked by rhododendrons, is a footpath used by Charlotte Brontë as she walked from Highlow Hall to the local parish church. They use a hand-crafted copper Holstein still called Little John, after Robin Hood’s lieutenant who is believed to be buried in the village’s churchyard, to distil their range of three gins, a Premium London Dry, a Pink Gin, and the Early Harvest.

Founder Nick Malaczynski’s aim with the Early Harvest gin is to capture summer in a bottle, using the flowers and berries that are to be found in the Peak District. The botanical line up combines the classic London Dry staples of juniper, cardamom, coriander, and angelica with the more locally sourced gorse, heather, and Szechuan pepper and the floral elements provided by elderflower, sloe and bilberry and the citric notes by Seville orange.  

On the nose the juniper and a woodiness are to the fore, but hints of warmth and spice come through. In the glass the spirit is clear but a tad underwhelming. The botanicals combine well, floral notes, a woodier spicier feel there but all seem a little muted to my taste, and it is only later that it leaves a peppery aftertaste that makes the tongue tingle.

Perhaps because I am not a great fan of flavoured gins, I felt it was an opportunity missed. There is a sense of early summer brightness for sure, but I would have liked something to leap out and grab my attention. As I searched through what are left of my grey cells, it reminded me of a less forward but pepperier Brockmans. At 40% ABV it makes for a pleasant sipping gin for a warm summer’s evening but is not one I would rush out for again.

Sometimes the expectations engendered by the packaging do not translate into the content. Such are the joys of exploring the ginaissance.

Until next time, cheers!

Singing In The Shrouds

A review of Singing in the Shrouds by Ngaio Marsh – 230714

Singing in the Shrouds, the twentieth of Ngaio Marsh’s Roderick Alleyn adventures and published in 1958, is a curious affair, her series detective finding himself stuck on a ship, the Cape Farewell, en route to South Africa with nine passengers, one of whom is a serial killer. His task is to unmask the culprit and to prevent them from striking again. He succeeds in only one of his objectives.

A serial killer has been causing mayhem in London, their M.O being to strangle their victim, to lay flowers over their body, usually hyacinths, and then leave the scene singing a ditty. The so-called Flower Killer had struck twice before – we subsequently learn that there had been an earlier failed attempt – and just before the ship departs, a third victim is discovered. In her hand is part of a departure ticket for the Cape Farewell and the working assumption of the Yard is that the culprit must be a passenger. Alleyn joins the passenger incognito at Portsmouth.

Each of the nine passengers were either late boarding the ship or had reason to leave it for a little while shortly before the ship departs and so had the opportunity to commit the murders. They are the typically motley crew that a murder mystery seems to attract, consisting of Mrs Dillington-Blick, a man eater, Mr and Mrs Cuddy who are a boring middle class couple, Miss Abbott, a spinster of a somewhat masculine build who is an expert in early Church music, Merryman, a retired schoolteacher, and father Jourdain, an Anglo-Catholic priest. In a nod to modernity there is a TV celebrity on board, Aubyn Dale, who is on a break to calm his nerves after a couple of unfortunate slips on air, McAngus, an elderly bachelor, and providing the love interest, Jemima Carmichael, whose engagement has ended badly, and Dr Makepiece, who specialises in psychiatry.

Given the circumstances in which he finds himself in, all Alleyn can do is mingle with the passengers, observe and try to glean from their manner and conversation their state of mind. With the help of the captain, who steadfastly believes that Alleyn is on a wild goose chase, he sets up a game where each of the passengers are asked to give their alibi for the night of one of the murders. The answers are revealing and Alleyn wires the information to the ever-diligent Fox to follow up on.

Alleyn gives the reader an insight into his thoughts and progress through the letters he pens to his wife, Agatha Troy, with whom he fell in love on a long sea voyage, his experience allowing him to give sage advice to Carmichael and Makepiece. In the letters we learn that he is sure he knows the identity of the killer but does not want to make a move until he has sufficient evidence.

Shorn of his usual colleagues, Alleyn presses Makepiece and Father Jourdain into service. As this effectively rules them out and the consensus is that the women could not have committed the murders, this effectively reduces the suspect list to four. Nevertheless, Marsh does a good job of directing the reader’s suspicions in one direction and then another so that the identity of the culprit can come as a surprise to some.

One of the best bits of the book is the opening, very atmospheric and full of suspense, capturing the brooding menace of a foggy London to a tee. After such a cracking start it is inevitable that the pace of the book drops, but the characters and their interactions are interesting enough to keep the reader entertained. The ending, where Alleyn forces the murderer to reveal themselves in a rather underhand way, is also a highlight.

One feature of the book is Marsh’s portrayal of the non-heterosexual characters. The ship’s steward, Dennis, described as queer throughout and has a penchant for dressing up in Mrs Dillington-Blick’s extravagant dresses and dancing in the moonlight, a trait for which he pays with his life in a case of mistaken identity, is treated more as a convenient plot device than with any sympathy. Miss Abbott, clearly a lesbian, is also characterised with some acerbity, attitudes that were prevalent at the time but ones which the modern reader with heightened sensibilities might find disturbing.

Although I am not Marsh’s greatest fan, I found the book enjoyable.

The Silecroft Case

A review of The Silecroft Case by J C Lenehan – 230711

It always pays a writer to keep their options open. The Tunnel Mystery ends on an enigmatic note allowing J C Lenehan to add a sequel in the form of this novel originally published two years later in 1931. In some ways it completes a lot of unfinished business that remained from the first book but is a complete murder mystery in its own right.

There is an air of inevitability about a gang of jewel thieves falling out over the distribution of the loot although the relevance of the first book to the plot only emerges as the book is well into its stride. Initially, it seems to have legs of its own, a young girl, Peggy Marsden, returns to her lodgings one evening and is astonished to find the body of a dead man in her room. She panics and runs out to summon a policeman, even thought there is a telephone in the house. By the time the party return to the house, the body has gone. A body is subsequently fished out of a river some distance away, the victim having been killed before being thrown into the river.

He is identified as the brother of Mr Thorpe, Peggy’s landlord, and there are no tears shed over his fate. He had earned the enmity of the Thorpes by driving Thorpe’s favourite sister to commit suicide. A usurious moneylender, an avaricious opportunist, and a less than honest fence for jewels, there are several who had motive enough and opportunity to do away with the man, more than enough to keep Inspector Kilby of the Yard and, of course, the reader on their toes. It is only some way into the investigation that Kilby realises that two of the key protagonists were people who had evaded his grasp when he was investigating the Hyde heist and who he had thought had perished dramatically when their car toppled over the cliff into the sea.

One of the curious aspects of the book is the relationship between Kilby and the key suspects, Kilby, Pennington, and the Thorpes. There is an unhealthy respect between them all and Kilby seems to be so keen to play fair and be seen to be a gentleman that he loses sight of the fact that likeable as they might be they are criminals, some of whom have committed murder. Silecroft, although the victim, is despised and the poor lovelorn girl, Gwen Stafford, who shoots Pennington in a dramatic finale which ends up with not one confession but two is hardly given a second thought after she is whisked away to a secure unit. There is a difference between having a healthy respect for one’s opponent and playing the supreme arbiter as to whether they should feel or escape the force of justice.

One of Kilby’s tactics that would have the modern HR manager going into a tailspin was his introduction of young aspiring copper, George Brent, on to the case. In The Tunnel Mystery Brent falls in love with the girl that is now known as Peggy Marsden, that bond giving the enigmatic twist to that story, and he is used to confirm the girl’s identity whilst inevitably falling back in love again, a feeling more than reciprocated by Peggy. It is partly to resolve the moral dilemma caused by this love match that induces Kilby to take a less than professional approach to the resolution of the cases before him.

The book, which started out confidently, has its own crisis of identity, not quite sure whether it is a romantic thriller or a murder mystery with a bit of love interest. In the end it falls between two stools and is a less impressive and rewarding read than its prequel, as sequels often are. To get full value out of The Silecroft Case, you really need to read the Tunnel Mystery first.

The Georgian Craze For Gooseberry Shows

In the 1740s the craze for growing gooseberries was such that clubs were formed, initially in Lancashire, where growers could exchange information and participate in competitions for the heaviest, smoothest, and tastiest fruits. As the interest in gooseberries grew, clubs were formed around the country, running competitions and holding shows where growers could exhibit their latest varieties. The Gooseberry Growers Register, an annual publication, was foundedin Manchester to provide a permanent record of all the prize winners in gooseberry club competitions around the country and detail new and interesting types of fruit. The earliest surviving copy dates to 1786.

By the early 19th century gooseberry clubs vied with each other to put on the most impressive shows, offering increasingly attractive prizes to ensure that they attracted the very best fruits produced by the most skilled growers. There were plenty of opportunities for growers to show their skills and wares, the Register in 1845 listing 171 separate gooseberry shows, which not only attracted the enthusiasts but were also the wider public, keen to learn more about a fruit that was becoming increasingly fashionable.

Most growers were either amateurs or had smallholdings and making their name in gooseberry growing circles offered a welcome source of additional income. This competitive spirit led to further waves of experimentation to continue the quest for the largest, tastiest fruit, so much so that gooseberries came to be regarded as a British fruit. Although varieties were grown in continental Europe, few were of the quality that British growers produced.

To Charles Darwin, writing in Variation of Plants and Animals Under Domestication (1868), “the most interesting point in the history of the gooseberry is the steady increase in the size of the fruit”, testament to the experimental zeal and competitive spirit unleashed by the gooseberry clubs. He noted that in the wild the average weight of the fruit was around 4.5 pennyweights (just under seven grams), but by 1786 show berries were already double the weight and in 1830 a yellow gooseberry, called Teazer, was exhibited at a show in Stockport which tipped the scales at just over thirty-two pennyweights (around 50 grams).

The mid-19th century proved to be the gooseberry clubs’ salad days. Architects of their own downfall, their role in improving the taste and popularity of gooseberries led to the emergence of large-scale commercial growers. The smaller growers were soon unable to compete, leading to a reduction in the membership and number of gooseberry clubs.

Worse was to come. A devastating fungal mildew, accidently introduced from America in 1905, hit British varieties hard, and the fruit fell out of favour. To contain the disease, gooseberry growing was made illegal in some states of America. Following the First World War more clubs disbanded, the Register folded in 1923, and British gooseberries once more became garden produce to be enjoyed by the family and friends.

These days there are just nine gooseberry clubs in the UK, eight in Cheshire forming the Mid Cheshire Gooseberry Association, and the one at Egton Bridge, whose show, the oldest surviving, has been held annually since 1800, save for two interruptions caused by Foot and Mouth Disease and Covid. Organisers confidently expect to hold the 222nd show this year, as usual on the first Tuesday of August. Curiously, the world’s only other society is based in the Swedish town of Skillinge.

It was at the Egdon Bridge Show, on August 6, 2019, that the current heaviest gooseberry was unveiled, a yellow from the “Millennium” variety, which tipped the scales at 64.6 grams.

Lost Word Of The Day (56)

It is a long time since I worked in an office but one of the most irksome features of office life was the presence of a quiddler, someone who hung around wasting time and striking up conversations with those who were trying to get their heads down. Another word to describe such a person is blatteroon, defined by Thomas Blount in his Glossographia of 1656 as a “babbler, an idle-headed fellow”. In other words, someone who just would not shut up.

Curiously, blatteroon had a second albeit short life in the world of telegraphy. In order to cut the cost of the telegram, where the price was set by the word, companies recommended the use of single words to take the place of common phrases. Leiber’s code, published in 1896, proposed the use of blatteroon to signify the phrase “did you reserve?” while in the New General and Mining Telegraphic Code of 1903 it meant “almost certain to float”, a phrase useful for students of the stock market. The Western Union Telegraphic Code in 1901 left it as one of those words which the sender and recipient could agree amongst themselves as to its meaning.

Lost Word Of The Day (55)

A nycterent is someone who hunts at night, a person who could well be engaged in weequashing. The latter word is derived from the Algonquin word for birch-bark, wigwas, from which the Native Americans made torches which they carried whilst hunting after dark.

Eventually, it came to describe any hunting or fishing trip carried out by torchlight, as can be seen from this passage from a letter written in 1792; “Great Neck in Mashpee is a place famous for eels. The Indians, when they go in a canoe with a torch to catch eels in the night, call it weequash”.