There’s Always One!

What is in a ‘Snowball’?

A story based on Bridesmaids & Weddings

-        It is not as dull as it sounds! -

Chapter 2…

There is always one!

I have been an actual bridesmaid five times in my life as well as playing many other ‘bit parts’ along the way! There was always a wedding going on when I was younger, huge great events with all the pomp and ceremony thrown in! My mother is the eldest and only girl of six children and my father - Trevor is one of seven his place in his brood was number four. So there was always the possibility of a wedding amongst the family and failing that, you could always rely on the extended family friends to supply the nuptials! We were never short of a wedding to attend!

Weddings are weird events if you think about it, all rational thinking goes out the window. Sometimes, quite often really, you find yourself at a wedding, that really is not a good fit in terms that you have attended the wedding because of a family connection even though you have no real ‘connection’ with the people that are getting married, or because of past connections with a person and a past life that has since faded, but you still feel that you should go to the wedding for old time sake.

I am always surprised by the way people dress at these occasions, don’t get me wrong – You will be hard pushed to find someone that loves an outfit, as much as I do, I totally have a connection with my mother there, it is in my DNA! – At a wedding you see all sorts of outfits, worn by the key players that on most occasions they would not be seen dead in and the style is mostly based on another period in history. Some of the wedding dresses are criminal hideous, not only in their excessive cost but in their ludicrous designs. At one wedding I attended the bride was told by her super religious mother that she could not wear white as she had been living with her husband to be, it was in the late 1980’s! So the down trodden bride walked down the aisle in a blancmange style purple silk dress with ‘off-white’ trims more sepia if I am honest. When we got to the reception afterward, her husband was clearly so amused and or bemused by her ‘look’, which had been made worse by the uncharacteristic makeup style that was caked on her slim face; he changed his speech and devoted it to his new wife’s, ‘new look’ – he brutally mocked her outfit and her ‘polyfilla’ face, commenting that if he had not heard her voice he would not have a clue who he had just married – as she more resembled Co-Co the clown! This horrendously ‘naff’ commentary brought on huge laughter from his mates and stony glances from most of the women present, including myself. The laughter only encouraged ‘Turbo Pete’ the groom, who had been for the last 3 hours staggering around Bray, Berkshire with his entourage of mates consuming vast amounts of alcohol, in fact we had seen him in The Crown about 40 minutes before he was due to get married – I was quite impressed that he even made it down the aisle at all! Unfortunately the sniggering and laughter from his mates only spurred Turbo Pete on, embarrassing his new wife further, he made the most unwise comment, particularly considering the occasion, telling us he didn’t care about what the bride looked like it was not her face he was interested in! Except his words were not as delicately chosen!  - The bride burst into tears, obviously not seeing the funny side – as there wasn’t one. And her mother stood up and gave a fulsome list of all the husbands’ downfalls and failings and why he wasn’t good enough for her daughter anyway! Not the best of starts and all of this gave the reception a bit of a downer – as you might imagine!

In the mid 1990’s my boyfriend, my parents and I were all invited as a guests to the wedding of the sister of a childhood school friend of mine. So there was a sort of connection there. A super slick, super posh and super stylish event in a small ‘midsummer murder’ style village in the heart land of Oxfordshire, this wedding in effect was a re-run, of my childhood friend’s wedding which had taken place a few years earlier. The mother of the bride was the doyenne of the local social society, her husband was in the film industry and therefore there was a few ‘bob’ sloshing around to pay for this tasteful wedding feast.

My parents were invited to this wedding because they got to know this family because of me. They have the unique irritating habit of almost always adopting my friends or networking with my boyfriends or my friend’s parents. I introduce friends to my mother and father and before I know it I return home to find my friend/boyfriend and/or their parents happily ensconced in my family house usually carrying out a job for my father Trevor at the family home Dutch Gardens or Trevor would employ them in his business, they just adopted my friendship group one way or another. I would find a boyfriend then in the case of my mother, they would be found hanging on her every word whilst in the kitchen sipping wine with her! I found it extremely irritating! When I had a boyfriend that was a twin. Within weeks of my new relationship with this young man I found his twin brother Mark working at Dutch Gardens as one of the permanent gardeners? This was intensely annoying as Mark used his job at the house to spy on me so he could tell his brother what I was doing at any time of the day, which caused no end of arguments between his brother and I. On another occasion Trevor was delighted to find out that I had a new boyfriend who was studding to be a gas heating technician. At the time Trevor had an interest in the large gas fire installed at the local Holiday Inn, near Heathrow and had decided to install one at Dutch Gardens. A fire was purchased all it needed now was a gas technician to install it. And by chance I was going out with one! My boyfriend was still very much in the early stages of his studies, this was not a problem for Trevor, my boyfriend install this huge fire into the fireplace in our lounge. The lounge area had three different sets of doors going off into other rooms in the house and had what my parents called a minstrels gallery high up in the roof space which lead off to my parent’s room. So it was thankfully a very well ventilated room. 

Said boyfriend installed the fire under Trevor’s instructions, as ever Trevor changed the configuration of how the fire was supposed to work, moving the fire closer to the front of the fireplace, which was not recommended and changing the start the ignition button which was put at the back of the fire, it was supposed to be at the front for easy and safe ignition. This meant that when you lit the fire, you had to keep you finger on the button for a set amount of time for the fire to ignite, you had to make sure you were not wearing any clothes in case they caught fire as your arm was dangling over the flames, I have no hair on my arms but it used to ignite my brothers hair if he did not pull his hand away quick enough! Nothing was ever simple at Dutch Gardens! After the fire was fitted, for the next few years, my friends and I, my parents and their friends all developed dreadful headaches and nausea whenever the fire was on –  Obviously we all blamed the fire - but Trevor would not have any of it. Needless to say the installation had not been checked by a qualified gas installer which meant the draw on the fire was not sufficient to pull all the toxic fumes up the chimney and we were all suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning. It is a wonder that we all survived for so long – Just another day at Dutch Gardens!

Going back to the wedding, my mother, particularly had made friends with the wife of this family and over the years as we children grew up, we had been on holiday with them as a family and they shared many events with us. My mother adored everything her friend did, she was a great entertainer and had a good sense of interior style which appealed to my mother. I never quite fitted in, but as happens when you are young, I was billeted off for stay overs and other events at this house, but as adults my friend and I had mostly gone our separate ways but retained a very convivial long distance friendship. I was now viewed by her mother the mother of the bride at this wedding as more than a little wayward! To be fair I did have my moments and I was a little wild! Strangely enough they always thought they were a little cut above the Wynne-Jones, my family, particularly my father, the mother loved to give me her opinions about my family and they were really quite bitchy at times, some of her observations were possible quite true, but it is never easy as a child listening to someone criticizing your parents.  Trevor, was an extremely successful self-made man, yes a total eccentric, a maverick with a utterly ruthless megalomaniac edge with very few scruples unless it fitted the demographic of how he was going to make his next million. Apart from that he was obviously just a normal man – not! Trevor did whatever he liked in life with little regard to anyone else and spent his money lavishly on his lifestyle, most particularly his property – Dutch Gardens, which he has spent a lifetime building and designing then re-building and designing spending vast fortunes, he was ably supported by my mother who was a willingly participant on spending on all things lifestyle particularly clothes. They were the new bourgeoisie. This meant that they were good gossip value! As it happened the mother of the bride husband had made all his initial money from directing porn films. Once when I was staying at the house, there were a bunch of grown-up’s sitting at the breakfast bar one the evening drinking and laughing. We were playing and we ran through the room on our way to another room, we were stopped and introduced to the various guests, one of them was Linda Lovelace star of a film called Deep Throat, I said hello and we continued on our way through the room. It was then that my friend told me that Lovelace was an actress who appeared in sexy films. This made a huge impression on me, not because she was in sexy films, I could not have given a damn about that, but she was an actress everything that I wanted to be! Little did I know at the time! 

Despite my very complex relationship with Trevor, I have to admit I did admire on occasions his straightforward attitude toward this family, he could see that the mother of the bride had social pretentions as they found him socially inferior. Trevor would bait her from time to time. To my great amusement when I was about twelve years old and we were at one of their gatherings, my friend’s mother was holding court, as usual shouting at the top of her voice to the minions who were listening; “If I were Princess Anne… I would be a real … Bitch.”  There was general amusement and agreement around the room and much nodding at one another. Then came Trevor’s voice from the back of the room, “You don’t need to be Princess Anne to be that!” My mother was mortified … I was rather impressed….   

The Wedding ceremony that we had attended was to take place in a beautiful small church on the green on a beautiful sunny day, my boyfriend and I were standing on the lawn outside the church, waiting for the wedding to get underway, just watching all the guests laughing and chatting, pretty young people who had attended the right universities, knew each other since childhood and wore the right clothes for this type of wedding, all super at ease with this type of event – think … Hugh Grant and ‘Four Weddings’. In some ways it dawned on me how far I was away from this crowd and how I had only been associated with it by a happy accident of a childhood friendship.

Standing there like a couple of lemons, me nodding at the one or two people that I recognised, whilst my boyfriend remained in the main politely hostile to the occasion on all fronts. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw Trevor marching towards us, flustered as ever, this was never a great sign, but on the other hand quite a reassuring normal one. Looking beyond Trevor there was my mother picking her way carefully on her high heels across the uneven thick grassland, curiously they had arrived together, they had in fact separated some years earlier, but to my ever increasing annoyance they could never seem to leave each other alone when it came to social occasions or any occasions really – which usually meant a scene of some description or other mostly in spectacular style – I don’t like being with them together – it’s a dangerous place to be. Trevor caught up with us,  I turned my attention back to the wedding crowd I could see that we were now all beginning lined up into a que ready to enter the quaint little church to take our seats before the wedding started.

“Your mother has been doing the tour of everyone, Natalie, in the car park, she thinks she’s the bloody bride’s mother!” We glanced around in my mother’s direction and true enough she had arrived in the main throng of some guests and was working the crowd like a ‘pro’, air-kissing and shaking people’s hands and making topical conversation. There is no one that can dress for the part like my mother – no one. Today an amazing off-white streamlined tailored outfit, with small shoulder pads than usual, my mother loves a shoulder pad. Her beautiful figure showing off the couture costume to its best effect with buttons down the front, nipped in at her small waist by a matching belt, the hem being thigh length with a lace decoration around the edge, finished off with fingerless lace gloves, and despite the heat she had tights on. Well actually, they are more lightly to be stockings and suspenders, she was going through another phase of being ultra-sexy, particularly in the wake of her separation with Trevor. This obviously would wind Trevor up, as she would behave like a terrible flirt in front of him which could send him off the deep end in certain situations. I know how it pans out at these type of events. He will have collected her from her home and as she got into his car the hem of her skirt would ‘accidentally’ rise up a little too high reviling the top of a stocking and her naked thigh. I never really got the sex thing with my mother, she was like her mother to some extent ‘sex’ did not exist and nothing rude or overt on the matter could be said around her – yet put my mother in a social scene with men there, of any age really, 8 to 80, it did not really matter and then she turned into a vixen. She knew that she was the attraction in the room and that all eyes would be on her.

I once asked her after hearing a great deal of conversation at school about sex, how it happened? It was quite an innocent question as I was only about ten at the time. We were in my parents’ bedroom, upstairs. She had her back to me when I asked her and I knew that I had asked a difficult question because her shoulders stiffened and she stopped for a second what she was doing. There was no sitting down with me and telling me some ‘birds and bee’s’ story, she continued from her bedroom into her dressing room, so she was just out of sight but I could still clearly hear her. ‘It is when a man put’s his willy up a ladies bottom.’ I was utterly disgusted, no ….. Mortified and repulsed. She offered me no further explanation, she continued doing whatever it was that she was doing in her dressing room and I left her bedroom to retreat back into my own bedroom in utter revulsion – it was most probably the most repulsive thing that I had ever heard or could possibly imagine, I certainly looked at my father and my uncles that had children in a very different light after discovering this piece of information, I could only believe that there was indeed something very wrong with them indeed! Clearly all perverts! My mother never offered any other information on the subject of sex to me, the conversation, such as it was, was never mentioned again. So I then had to glean any further information on the subject from spotty teenage girls in my class at school like Debbie Cook who seemed to know a great deal on the subject and was only too happy to impart it, though her explanations on the subject were somewhat less grotesque, they involved a lot of mouth to mouth resuscitation according to her called ‘French Kissing’, the very idea of doing this with any boys I knew I found equally repulsive -  I vowed from a very young age that no matter what – sex was not something I was going to indulge in!    

Trevor joined us in the que to get into the church. My mother was still spinning on her nude sling back shoes in her social conversations with various guests. Occasionally she touched the rim of her statement two tone straw hat with an off white brim the crown being in a dark caramel colour which was draped with a scarf to look like a veil. You could not miss her she looked stunning! Imagine Crystal Carrington from the 1980’s Dynasty TV program;  in reality, it could actually be one of Crystal Carrington’s outfits, my mother had been at the auction of the clothes and had purchased a number of items warn by both the leading ladies, Crystal and the iconic Joan Collins.  

Getting closer to doorway of the church Trevor beckoned to my mother to come and join us in the que, she totally saw us, but ignored us and continued with her mother of the bride duties! So we entered the church leaving her outside in the sun and in her element, Trevor was gritting his teeth and muttering about her behaviour. We squeezed through the door and shuffled into the small churches pews allocated to us, people were chatting and waving at each other, some people acknowledging Trevor with thumbs up and mouthing ‘you okay?’ We all shunted down the pew to give the guests more room at the other end, Trevor trying to hold a bit of space for my mother to sit on once she arrived. The ushers charged about trying to organise everyone, a women at the front of the church by the font started singing a very jolly song, and the general hub-bub started to quieten and people now started to turn their attention to the order of the service.

“For Christ sake, what is she doing, where is your mother, Natalie?” Trevor hissed into my ear loudly. Looking around the bride’s family were now filing into the church, smiling and waving at the selected guests, followed in by the ‘actual’ mother of the bride, who looked lovely, but was acting less like the mother of the bride than my mother! The family took their seats three rows in front of us at the top of the church, as the mother of the bride sat down she turned around and ‘mouthed’ to Trevor – ‘where is Josephine?’ Trevor put his hands up to either side of his face and shrugged going red. The singing started in earnest and I turned to watch the back of the church toward the door. Finally, my mother was in sight, stopping at the door to talk to someone. Then she started her slow decent toward her seat, stopping at relevant intervals to wave and chat with people. I tuned to see the mother of the bride eyes following my mother as she posed her way toward us, she was not amused, but to be fair to her was resigned to my mother’s behaviour. My mother was going to make the most of her moment, she was in auditions for my wedding after all! When she had reached the end of our pew, the seated guests had to stand and shuffle back into the pew to make room for her to pass, at which point the ‘here comes the bride’ music began to play, the entire congregation turned back to look at the church door where the bride and her father had entered the building. Trevor was a mixture of embarrassment and rage!

After what was a very sweet wedding service we all made our way out of the church into the summer sunshine and walked in clutches of people away from the church and down the drive to their house, as the photographers, one taking pictures and one filming, both scurried amongst the crowd. – We approached  the rambling family house where the vast marquee was set up on the lawn for the wedding reception. The house screamed quintessential English country house with all the windows of the property looking out at the wedding, with fabulous sprawling roses and climbers picture framing each window. As the guests assembled at the back of the house, you could hear the gravel crunching under people’s shoes, which reminded me of my childhood running around barefoot at this charming old house and the pain of walking from the lawn to the house across the gravel chips. Echoes of my past, I never really fitted in here, but I have good memories. The family had since converted the garage extension into a ‘granny’ flat that was attached to the house, they now referred to as ‘The West Wing’! And it was in the West Wing that all the catering was taking place, this was all very ‘Four Weddings & a Funeral’ …  

Drinks were served as we milled about on the gravel terrace, loud guffawing came from certain clutches of people. Beautiful young woman ran from one set of people to another screeching and laughing holding onto their hats as they ran, bags and scarves were tossed aside, this was a place that these young people were comfortable and familiar with, it was a very British scene. It was a sea of pastel coloured haute couture ‘Sloane ranger’ outfits and crinkled linen designer suits intermixed with floral yummy mummies in their pretty printed dresses and soft silk sling back shoes. I have never been one to run with the crowd, it’s not that at one stage in my life that I haven’t wanted to – I had. But it just was not my style. But it would be fair to say that I certainly stood out in a crowd! Dressed in velvet black platform shoes from Liberties, the rest of my outfit was purchased from Roz at Mango in Windsor, the same shop that I was later to buy my wedding outfit from. Today I was in the iconic black Helen Storey ankle length ‘swirling crinkle’ skirt, that moved in rhythm with your body, paired with a figure hugging black turtle neck body with black net sleeves, this ensemble was held together with a Helen Storey fitted black and red silk blazer. My dark brown hair was cut in a sleek lopsided bob topped with a black leather beret, drop chain earrings styled with a red enamel stones. Put it this way, you could not miss me amongst this crowd!

Easels had been erected all around the marquee at various entrances which advertised the seating plan for the guests. My boyfriend and I were at the table of brother of the bride and his wife, whom I also knew well, I can’t help thinking that we were the booby prize and that they had only agreed to sit with us out of the goodness of their hearts. We were the oddballs at this event! The marquee was ‘spot on’ beautifully designed elegance without being too ‘ott’ and the table settings were magnificent, no expense had been spared, the catering staff busied themselves serving the wine and food which just kept coming from the West Wing. As the day wore on speeches were made and many happy tears were shed. As always with these occasions, tensions and emotions are high, my boyfriend hated everything about it and decided at the first opportune moment that it was time for him to leave, which left me nursing many glasses of wine, feeling sorry for myself, ‘you always get one don’t you!’ And it was me!

Glancing around at the large table at the top of the marque where my parents were sitting, I could tell even from a distance that there was friction and irritation between them, this type of situation was perfect storm for a spat between them. They never really worried if they had an audience, sometimes I wonder if they preferred it? It usually ended in tears, my mother’s! On occasions there can be broken china and furniture sometimes the odd neighbour can be involved. There scenes can take many forms … Once at Dutch Gardens, our home, we were all having a lovely evening, a new green barbeque had been bought and family friends had been invited to the first use of the green machine. Mostly the evening was going well, but the usual picking at each other had started to enter the evening. Trevor picking at my mother’s love of dressing up, he had taken to calling her dresses – frock’s, which irritated her enormously. The other couple were doing their best at trying to head off the bickering between them, without much success – once my parents were off and running that was usually it! Feeling incensed at the next insensitive comment Trevor had made to her, my mother got up from the table on the terrace and went back into the kitchen presumably to get some more drinks, she reappeared with the enormous Victorian jelly that I had made from a new jelly mould that my mother had bought. It was so large that it required many packets of jelly to fill it and as such was a multi-coloured ‘splendour’. I was very much looking forward to presenting it to the guests later in the evening, it was to be served with strawberries which were being marinated in Pimm’s and were sitting in the fridge. Purposefully my mother walked across the terrace toward Trevor, she was holding the jelly with one hand underneath, waiter style and balancing the wobbly item with her other hand on the side of the plate. We all watch with interest as she marched toward Trevor, then to use one of his phrases ‘the penny dropped’ – Trevor jumped up holding one hand out toward her in a defensive style – ‘No Joey, No … Come off it now !! … Joey..‘ Whereupon she charged at him. The guests looked on open mouthed unsure of what was about to happen, Trevor moved quickly knocking the chair over just as the jelly launched into the air. One thing you should know if you ever decide to become a professional jelly thrower – is that the weight of it when it is this huge size means that it does not fly through the air as you would expect, it sort of goes up in the air - forward a little and then drops out of the air directly downwards, hitting the edge of the table and splattering large shards of jelly across the table toward the guests who instinctively pulled back in their chairs as it splattered towards them, the other half of the jelly having been given a bit of propelled motion by hitting the table splattered towards Trevor, it hit the floor and splattered up his legs and all over his shoes. ‘Good God Joey!’ My friends and I who were down the steps on the next level watched the performance with open mouths – I was scowling, I was really fed up that my jelly had been treated like this and if my mother was going to use it as a weapon the very least she could have done is had made it hit the target! My mother turned on her heal having picked up the now broken melamine plate that the jelly was on, with it she scooped up some of the jelly on the floor and returned to the kitchen. Minutes later she returned with the cut glass bowl that housed the marinating strawberries and a jug of thick double cream put them on the table. Picked up great chunks of the jelly that were glistening on the table and slopped and blobbed them in the middle of the table like a sort of Jelly Mountain. Walked over to her ‘hostess trolley’, which was not switched on but being used to house various cutlery and crockery and napkins, cleaned her hands and brought dessert plates and napkins back to the table and offered strawberries and cream to the stunned guests. Who quite appropriately accepted! That was the thing about Trevor and Josephine and being at Dutch Gardens, their behaviour was all part of the show. And people just acted accordingly.

Sitting at the wedding table all by myself now staring down at my black platform shoes, in my addled mind I had decided that it would be a good idea to make my way up to my parents table and rescue any situation between my parents that might arise! I had after all become quite accustom to this! Picking my way through the dancing party on a slight incline as the flooring had been laid directly on the grass I was suddenly grabbed from behind by one member of the bridal party, a man of a certain age who had equally like me drunk too much! I jigged around on the spot to the music with him trying to keep a distance between his ever encroaching arms, then the record changed to a slow song. All guests around us assumed the clinch position, reluctantly I was forced to do the same with this gentleman. It is quite horrid when you don’t want to be this close to someone, but feel you should so as not to make a scene.  As the song droned on his hand which originally started in the small of my back, moved ever lower and more insistent as he tried forcefully to pull my bottom towards his still gyrating groin, purposely bumped his crutch into me; for the record his thrusting movement was not even in time with the music! What else do you do? I am young and I don’t want to be impolite! So I try to dance with my bottom sticking out to stop him making contact with me, this unfortunately only seemed to encouraged him to use both hands on my bottom, his fingers splayed and sticking into my flesh, he was now fighting to control my movements and forcing me towards his thrusting genitals, I do wonder what it is about this type of man, it is like the more you resist the more they enjoy themselves? On what planet does he think that I have any interest in him? Now I was fighting to get free, but trying not to make a show of what was going on … The ghastly record continued as his salivating mouth was making its way towards my face, turning my head as quickly as possible his sloppy lips collided with my ear, I was so revolted that my ‘gut’ reaction was to push him away, thankfully he released me and staggered backward into the dancing crowd, which caught him before he fell the revellers ‘yelling’ approval and he disappeared into the dancing guests.

Wiping my ear and face in utter revulsion then rubbing my wet hand down my crinkle skirt, I continued on my way through the guests to my parents table the wine was hitting me now. At the large table of guest where my parents were sitting. I was greeted with a smile from Trevor, who beckoned me to an empty seat next to him, I manoeuvred my way around the other guests holding on to the back of chairs, looking over at my mother who was at the other end of the table with a number people holding court happily, it would appear that all was well with my parents after all! Finally reaching the vacant chair, which Trevor pulled out so as to let me in to the space. I held onto the table and squared myself up steadying myself from the journey to their table; as I went to sit down, I just seemed to keep going. Unbeknownst to me Trevor had spied the previous owner of the seat coming off the dance floor and back toward the table, so as I went to sit down he moved the seat away from me and offered it back in the direction of the original owner. I just kept going, in my mind slowly it started to dawn on me that there was nothing there to stop me, then it all started to move in quick time – I speeded up, my natural reaction was to grab at the table in front of me, seizing the white table cloth in an iron like grip, it happened pretty quickly from there! As I crashed to the floor my grasp on the table cloth pulled over my head along came half the contents of the table - glasses, empty plates, knives and forks and the floral centre piece along with other detritus! The noise, even with the loud music playing was pretty spectacular. As the smashing stopped I heard an audible gasp. Momentarily I wanted to stay where I was. ‘Oh my God – is she alright? …  Get her out’..  Trevor and another man pulled me out by my arms and as quickly as I had gone down I was now being launched into the air at a spectacular speed. As my feet touched the floor and my eyes managed to re-focus, everyone in the close vicinity was staring at me. And as luck would have it the official wedding videographer was catching it all for prosperity! My mother was still sat at the table with her wine glass in hand. ‘Really Natalie!!? What are you thinking of – I will deal with this – Trevor take her home?’

Not needing to be asked twice Trevor grabbed my arm and we were at the nearest exit before I knew what was happening, he stopped to put his jacket on that he had grabbed from the back of his chair and we were off up the drive like rabbits being chased by a fox.

My mother stayed making, I assume profuse apologies for her daughter, enjoyed the aftermath of my performance. Not understanding how her daughter could make such a spectacle of herself! I wonder where I got that from?

The good news is the video of me still exists, sadly this marriage did not last long they divorced and she re-married someone else fairly shortly afterwards. My mother and Trevor were invited to the next wedding, I was not!

What can I tell you my mother loves a wedding!

My Family Home….’Dutch Gardens’….

Part One….

Matilda based on my Beautiful mother…

The Reports of My Family’s Demise are Greatly Misquoted! 

I am writing this blog a bit prematurely, in fact it was not a story I would have under normal circumstances put on my site, but I feel my hand has been somewhat forced; by a newspaper article that went viral… About a poor old eccentric pensioner who tried to turn his drab bungalow into a Venetian Palace. You should know I am rolling my eyes right now! So here, I am going to “modify” the true tale to fit my sites demographic! The reality of my childhood is somewhat more complicated and resembles something of a black farce! I will tell that story another time… Here .. I feel the need to defend myself, my mother and brother who have once again been written out of our own history that was so ‘endemic’ to all our lives. I should point out that neither my mother or brother, have any part in this post it is strictly from my point of view … But I want to put the story of Dutch Gardens - ‘straight’ it is part of who I am and I refuse to be simply anaesthetised from the equation that is/was my life!

“Just because a picture happens to be erotic, does not make it pornographic”

Abigail’s Party by Mike Leigh

I was alerted by a family member to an article that appeared in a national paper about the house I grew up in, by the time I read the feature… It had gone viral.. ”How I turned my £13,500 bungalow in Staines into a £4 million Venetian Palace” … At first … I was shocked by the article.. I mean I know the story well .. And I never thought the old boy would sell the place as it is central to his life, his existence, nothing else matters to him apart from that house – Dutch Gardens, he has given up and lost everything to build this monument to himself… Some would rename it – The Hammer House of Horrors, particularly if you happen to be one of the neighbours! As he has been building there for the last 50 years relentlessly.. The man at the centre of this spin is Mr Trevor Wynne-Jones, how do I know him? .. He is my father… Although for various reasons we are very much estranged.. But that is another much more complex story..

“If you knew the power of the dark side .. I am your father… “

Star Wars – Darth Vader

Here is the original article which is very good by Fred Redwood for the Telegraph … I think his comment … A first class fake! Speaks volumes!

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/property/luxury/turned-13500-bungalow-staines-4million-venetian-palace/

So let me tell you a bit about the current Dutch Gardens, which as the article suggests is as far away from Italy particularly in terms of a Venice location … It is stuck in between two large towns called Staines and Slough, that is not a particularly inviting start. Granted there is water at the property more than is required at times and the River Thames runs on the other side of the road, but it is not quite the same as Venice and you rarely see a Gondola! However this so called Venetian Palace, built by a self-obsessed megalomaniac, does indeed have its own versions of Tintern Abbey, Rapunzel’s Tower and Dutch Architecture, the Gothic windows which are newly sited next to French style doors, suits of armour and paintings copied from the old masters in oils in the style of fresco’s on the walls; not to forget to mention the hideous commissioned ill proportioned copies of paintings of monumental battles with Trevor sitting at the helm… I cannot tell you how funny I find these paintings.. Everyone that worked for Trevor is in these paintings including family members, even though some requested not to be in the pictures, that made no difference to Trevor you either bend to his will or you were fired! .. If you look at them it is obvious who is in Trevor’s favour and who is not.. I should point out that I am not in any of the paintings as I am Trevor’s least favourite and he had long since air brushed me out of his life!

The current decoration and design of Dutch Gardens is eclectic to say the least, whatever takes Trevor’s fancy he builds, whatever he wants he does.. Simple.. Trevor’s every whim is indulged, he has been building at this development continuously since he purchased it in the late 1960’s.. Trevor’s passion for knocking things down and rebuilding is legendary he gets bored of things/people and so just moves on to the next thing/person… Don’t get me wrong, Trevor has an ability to see and recreate architecture, but he spins from one design to another and thus creates a mishmash of designs all fighting for their place against each other… Losing any sense of style or cohesion and more often than not he will push these design conceptions to their limit so that it no longer works. Most things became a parody of themselves.

As a teenager teetering on my high stilettos, swearing under my breath as I tried to make it unscathed to the front door without falling or shredding the leather from my shoes on the London cobbles that Trevor had laid with such undulations and gaps between as to make the cobbles impossible to walk on … Really the only thing that was lacking in this particular phase of his design creation of the Dickensian London cobble streets was his impression of Dick van Dijk singing ‘Me ol Bamboo’ as he tap dances down the walkways chasing after Mary Poppins!

“Toad talked big about all he was going to do in the days to come”

Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

The property was purchased for £12,500, in 1968, by my young Nouveau Riche parents, they saw it as a massive stepping stone to improve on their lives and make a new base for their family, but most importantly to fulfill their dreams. And why not! They were up and coming and my mother was certainly nubile, they were taking on and embracing a new world of opulence on a scale that they had never experienced before. Prior to the purchase of Dutch Gardens, we lived in a two bedroom second floor flat in a house in Finchley, North West London. This was certainly a change in circumstances for us all.

When I first set eyes on Dutch Garden as a young child; yes it was a pretty dowdy pebble dash bungalow but it was surrounded by overgrown gardens that reminded me of the film Secret Garden, it was all very exciting and to me the house was enormous, full of dark corridors and rooms that smelt of rotting damp; it reminded me of the Alfred Hitchcock film Psycho; I speak retrospectively here as I had not at that time yet seen the film, my parents were ‘way out there’ but not that far, well not at that time anyway!! Dutch Gardens was owned by two old ladies…. I had no idea we were going to live in this place … I just saw it as another old house that my parents were looking at, it seemed to me, at the time that we spent an inordinate amount of time viewing old musty houses and having tea on the lawns with strange people, this particular tea party was not much different than the others except we had tea and sandwiches in the old ladies small sitting room.. Having got bored of the adult conversation … I was let out of the rickety old French windows into the gardens to explore on my own… My elder brother had been recently exiled off to a boarding school and so I was somewhat bereft and had to make my own entertainment…This I have never had a problem with!

 The bungalow was set in the middle of the plot and there was endless paving stone walkways to follow through the rambling gardens. Eventually I came to the corner of the garden were there was an old wooden gate covered in cobwebs, it was clear that it had not been opened in many years, I peeked through the wooden key hole and there appeared to be a gravelled drive on the other side and a few houses. This drive was actually the back entrance to the property that had not been used in many years, but all was about to change and this little drive way was about to be subject to relentless building delivery lorries that would cause great controversy including punch-ups between irate neighbours and workmen, not least on one occasion a neighbour pouring boiling fat over a delivery lorry engine, which inevitable, started yet another punch up… All in a normal day at Dutch Gardens and the pattern of how we lived our lives.

After peeking through the old door, I forged my way between the perimeter fence and a thick high hedge and followed the route for a while until I could not stand being whipped in the face with any more sticky spider’s webs so I made a break for it under a hole in the hedge back into the main part of the garden. Utopia!! I came across a large collection of animal pens and even better a horse stable, every child’s dream even though all the huts and cages were empty. I could now hear my parents calling for my return, I chose to ignore their polite calls, I was not to be removed from my investigations! After a few more calls of my name,they seemed to be getting closer, I decided to continue on my quest and move forward along another path around the other side of the house away from them, I picked up speed in order to make sure that I saw as much of this property as possible, I was now running toward the most beautiful purple flowering tree with enormous tendrils dangling down the intertwining branches. In the middle of this beautiful creature was an arch and I made my way through it to find myself back at the front of the house.. I now know that this magnificent specimen was a very old and impressive Wisteria, which was kept in the gardens until the gardener over watered it one year and it died of those injuries.

“We all go a little mad sometimes..”

Psycho by Alfred Hitchcock

So, my bourgeoisie parents, having purchase their new property, went on a frenzy of major renovation. They knocked down and rebuilt most parts of the property within pretty much the same footprint of the original building but on a grander scale. They were creating their perfect dream home. And why not? The ‘new’ Dutch Gardens was in the style of a 1970 – 1980 Spanish Hacienda. I mean there is a theme going on here! How many other countries architectural influences can we include in this property? The old bungalow had an enormous ‘lounge’ situated next to the small sitting room that we had had tea in with the old ladies. The large lounge had a shiny polished wooden floor, which my brother and I made the most of before it was demolished, by sliding up and down on the floor boards, before we complained of being covered in splinters… This large lounge and its small sister the sitting room next door was kept and modernised fully, with floor to ceiling panelled windows and shag pile carpets and the ubiquitous 1970 style purpose built bar in the corner of the room… Which was slightly unusual as my parents did not really drink at the time although later Trevor became rather partial to a nice warm ‘little hock’ … Or even the odd bottle of ‘Blue Nun’ …

Beautiful photograph taken by my brother Laurie T Wynne-Jones, in the good old fashion way. My mother sitting on the edge of the pond holding my cat Dizzy.

Like all houses built near the River Thames, the building regulations stated that the property had to be elevatedfour foot above ground level, to prevent flooding … This afforded an enormous amount of interesting opportunities for me when I looked down before the floor boards were laid, I would see large rats down there dead and alive. Very exciting when you are young, at the time I had not developed enough other hobbies to keep me occupied!

The rebuild took just over three years and we would travel backward and forward from our flat in London, to this large house set in three quarters of an acre of land in the country. We never once slept there overnight as back then the commute was largely without the traffic troubles that it suffers today so the journeys were easy. Whilst I was at Dutch Gardens I spent most of my time playing by myself in the large garden mostly in the water sprinkler that my mother had brought to the house to entertain me. On occasions the workmen played with me, throwing me in the air when no-one was checking on them and I ate more than my fair share of egg sandwiches sitting in the old horse stables in the garden.

 When I got too wet and cold I was despatched by my mother to change in the old pantry which was small and three steps down from the level of the main house, ignoring the rules about the water table and potential flooding! This room contained shelves with chicken net fronted cupboards in which there were old empty jam jars with their lids in neat piles and other empty dusty containers relics of a life lead before we purchased the premises, the jam jars were repatriated to my paternal grandmother who was an avid jam maker. In the restyle this small room was converted into the boiler room, were I was again despatched some years later to do my ceramic enamelling on an electric kiln, with the washing hanging over my head. Considering the electric fired kiln issue and that I was only ten, by today’s standard there seems to be a health and safety issue here... But that was never a consideration for my parents.. I was out of sight and therefore out mind! But it worked for me … Nothing was normal in my life…

While the house was under reconstruction, one of the places that I was not allowed to go near was two very large barrels in the corner of the garden, behind the garage… My name is Natalie and therefore I am naturally inquisitive and rarely to be put off the scent, particularly if I was asked not to look…I had to look … Obviously!! ..Of course I was going to inspect the barrels when no one was there to tell me off… I realised as I got a closer to the barrels, not least because of the smell… That they were the workmen’s toilets… It occurs to me now that perhaps the budget could not stretch to a Portaloo? Quite disgusting!

“It was as though the world had had a fresh coat of paint, and every heart acquired a store of illusions that made the burden of life less hard to bear.”

Clochemerle by Gabriel Chevallier

As the house transformed in the very early years, and when my brother was occasional released from his new school, we would play together on what was a building site. Once, we were allowed to go upstairs into what was to become my parents’ bedroom. We were told that we were only to stand on the joists as the floor boards had not yet been laidand the plasterboard of the ceiling below would not be strong enough to take our weight. My brother being oldersprinted across the joists to investigate the rooms. I attempted to keep up, my only problem was that I could not span the joists as easily, being much smaller. Having negotiated yet another joist, without falling through, I glanced up and thought that my brother had stepped on the ceiling boards, brilliant I thought and immediately did the same. It was instant, the ceiling gave away with the most almighty crack and I descended through it, hearing my mother scream from below as she fled not knowing what was happening… I landed cross legged on the floor and looked up to see my brother’s face peeking through the hole I had left above, it was brilliant…. Despite the trouble I was in.… This accident created yet another explosive tantrum from Trevor, not because I might have been hurt, but because I had damaged the ceiling.. Trevor was and is the most incredible tantrum thrower on a spectacular level… To see his temper tantrums is to behold.. A man who is out of control in his rage! Quite terrifying at times, albeit we were used to it… I come from a long line of over-reactors!

On another occasion early one morning… My brother and I came across one of the many motorised diggers that were used in the landscaping of the gardens. My mother is the most wonderful landscape designer as you can see from what is left of the gardens in the newspaper articles. As luck would have it some kind person had left the keys in the ignition, so my brother decided that we should take it for a spin … I eagerly clambered into the back of the digger … As my brother took the driver’s seat.. We were having great fun doing a tour of the garden at speed, enjoying the moment then my brother came up with the ingenious idea of driving the digger up one of the large mounds of sand and building gravel, obviously to add a bit of extra excitement and danger to the fun! It was going quite well until the sand gave way under the pressure and weight of the vehicle and it flipped over sending me flying into the air out of harm’s way but trapping my brother underneath… You know those moments as a child when you hope that if you shut your eyes tightly for a second or two, that when you open them again very quickly all would be back to normal and the damage you had just created would have gone away.. This was one of those moments.. But it was not to be the digger was definitely upside down and we were in trouble! My brother then emerged with a bloody nose from under the digger, but otherwise unscathed, as he got to his feet, he let out any number of swear words to illustrate his feelings on the matter… Which secretly I was very impressed by, I saw this as being the height of growing up!…. However there was no way we could rectify this problem and I can assure you that this evoked yet another ’Mount Vesuvius’ explosive tantrum from Trevor .. Perhaps fair under the circumstances! To some degrees ..

“Anyone for a bit of Denis Roussos?”

Abigail’s Party by Mike Leigh

When we finally moved in to Dutch Gardens in the early 1970’s, I had assumed we were going to live in a tent in the dining room as to me the house was so big, the dining room was about the size of our flat in London therefore a perfect fit, and I could not conceive in my mind that we would need all this extra space, apart from to play in … It came as a surprise that I had my own room, predictably painted in a revolting shade of pink, a colour I would never have chosen, then or now! … But this was my parents dream not mine… Mostly the house was finished, their Pantile Spanish Hacienda dream house was about to take wings, it was really quite “on trend” at the time, believe it or not, as my mother was involved with the design there was cohesion and a trendy flow to the house… Venice was “still” a long way off and there were no medieval suits of armour anywhere, and most importantly we lived above ground… Not in the subterranean dungeons that you see in some of the pictures in the article..

The outside rendered walls were painted white with floor to ceiling panelled windows in every room, some walls were just windows, all very on trend … It had 3 inch high white shag pile carpets in the big lounge and my parents’ bedroom, so trendy was my mother that there were shag pile carpets in their bathroom and that carpet went up the walls! .. As Austin Powers would say, Shagadelic …. Yeah Baby!!

This carpet however, later became the bane of my family’s life when I took up sewing and continually dropped pins on the floor … Never to be seen again until someone stepped on them with bare feet.. Mostly my brother was afflicted with this torture, usually on one of his exeats from school, on one occasion the pin had embedded itself so deeply into his heel, that Trevor was forced to remove it with plyers and I was banned from doing any further sewing in any areas that were carpeted.. Of course I ignored this command, as no one was ever there to inforce this new and in my view largely irrelevant rule. However the shag pile caught me out too, on one of many occasions when I sneaked into my mother’s dressing room to paint my toe nails with her red polish.. When I swapped feet to paint the other foot, I did not notice that I was wiping the polish from the first foot all over the carpet…When I saw the mess I had made of the white carpet, I came up with the genius idea of trimming the carpet with my mother’s nail scissors to hide the damage except I got caught in the act by my mother! Not so Groovy Baby!!

“Oh lovely” she says “Cos Laurence likes a drop of wine, actually. Oh it’s Beaujolais.. Fantastic! .. Won’t be a sec, I’ll just pop it in the fridge”

Abigail’s Party by Mike Leigh

My mother, a traditional follower of fashion, saw my father at this stage in their relationship more as a Roger Moore than an Austin Powers, which when I think about it is quite sweet as he is only half the size of Roger and does not really have the same physique? It must have been love as she would dress Trevor in Roger’esque style Safari suits, with the same comb over hair style, albeit Trevor’s hair was sparser… Trevor would wear this suit with his self-styled pocket watch and chain which sort of spoilt the look! My mother’s style and costumes became the stuff of magazine articles, whatever you saw in Vogue or Tatler … You would see on my mum .. A stunningly beautiful woman, with her own agenda… Most importantly they were enjoying being the ‘it’ people of Dutch Gardens and so they should have been they had worked hard to get where they were… Every weekend they would be designing the garden or a part of the house or visiting country homes or stately gardens… This was their life and Dutch Gardens was at the centre of it…

All the mod trends of the moment were applied and added to the design, including avocado suites in the bathrooms, including bidets, which were never used, well not for their actual purpose … I found them a source of great entertainment.. The sprinklers in the bottom of the pans were so powerful that they would water the whole room, subsequently I was banned from using them! As it would drench the carpets in the bathrooms… Can you imagine carpets in a bathroom now …. Yuck … All the tapsand faucets were gold plated, which very quickly discoloured and corrodedcovering the metalwith unsightly lime spots, which ultimately made them hard to use…

In the morning room next to the corridor kitchen was a glass circular dining table supported by tripod chrome legs and matching black leather chairs, which were lethal if you leaned too far back as they would slide on the tiled black and white floor sending the sitter flying … There was a lurid pink wall, and the very height of modern ‘chic’ was the 3D handmade wall paper of different sized pebble protrusions all painted in white.. My parents understandably would go mad when my young cousins came to stay and delighted in punching and squashing the protrudingpebbles… It was my job, with the aid of a screw, to pull theegg box pebbles back into shape, then the permanent on site staff would come in and repaint and fill the damage … It was also my job to repaint the chips in black and white floor tiles in the morning room, the damage being caused by the movement of thechrome chairs legs rubbing backward and forward over the surface of the tiles.

The house was full of Casa Pupo items, there was at the time a shop in London which my parents frequented, the house was stuffed with their lamps, vases, object ‘dart including metal bird cages and waist height china wild cats and snow leopards, all dotted around the house, which after parties would need to be washed down as my young cousin insisted on feeding them with cake.. In the wooden panelled dining room, which looked a bit like a set from the programme Columbo, one of Trevor’s favourite TV series at the time. In the room there was a black and white synthetic floor with inlaid black dots, it was synthetic because my mother having seen a TV programme had investigated into getting a special treatment for the floor, which involved coating the floor with a substance that would allow it to be used on occasions as an ice skating ring! This was in the period when my mother had visions of turning me into a top British ice-skater.. My grandmother had been billeted into knitting me a red ice-skating dress, which was hideous and stretched when it got wet because I kept falling over! I was forced to take weekly skating lessons, which I was extremely bad at and hated particularly as it was not my idea in the first place! … Thankfully eventually my mother gave up on this plan and turned to other ideas and formulas to plan out my future! And there is another story!

On the top of the black and white floor was a large Casa Pupo vivid green and white fringed rug, placed on top of this was the massive wooden candy twist refectory table, purchased from Harrods, which was now fast becoming their new ‘go to’ corner shop… Trevor was making money by the bucket load… My ever more wealthy parents, were making their mark on the world and Dutch Gardens was at the heart of their lives? Good luck to them I say ..

“That is the last time I play the Tart for You – Jerry” Margot – The Good Life

Later in Dutch Gardens design progress we had a full time architect who had an office attached to the garage, my mother worked closely with him whilst the never ending gardens and house works continued, changed and progressed. My parent’s lives were beginning to take different routes but Dutch Gardens continued to be their great love and perhaps the only thing that now cemented their fracturing relationship. The landscaping was now on the most epic level, with diggers and machinery excavating / creating more waterfalls and ponds, into which, my mother was introducing Koi Carp shipped in from aboard at great cost. To my delight all had to be named!

 One day a selection of mature trees was delivered to the end of the road because the lorry could not make it down the road as the trees were too tall and where knocking the overhead cables out, Dinky the gardener was dispatched to collect them, however my mother negated to advise him that they were full size and he turned up with a wheel barrow instead of the fork lift truck!

Everything was on full scale.. Bling! They never stopped working on the place, it was relentless, and the hammering, drilling, digging and sawing continued; the gangs of workmen, the endless changes went on and on. My parent’s design styles were beginning to rupture and they no longer saw eye to eye, on most things. And the neighbours hated us with a passion.. At this stage it had been over eighteen years of continuous building works .. Little did the neighbours know … There were many, many, more years of building to come… Which continues to go on to this day….

Trevor was sighted in two divorce cases, by neighbours due to the stress of them permanently living next to a building site. One weekend we were barricaded into the house by the neighbours who in their frustration erected concrete bollards to blockade the delivery entrance to the house. Undeterred but furious Trevor ripped them out and threw them back into the neighbours gardens, another quiet Sunday Lunch!… But to me it was all just normal …. Sort of … On the surface at least!

See Part 2 …..

My Family Home….Dutch Gardens….

Part two….

Matilda based on my mother … Which now belongs to me .. Matilda not my mother!

“There is nothing in human affairs that is a true subject for ridicule. Beneath comedy lies the ferment of tragedy; the farcical is but a cloak for coming catastrophe”

Clochemerle by Gabriel Chevallier

Trevor decided to close up the back entrance to the property and replace the gate to the back drive, it was time for him to seek his revenge on the neighbours. He built the base of the tower that you see in the newspaper article. A very large rockery was already built around the ‘Tower’ with stepping stones to the back entrance. The entire garden was flood lit in colour lights. It was the ultimate party house and it was at that time still alive.. Albeit that more cracks were beginning to show.. Trevor put in a planning application for a forty-five foot high‘look out’ tower which was to be constructed over the back entrance of the house, the prospect of which, understandably terrify and agitate the neighbours.. Once again! He wrote to every house in Wraysbury, the area, looking for support of his design and planning application, enclosing a stamped addressed envelope for their response! We were inundated with press attention, again! Dutch Gardens was once again on the national news, everyone had an opinion about it. We were door stepped by press as we left the house, everyone likes a nutcase …. The Telegraph article success proves that...

 At the planning meeting to determine the planning application, which was held in nearby town of Windsor, police had to be called to deal with the crowds baying for Trevor’s blood and more punch up’s ensued between rivalling camps in support and against. We made all the papers and the press the next day! One Westminster MP who was interviewed by the press stated, “The whole thing is getting more like a scene from Clochemerle” – A French comic novel written about the battle between the Catholic and Republic locals over the erection of a urinal being built in the local square!” Very apt! Finally the planners decided that Trevor could have a 25 foot tower, much to the dread of all the neighbours and who could blame them! Once he had finally got permission, Trevor did what he always does and lost interest in the project, until some years later. …More divorces and new sets of neighbour replaced the last, like a never ending supply of new people for Trevor to irritate. My mother as ever was social climbing and moving on to her ‘new’ life seeing a better future for herself.. She wanted to move on to bigger and better things. Trevor saw this as a betrayed and refused to be moved and so the building went on … As the relationship faltered..

“Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll … Is all my brain & body needs ….” By Ian Dury

Massive pumps were incorporated into the ponds to create the streams which ebbed and flowed night and day. Super powered switches were wiredinto a control panel housed in a cupboard in the house so at the touch of a button you could ramp up the volume of the water and the noise should you wish… It was very Rock & Roll! ‘Knock me down with a feather.. Clever Trevor…Ian Dury & the Blockheads’… As wild young things.. My brother and I took advantage of all the facilities whenever our parents were not there; although my mother did sometimes join in our partying.. The house continued to evolveand devolve as Trevor began demolishing finished area’s to create his new found artistic design tendencies, this was a cause of much tension between my parents … Amongst other things!

After a visit to a golf course Trevor noted the beautiful lushgreen fairways, despite it being a very hotdry summer, all made possible by the golf course irrigation system. He decided they had to have the very same “commercial” sprinkler system, installed at Dutch Gardens. Trenches were dug into the lawn and pipes were laid, at strategically placed intervals prehistoric lookingsprinkler headswould emerge from the ground whenever the system was switched on. The first attempt at running the sprinklers, which was all very state of the art as it was unforgettable… The ground literally vibrated with the power of the water, there was the most wonderful whoosh sound as the long neck sprinklers emerged from the lawn making ticking sound as they rotated backward and forward. All very exciting the only problem was, no-one thought to investigate the power of the sprinklers or the coverage of water they would emit.. They were after all designed to water the vast acreage of the golf coursenot asuburban garden… To late … So powerful were the jets of water, they were knocking the garden staff over like nine pins as they tried to run away from the soaking .. The sprinklers built up to full power… Pandemonium … The window cleaner who had just finished cleaning the vast amounts of windows, was nowbeingpinned to the window panes by the force the water. Leaks of water were entering the house as the sheer pressure of the water was now unstoppable. I watched from the large lounge as water smashed through some of the panes of glass. I could hear my mother screaming in hysteria… Eventually someone managed to get to the switch and turn the system off…. The water jets from the sprinklers slowly decreased in power, the ticking sound slowed up and then the spouts disappeared back into the ground… Dutch Gardens very own Tsunami …

It subsequently transpired that one sprinkler put on top of the house would have watered the entire property, Trevor had installed eight in just a quarter of the garden! More complaints filed in from the neighbours, as we had soaked them, one man had left his open topped sports car outside his home only to come out and find it filled with water! Another day with all the madness!Over time the sprinklers would periodically have a mind of their own or Trevor would take revenge on someone and my mother would issue further apologies to the neighbours as their barbecues were ruined.

In my late teens on the long summer’s evenings, my friends and I would sit in the grounds, smoking and drinking and just having fun, enjoying the environment with the haze of the outdoor lighting and the sound of the waterfalls all around us. Trevor would return home from work hear us laughing in the garden and set the sprinklers off to ruin our fun, he hated anyone enjoying the space.. Everything was only on his terms …. As the sprinklers rained down on us, we would attempt to run for cover…. Usually into the house … Dripping water all over the place, which would further enrage Trevor into one of his legendary tantrums…He would evict us all… I was glad.. The house was losing its glory… My mother had moved on to social engagements of her own and only occasionally lived or visited Dutch Gardens ….. Their relationship like the house was descending into the stuff of nightmares …

“The Madness of King George” By Alan Bennett

If He swears and indulges in MEANINGLESS DISCOURSE... He will be restrained. If He throws off his bed-clothes, tears away His bandages, scratches at His sores, and if He does not strive EVERY day and ALWAYS towards His OWN RECOVERY... then He must be restrained. George III: I am the King of England. 

As Trevor madness and megalomaniacal tendencies became more prevalent and the money continued to roll in, which saturated his wildest dreams, and now there was nothing and no one to restrain HIM. He was possessed by what he could create constantly changing what he had already created, turning what once had some cohesion as a fun ‘home’ and transforming it into a gauche pastiche of miss matching homage to Trevor’s ego. It was now the only thing that Trevor could fully control.. Things that were unfinished remained unfinished … My bedroom for example, had been subject to a number of my mother’s interior design projects, much to my irritation as I grew up. It was never finished, the new lighting now consisted of a half-finished florescent tube fittings all around the top of the walls, hidden behind a half finished pelmet that flashed on and off incessantly. When I switched it on the continuous strobing effect, was like living in George Orwells 1984…

 We were all at war …. These were corrosive times.. Yet the building went on …There was no stopping the madness …

Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris

“You still wake up sometimes, don’t you? You wake up in the dark and hear the screaming of the lambs”

Trevor’s obsession with living underground had taken hold, he continued digging under the house now obsessively, 14 Irish labours dug and dug at any one time, more skips of soil were dispensed with, more aggravation for the neighbours. Inevitably the hole under the house filled with water. Trevor got bored again and works stopped and he started digging somewhere else… Where there was once a beautiful landscaped garden now half the garden was just a collection of big holes filled with water and half finished … Soul destroying for my mother..

I spent a great deal of time on my own in this property, everyone else was always out and about, I was used to my own company. One night, I was sitting in the big lounge with my stash of snacks ready for the evening, I did this so I didn’t have to venture back into the house, the two dogs who were with me were going mad, barking, growling, and digging at the shag pile... Dutch Gardens could be a very scary place to be inat night, particularly as my parents had an aversion to curtains, so you always had the feeling that you were being watched through these enormous floor to ceiling windows. Which I later found out was exactly what was going on .. But that is another story.

I was trying to ignore the dogs and watch TV but they were not going to have it, fussing and barking, this meant only one thing … I was going to have to make the very scary run, through the dining room into the hall then hang a quick left into the kitchen to get them some treats to shut them up, I was not keen … On the TV was a programme called Police 5, presented by Shaw Taylor, it was about catching criminals, this episode was a special on man dubbed, The Black Panther who had kidnapped a young heiress, it was all quite scary … Suddenly there was a massive whoosh sound and the floor gave way under me, I was thrown back onto the leatherChesterfield sofa by the force, the dogs shot out the room screaming and urinating in terror as they ran for cover …The naff 1970’s bar in the corner of the room moved and clunked as the glasses clattered together from their position on the shelves in protest, dust filled the room then the floor came to a short but abrupt halt and everything shuddered. Good old Shaw Taylor continued to give details about the Black Panther albeit that the TV had now moved position… I glanced around the room through the haze of dust nothing in principal had changed, but instinctively I knew it had. I pushed myself off the sofa; Shaw Taylor was doing his signature sign off of Keep ‘em peeled… Dust was sparkling in the light, looking up I saw a large gash in the wall above the bar, at some points at least four inches wide, the plaster that had fallen from the crack was now decorating the black bar top. On the other side of the room was even longer and wider crack, the sliding glazed panel door that separated the lounge from the adjacent small sitting room was hanging at a slight angle. Looking down at the floor line, there was now a gap were the wall and the floor had divorced each other, the skirting was splintered and cracked but still attached to the wall but not the floor, the black tile grout, that circled the bar was still attached to the skirting yet the tiles had remained unseated and scatted haphazardly to the floor. There had been a serious parting of the ways!

What had happened? The team of Irish navvies, Trevor had hired to dig the massive void under the house in order to create the underground dungeon’esque area, had not adequately propped up the structures and the floor under the house to sufficiently hold the house up! Only a minor detail, but as ever a crucial one! The water from the nearby River Thames had seeped into the void raising the level of the natural water table. The sheer force of the water whooshing and swirling around inthe large holehaddestabilised the stone and sand sides of the excavationthusdestabilising the foundations of this part of the house causing the groundfloor of the house to drop accordingly! Never a dull moment, but this, could not be blamed on me! But none the less there was the inevitable blood chilling tantrum from Trevor!

As the years rolled on Dutch Gardens imploded asTrevor’s obsession with living like a mole underground continued, digging endlessly under the house to create his own new space, creating issues with the water table and creating his own artesian well, the pressure of which causing theground water to increase to such a pressure that it forced the next door neighbours garage out of the ground. All in a day’s work! As you have seen from the article and VT on the net … Trevor has over the last thirty years created whatever has taken his fancy, with total disregard to some of the most basic design ethics and lack of care to many people … That said, some of his work is extremely clever … But to me none of it really works.. It looks like a theme park … The only thing that really works is the original bit of the garden and waterfall which was part of the redevelopment that both my parents undertook … But then it is not my house it is his and this is his baby – Dutch Gardens…

“Well, Clarice have the lambs stopped screaming..?”

The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris

This was a house that was once lived in, it was alive it had a pulse and a heart of sorts. Now in my opinion it has descended into one wealthy man’s mental health issue /disorder.

 I hope I have given you a small flavour of what it was like to be part of Dutch Gardens, it was an amazing house of its time and its period, and it was a credit to both my parents despite the darkness that lurked in every corner. I have a lot to be grateful for, for a start … I got out alive with a story or ten to tell…. Dutch Gardens in its ‘hay day’ featured in a number of television adverts and was very on trend for its time despite its very odd location in Wraysbury or Toilets-Ville … Which was my pet name for the area as a teenager ….

My mother had moved on, as had I. Trevor became more entrenched and more obsessed in his madness like the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland, said. “I knew who I was this morning but I’ve changed a few times since then”… He has made his way through tens of millions of pounds, recreating a property that he loves and turning his back on all else … And in that vein … Everyone should be able to create their own madness …. To a point ….

“You would have to be half mad to dream me up”

Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

Having read the article Trevor has once again changed the facts, to me it was like we were all airbrushed out of our own lives. As the article pointed out Trevor has based himself on Napoleon, a man who was exiled from all reality; and was eventually confined to the island of Saint Helena to live in a rat infested house called Longwood. Napoleon managed to persuade the Governor of the island to allow him to build a new Longwood House, a new beginning, if you will, but like Trevor he negated to reflect on the past? Napoleon died just before the house was completed and after the Second World War … It was demolished…. Napoleon is remembered as a tyrant ….

I will keep you briefed on the full story …