Thomas and I met two years after my mother’s death. I was travelling in Italy and bidden to dinner with a well-known figure in the art world. Thomas sat opposite and looked at me through the candles and I knew at once that he would fill the gap in my life. After that dinner, he telephoned. He was writing a book on English interior decoration through the ages and he wanted to look at Hinton Dysart. The rest, as they say, is history.
He brought with him a knowledge of porphyry stone and blue john, marble, ormolu and giltwood. He knew about glazed tiles, and stained-glass windows, about painters, furniture and the things that belong in great houses. It was Thomas who persuaded me to hand it over. ‘It won’t survive otherwise, my dear,’ he said, over and over again. ‘I’ve seen it all too often.’ When I protested he said, ‘You are the last of the line: be practical. What will happen when you die?’ And so it was, on 7 November 1980, that I gave the house away to the Trust. There was a small crowd of well-wishers from the village, a formal handing-over ceremony when I surrendered the key and then it was down the drive to Dippenhall Street where we had chosen to live.
Some things are too difficult to speak about, almost to write about. This is one of them. It might have been different if Polly’s son had lived, or Flora had had sons. But it wasn’t so and, as Thomas said, one has to be practical. I accept the necessity now as I was persuaded to accept it then, and out of that decision I have made my life.
I left the house surrounded by dying embers of the autumn plants; withering rose hips, the brittle remains of the autumn crocuses, whirling seeds, and the dark, shadowy blocks of the yew and the evergreens. My children...
But at night I return to the silent rooms and beautiful garden, to join the ghosts from the past.