One rainy Wednesday afternoon in the spring of 1889, my paternal grandfather, Gerard Schoetel, found himself in the grand, pillared foyer of Claridge’s hotel in Mayfair, London. He had recently left Holland, unnerved by the political situation at that time in mainland Europe. Apparently, he had been a professor at the university in Delft but had decided to come and seek his fortune in London. It is clear, from what happened that afternoon, that he was unfamiliar with the rules of decorum that applied to polite society in Victorian England. Either that or he was so overcome upon first seeing my grandmother that he quite forgot himself.
Rose Daniels, my Irish grandmother, was quietly standing in a corner, waiting for her sister Beatrice to come out of the powder room. The sisters had just treated themselves to a sumptuous tea in the hotel; Rose, it is said, was especially partial to warm buttered crumpets and cake, and Trixie loved the hotel’s famous scones. The tantalizing aroma of freshly baked cakes and biscuits wafted gently through the foyer, mingling with the perfume from the perfectly arranged vases of flowers. The discreet chink of china cups and the crisp white tablecloths scattered with crumbs indicated that tea was still in full flow, with a small queue of people waiting to be seated.
Seeing Rose standing alone in a corner, and with complete disregard to what anybody watching might have thought of his impudence, Gerard walked straight up to her and boldly asked her name. Rose was so taken aback that she found herself replying, “Trixie”, which wasn’t her name at all, but rather her sister Beatrice’s family nickname. By some strange logic, in her bewilderment and confusion, Rose thought that if she did not give this handsome foreign stranger her real name, she would somehow not be breaking the rules of polite society.
Mesmerized, their gloved fingertips barely touching, they exchanged a few more words before the real Trixie returned from the powder room. Then, according to family lore, Gerard gave Rose his solemn promise: “I am going to marry you.” Rose, flushed and trembling from the encounter, must nonetheless have managed to slip Gerard her address before a horrified Trixie dragged her outside to find a cab. Or, perhaps, he simply set about finding her with what few clues he had.
Six months later, Rose climbed down the thick honeysuckle growing outside her bedroom window at the darkest hour of the night and eloped with her handsome Gerard. Her family never spoke to her again. I know little about her because she died a long time before I was born, and by the time I was old enough to ask about Rose there was barely anyone left who had known her. Rose’s eldest daughter, my Aunt Leonora, remembered a little: she told me that Rose had a magnificent bosom, large enough to create a flat shelf that was big enough to balance her teacup upon, and that Gerard was always madly possessive of her. Apparently, my grandmother was also a very good cook.
Gerard changed his Dutch surname to Scott, and their complicated, peripatetic married life began. Through their many adventures, which took them all over the world in Gerard’s insatiable desire to chase fortune whenever and wherever it beckoned him, he always called Rose by the name Trixie. There were nine children born from their stormy relationship, conceived in places as far away as Argentina, Australia and Egypt. In faded photographs I have been shown, the family stands as a large group of smiling figures. But by the time they returned to live in England they had only five surviving children: Gerard, Leonora, Paula, Peter and Howard, my father.
My grandfather was fiercely passionate about being a British citizen, and wherever the family happened to be – whether it was opal mining in Australia or burning up with silver-mine fever in Argentina – he insisted that all his children had to be born on British soil. As a result, Rose had to endure countless voyages back to England, often in the last stages of pregnancy. Family legend has it that she gave birth on the dockside at Southampton at least twice. One story I particularly like, as it reflects the love that bound them, describes how Gerard paid for Rose to travel back to their home country from some far-flung place only to realize, once she had gone, how much he was missing her. He set sail with the entire household, on a faster boat than hers, and was on the quayside to meet her when her ship docked, having squandered all their money in the process.
I can hardly remember my grandparents being talked about at all, although a slight whiff of scandal seemed to pursue their memory throughout my childhood. Gerard’s appalling – and completely groundless – jealousy caused all kinds of tensions and much broken china. Apparently, things got most heated on Sundays when he would become absolutely convinced that he had seen some man in church giving Rose the glad eye. He would be equally certain that she had glanced back winsomely from under the brim of her hat and seethed with jealousy throughout the entire service, glaring at everyone; then, as soon as the pair had returned home, he would start shouting his wild accusations. My father and his siblings would cower at the table as their Sunday lunch was sent flying through the air. “What would you have for your Sunday lunch instead?” I asked my aunt, Leonora. “Bread and butter,” she replied, her bitterness evident even 60 years later.
I find it amazing that Rose, my resilient grandmother, remains such a mystery to me. She gave me Irish blood by her birth (ironically, her only bit of Englishness was acquired as a result of her marrying a Dutchman who then became so thoroughly English), but she left so few stories for my family to hand down. She had even lost touch with her dearly loved sister Beatrice after her elopement.
The recipes that I associate my grandmother with are as unashamedly romantic as she obviously was, and are based around the gorgeous, girly afternoon tea on the day that she fell in love.
From left, Grandmother Rose and Grandpa Gerard with family and friends at a family christening.
The unmistakable scent of lavender makes these scones very special. I find lavender somehow reminiscent of an era long gone. Be careful not to use too much when cooking, as it can completely overpower all other flavours and turn bitter. Rose Petal Jam (see page 40) is especially delicious with these scones.
Makes 12
Preparation time: 20 minutes, plus making the jam
Cooking time: 10-12 minutes
60g/2¼oz unsalted butter, cubed, plus extra for greasing
400g/14oz/scant 3¼ cups plain white flour, plus extra for dusting
1 tbsp baking powder
2 tbsp granulated sugar
2 tsp fresh edible lavender or 1 tsp dried culinary lavender, coarsely ground
150ml/5fl oz/scant 
cup milk, plus extra for brushing
Rose Petal Jam (see page 40) and clotted cream, to serve
Preheat the oven to 220°C/425°F/Gas 7 and lightly grease a baking sheet with butter. Sift the flour and baking powder into a mixing bowl. Add the butter and rub in with your fingertips until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs.
In a separate bowl, combine the sugar and lavender, reserving a small amount of the mixture for sprinkling. Stir the mixture into the flour and butter, then add just enough of the milk to form a soft, sticky dough. Do not overwork the dough or the scones will be heavy.
Gently roll out the dough on a floured work surface until 2.5cm/1in thick. Using a sharp knife, cut out 12 × 5cm/2in square scones (or use a 5cm/2in round pastry or cookie cutter dusted in flour). Don’t pat down the edges of the scones but leave the cut edges slightly rough to allow the scones to rise in layers as they bake.
Transfer the scones to the prepared baking sheet, then brush the tops with a little milk and sprinkle with the reserved lavender sugar. Bake for 10–12 minutes, or until risen and light golden brown. Slide onto a wire rack and leave to cool. Serve the scones with Rose Petal Jam and clotted cream.
The delicate fragrance of elderflower is amazing when combined with lemon, and in this lovely teatime cake both flavour and scent come together beautifully.
Serves 8
Preparation time: 30 minutes
Cooking time: 30–35 minutes
Cake:
butter, for greasing
225g/8oz/scant 1 cup caster sugar, plus 1 tbsp for sprinkling
4 large eggs
225g/8oz/heaped 1¾ cups plain white flour, sifted
2 tbsp lemon juice
1 tsp finely grated unwaxed lemon zest
Glaze:
115ml/3¾fl oz/scant ½ cup elderflower cordial
1 tbsp grated unwaxed lemon zest
2 tbsp caster sugar
2 edible elderflower heads, shaken and divided into small florets, plus edible flowers, to decorate
Filling:
300ml/10½fl oz/scant 1¼ cups double or whipping cream
2 tbsp elderflower cordial
Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Line 2 × 20cm/8in shallow cake tins with greaseproof paper, then grease the paper with butter and sprinkle with the 1 tablespoon sugar. To make the cake, separate the eggs into 2 bowls, then cover and chill the egg whites. Whisk the yolks until fluffy, then sprinkle in the sugar, one spoonful at a time, and continue whisking until the mixture is thick, light and pale. Gradually fold in the flour using a metal spoon, alternating with the lemon juice and zest, until mixed together.
Whisk the egg whites until soft peaks form, then gently fold into the flour mixture to make a batter. Divide the mixture between the prepared tins and bake for 20–25 minutes, or until golden and firm when lightly pressed with your finger. Leave to cool in the tins for 5 minutes, then turn the cakes out onto a wire rack, remove the paper and leave to cool completely.
Meanwhile, make the glaze. Put the elderflower cordial, lemon zest and sugar in a small pan over a low heat and heat through, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Increase the heat slightly and boil for 6 minutes, or until syrupy. Drop in the elderflower florets and remove from the heat. Leave to cool slightly, then strain through a fine sieve into a bowl.
To make the filling, whip the cream in a bowl until thick, then fold in the elderflower cordial. Spread the cream over one cake and top with the second cake. Lightly prick the top with a cocktail stick in several places, then spoon the warm glaze over and decorate with the flowers.
The roses with the most intense flavour are, not surprisingly, also the most intensely perfumed. This is a beautifully coloured, fragrant jam that complements the Lavender Scones on page 36. Please do bear in mind that any flowers intended for eating must be free of pesticides. Never eat or cook with flowers from florists, nurseries or garden centres, as in most cases these flowers will have been treated with pesticides.
Makes about 450g/1lb
Preparation time: about 30 minutes, plus overnight standing
Cooking time: about 30 minutes
225g/8oz edible pink or red rose petals
400g/14oz/heaped 1¾ cups granulated sugar
juice of 2 lemons
Discard the bitter bases from the rose petals, snipping them off neatly with scissors. Gently rinse the petals under cold running water, then drain. Put them in a large, shallow bowl and sprinkle over enough sugar to coat each petal. Cover and leave to stand overnight.
The following day, put the remaining sugar, lemon juice and 1l/35fl oz/4 cups water in a stainless steel preserving pan or heavy-based saucepan over a low heat and stir continuously to dissolve the sugar. Stir in the rose petals and simmer over a very low heat for 20 minutes.
Increase the heat to medium-high and bring to the boil, then boil hard for 5 minutes, or until the mixture thickens and reaches 105°C/221°F on a sugar thermometer, or a small spoonful dropped onto a cold saucer and cooled slightly sets and remains firm when pushed with your fingertip.
Remove the pan from the heat and transfer the jam to a hot, dry sterilized jar and fill to within 5mm/¼in of the top. Seal immediately while the jam is still hot and then leave to cool. Store in a dark, cool place until required.
Cook’s Note: To sterilize jam jars, wash them well, then keep immersed in boiling water until required. At home, we would quickly wipe the insides of the glass jars with a piece of muslin dipped in pure alcohol just before adding the jam to ensure they were completely clean and germ-free.
I cannot help feeling that Beatrice and Rose must have eaten cucumber sandwiches that afternoon at Claridge’s, so I have added a recipe for them – my modern interpretation of this great teatime classic.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 15 minutes, plus 30 minutes standing
1 cucumber, peeled and sliced very thinly
½ tsp sea salt
25g/1oz parsley leaves
1 tbsp olive oil
2 tsp lemon juice
3 tbsp cream cheese
2 tbsp pine nuts
8 slices of white bread
40g/1½oz watercress, leaves picked off
¼ tsp paprika
Sprinkle the cucumber with the salt and leave in a colander to drain for 30 minutes, then rinse and pat dry with kitchen paper.
Put the parsley, oil, lemon juice, cream cheese and pine nuts in a food processor and whizz until just smooth.
Thinly spread 4 slices of the bread with half of the cream cheese mixture. Top each with a layer of watercress leaves and then a layer of cucumber. Sprinkle very lightly with the paprika.
Spread the remaining slices of bread with the remaining cream cheese, put on top of the cucumber, spread-side down, and sandwich together. Cut off the crusts, slice into neat triangles or fingers and serve immediately with any remaining watercress.
My Nonna Valentine de Dudzeele.
