NOSTALGIA

I was already fed up, not looking forward to visiting yet another musty venue. The National Trust was always my nanna’s territory. Her playground, not mine. I would’ve rather sat on their cracked beige leather sofa and watched Cinderella. Nanna assured me of a good day, softening me up with humbugs passed to the back seat of the car. I huffed, secretly satiated, and watched with a frown as we rolled into Killerton’s car park.  

Red Brick walls encased rows of spaces separated by neat lines of tamed green hedge. In the boot of their silver Toyota Celica was a wicker picnic basket. It was like something out of Paddington: lined with traditional, checked fabric, little leather buckles keeping our sandwiches safe. We left that in the car for later.  

Every trip we ate on some mucky picnic bench or in our car seats. Looking back, why didn’t we sit in the café? Or on the grass? There was a croquet area too, we could have sat there. My elder sister recently reminded me of the croquet pitch – her message was truly enlightening: ‘I particularly remember playing crocket or however you spell it.’ Thanks, Imogen. But maybe it was a day of bad weather. I can’t remember such a detail. 

Through an archway, framed by vines, like Lucy Pevensie stepping into Narnia. Rolling gardens. A Manor House. A long-gone family. A home, frozen in time. Pianos with keys that no longer get played. Plush sofas with no one to curl up on them. No ladies to arrange fustian skirts sophisticatedly on the seat cushions as they sit, or to cradle a tiny hardback book. An absent fire, hiding behind a decorated fire screen. I remember Nanna teaching me they prevented the ladies’ dresses from getting singed. Perhaps she got that titbit from the information panels dotted around each perfectly preserved room. Nanna read everything on those panels. And in the booklets. Everything. This must be a generational curse: my mum is also guilty of the sin. But, as Nanna read and boredom set in, I metamorphosised.   

I became the most sophisticated lady in the grand house. I strutted my stuff, just like a lady surely would have. In reality, I must have looked a picture, gawking in awe as I played make-believe. My childish mind had a tendency to wander, so, wander it did. 

The house was too quiet. Too perfectly still. I found the silence intriguing, but also uncomfortable and jarring. I wanted to see an 18th century family walk in. I almost expected it. To hear murmured tones of conversation, and the quiet crackle of russet flames licking logs in the fireplace. To smell the warmth, and the must in the worn old pages of a lady’s book. To listen to melodies from the ebony C. Bechstein piano drift through the frozen air.   

Perhaps this was just another adolescent deviation from reality, but standing in a beautiful room such as that seemed wrong. Maybe I was used to my mother playing our glossed mahogany upright piano, and the Bach that flitted through the house. She often practiced Moonlight Sonata’s third movement. This was also the piece Nanna requested Mum play at her funeral many years later, just before her death in 2016. Of course, sick with cancer and bedridden, oxygen tube linked to her nose, Nanna planned her entire funeral with her daughter. My nanna was a force to be reckoned with, especially in those last days. Did she drink Prosecco? Yes. Did she absolutely demand steak for dinner with peppercorn sauce and mushrooms? Yes. Was there any chance she could stomach it or even swallow it? No. Nanna was stubborn, and sometimes, her refusal to be anything but the epitome of lady-like glamour was quite humorous.  

Incredible, how one memory of a day out to a charity owned estate can erupt into so many different memories, both good and sad. But every memory, every moment with my nanna is precious, and I’m so thankful for every one of them.   

We toured the house until we reached my favourite room in any and every National Trust home. The library. Books hidden in cases. Books on desks. Books on shelves. It seemed as though the very walls were constructed from books. I remember feeling like Belle from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, whirling around the splendour of towering shelves brimming with a plethora of worlds to discover. I grabbed Nanna’s hand, completely overwhelmed.  

As children, we are bound to imagine and romanticise; to dream. Killerton, in all its sophistication, gave me that opportunity. In their noble endeavours to preserve these historical venues, the National Trust created a haven that flourished with new life and experiences. A place for memories to be made and remembered. For some, the memory might simply be a pleasant day out, but for me, this individual, arguably insignificant memory, holds so much sentimental value. Killerton triggers a myriad of other memories which would otherwise be forgotten. I hope I never forget Killerton. Or my nanna, and her elegance, her grace, and expensive taste. Or the library, and my departure from reality. I thought nothing could top Killerton’s library that day, but I was soon corrected.  

The library wasn’t even the best part.  

We walked through the house until we met a wall. A wall of books. A wall of books that moved. My jaw dropped. A secret door. I looked at Nanna, awaiting permission to advance and, again Lucy Pevensie, I stepped through my very own wardrobe.