Field trip

We gather outside the luggage room in the servants’ quarters waiting hopefully for a guest appearance of the regency ghost: any sense of animation would be welcome. This is a house of architectural class and gender divisions; everyone in their place but no-one present. Unlike other stately homes which are still partially inhabited, Lanhydrock aches of the dead. The loss of a cherished son in the trenches was the catalyst for the disintegration and dispersal of a dynasty. The twentieth century commenced only after the first two decades of the 1900’s. With no further generations to push the place along, the house became a cold Edwardian mausoleum, frozen in time.

I am fascinated by the abundance of animals all of which are one way or another, happily enmeshed in the memory of those who are themselves now absent. It begins in the kitchen where the spits in front of the range are large enough to cook a couple of rhinos and ends in the gallery whose ceiling is deliciously carved with every bird and beast imaginable. In between, is the casserole dish. Made from Staffordshire caneware, I covet this beautiful object which is embossed with deer and ducks that leap and fly freely between vine leaves. As the rabbit handle was lifted, releasing the game-induced aroma, those sat amongst the claret crystal at the ivy-dressed dining table would speak contentedly of the killing fields.

We wander along an antler-lined corridor towards a large moose head which peers through red velvet drapes. Before we can reach out to stroke its lovely nose however, our attention is distracted by the discovery of the missing choughs which have been caught, stuffed and placed in a glass box on a hidden window-sill. A mere introduction, they preface a nightmare of taxidermy. In the smoking room, the scent of phantom cigars is overtaken by the rot of death: a redundant fox leaps across the fireplace whilst the remains of a tiger glare timidly from the floor. Along with the rules of the Eton Society and a selection of deceased birds, the walls are hung with pictures of the hunt. When a volunteer arrives with a small watering can, it’s perplexing to imagine what can possibly remain alive in this gloomy room; but, there on the sideboard, a small plant is indeed waging a battle for survival.

In her ladyship’s bedroom, things are a little calmer. Pristine white linen is laid out on the bed having been recently returned from the home for fallen women at Lostwithiel who are paying for their sins by washing the clothes of the gentry. On the dressing table, along with the eau de colognes, sits a small embroidered cushion bearing the legend welcome little stranger. Apparently, it served to mark the imminent arrival of yet another of the ten children my lady gave birth to. Usefully, it could have doubled up as a greeting to any one of them that was brought along from another part of the house for a brief meeting with their mother but I keep this thought to myself. I don’t want to upset the charming ladies who are proudly displaying the cut glass dish designed to hold the spare hair that accumulated in her ladyship’s brush.

We pass through the boudoir, gaze at the drawing room and follow the sounds of the Steinway emanating from the library. It’s a robust accompaniment to our neck-breaking examination of the ceiling. There are written explanations and mirrors but no smoking guns. With Adam and Eve displayed in so many interesting poses amongst the romping fauna, I forget to look for the grey lady who haunts this part of Lanhydrock. I’m too busy following Genesis to worry any longer about the dead.