The Flower Book

My father’s mother, Granny Young to me, “Hetty” to her husband Jack, full name Clarissa Henrietta Young was an extraordinary woman. 

Before she married my Grandfather she worked as a cook in a large country house. She was a demon in the kitchen. My parents were often away at weekends, so as a small boy I would often stay with my Grandparents at their house in Sherborne. The house had been built by her Grandmother, Mary Ann Young, who was a formidable woman. Tales of Mary Ann, who drove a carriage with four horses as part of her furniture business, are legendary.
I owned and lived in that same house after Granny Young died in the 1980s.
She would take me on long, improving country walks during which she would educate me in the ways of the countryside. She taught me the names of all the trees, plants and flowers and what purpose each one had. The same with all the creatures that lived in the woods. Amongst the clover, she would task me to find a four-leafed one. A specialty of hers. A four leafed clover is a genetic abnormality, the vast proportion have three leaves. She knew which patches of clover would hold the magic four leaf prize, by some manner which I never fully comprehended, but learned to be able to do the same. Somehow, I would always manage to find at least one for her. She would take them from me and carefully press them into a small book which she always carried. This became known to me as Granny’s flower book.
It was some time later that I discovered the purpose of this book, when she showed it to me, at an older age. Back at the house, we’d be cooking. Always baking. She took time to show me every step, how to care for the dough, so it behaved in the manner you wished for when baked. Oh how she baked. It was a constant activity and the aroma in her kitchen was so mightily glorious, I can smell it now. We always baked on each visit. Breads of many kinds, biscuits and sweet things of a thousand varieties. That’s when we weren’t making gravy from the beef which was delivered to her door by a man in a white coat with bloody hands. Or putting things in jars with salt or vinegar to preserve them. Or an abounding number of other kitchen tasks. All of which resulted in delicious meal times and snacks. I absolutely loved being with her during those weekends, it was such a change from being at home, where I was not allowed in the kitchen and my mother would never have walked in the countryside. Her legs were made for dancing, in far off places.
One day Granny sat me down and showed me the flower book. Inside were many pages, each one with name written in pen, and their birthday date after that. A single, or a number of four-leafed clover were pressed onto the opposing page. It was to keep them safe, she said, and for luck. There was even a page for me and my sister Lesley. But I was not to touch it.
Granny taught me the value of the countryside and good quality food, which I retained all my life.
Many years after she died, when even my Father was elderly and fading, an amazing thing occurred. Dad asked me to go and look in one of his many properties, one he referred to as “The stores”. Where he used to keep all kinds of things. Nobody had been there for many years and I was sure it was empty. But he was insistent and told me there was a car in there. I was to go and see it and report back.
He handed me a bunch of rusty old keys. I went to the stores. It took a while to get the lock to turn and the old wooden door open. Inside was dark and a mass of thick cobwebs. I flicked the light switch just in case and surprisingly a row of bare light bulbs lit up.
The whole place was the size of about 5 car garages laid side to side. It was fully racked out along the back wall with metal shelves, on which were placed identically sized cardboard boxes. Hundreds of them. But I was looking for something car shaped.
On the main floor area were larger objects of all kinds, including some wooden crates and wooden boxes, a few ancient old desks and a chair which I recognised as my Grandfather would sit on it at work.
At the far end was a large car sized object covered in a large tarpaulin.
I picked up one edge and instantly knew what it was. My Father’s last racing car. I had always assumed that he had broken it down and sold the parts, which is what he used to do when he was building the next one.
I took the whole cover off and took a few photos to show Dad.

Then, curiosity got the better of me, so I went over to the wall of cardboard boxes. Picking one at random, I carefully slid it off the shelf, resting it on a desk. Then opened the lid, put my hand in and took out the first thing I saw.

Granny’s flower book. Without opening it, I knew immediately what it was. I put it in my pocket, switched the light off and closed the door. Back at Dad’s I showed him the photographs of his car. He just smiled and said “See? Told you he was in there, didn’t I?” Dad would often refer to things as “he”, a habit I adopted. I showed him the book too. He knew it well, both our names were in there, his rather more faded than mine.
Dad said, “She wanted you to find it son, so take it with you. The car is yours too, do with it what you like, but  take it soon and make sure it’s somewhere dry.”
So I did. I still have the flower book and a few other other wonderful things from those magical boxes. The car could not travel with me to Croatia, where it would have had no purpose or place, so it ended up in a collection of Meriden Triumph Triple engined bikes, as it has an extremely rare and early, Norman Hyde modified T160 engine. It was restored to its former glory and is regularly run in classic racing events. Meriden being the final Triumph factory of the original company, not these new people who simply use the badge and name.
The car’s full story is for another time.