Tea party

There is an Enid Blyton story - possibly one of the Faraway Tree series or the Wishing Chair series - in which the children go to a land called "The Land of Take What you Want". This is a theme which Enid Blyton returns to repeatedly in her fiction, appealing to children's greed. In a splendid moment, each of the children can choose whichever flavour of ice cream they want. One of the more inventive selects sardine, which comes with the tails sticking out like Stargazy pie...but then doesn't like the thought of eating it. In the days when Heston Blumenthal is quite happy to serve bacon and egg ice cream, it doesn't sound too appalling. I once had foie gras ice cream in Spain.

But the point of this is to reminisce about when my old headmistress, Philippa Hartley, retired. She was one of the old school, with one of the most intelligent voices I have ever heard. When Mrs Hartley was about to retire, she held an afternoon tea for all the pupils in her class. A short time before the day arrived, her colleague, Mrs Hancock, soon to take over as Head, asked us each to choose something we wanted to eat at the tea party.

In keeping with the spirit of Enid Blyton, I decided to choose something I had never been given before but had clearly struck a chord: cherry buns. Where had I read about them? Had they been packed by Aunt Fanny into a Famous Five picnic? Or eaten in the shed by the Secret Seven? I do not remember but they were what I chose.

We sat around a long table in the garden of Mrs Hartley's house in Coventry. Among many other things were the cherry buns, which one of the two ladies pointed out to me and encouraged me to eat: glacé cherries studded into little sponge cakes. Inevitably they were a disappointment but I hope I didn't show it.

That was not the only celebration for Mrs Hartley's retirement. The parents, I seem to recall, clubbed together to take her out for dinner. Somehow I discovered where they were all going and I could not resist revealing what I knew to the guest of honour: "Guess where you're going", I said triumphantly to Mrs Hartley one morning. "The Old Mill!" She looked bemused. Much later, I recall being mildly admonished for betraying the surprise - although the lady herself only realised when she arrived at her destination: "So that's what he meant!"

And what a long retirement she ended up having: about thirty years later I saw her, at a school anniversary celebration. Physically but not mentally diminished, she sat in a chair throughout, holding court to her former pupils. It turned out to be the last time I saw her, and the school: five years later, she had died and the school had been sold.