Stiletto is so anxious to pick up curious information about Freemasonry that she is reduced to asking unsuspecting men about the origins of their cufflinks. This has proved so far fruitless, in that as yet it has only yielded a number of wordy expositions on the founders, mottos and coats of arms of various Oxford colleges. (One friend confided her husband insisted on changing his socks immediately before meetings, but hopefully this practice is not specifically related to Freemasonry.)
    I asked my mother. She, usefully, has lived all her life alongside Freemasons. “My father was always frantic to get to Evensong early - so that he could sit at the end of the pew and read a mysterious little book which he knew was something masonic. “Come on, come on,” he would joke, checking his watch against the clock in the hall, “or we won’t get a seat.” The church was always half empty. He just wanted peace and quiet. We thought the apron perfectly ridiculous and would peep inside its smart leather case and giggle.” And what about meetings? - “Well, we children knew where he was going. But mother never talked about it... There were no ladies’ nights in the 1930s. If it was a special occasion, we knew because our uncles would arrive at the house... oh, and I think there were sometimes meals that mother helped to prepare, when there was some sort of installation.”
    Now this is more interesting. The Eye (issue 10) noted in its report of the razzmatazz at the 20th anniversary of the Regular Grand Lodge of Belgium that “the festivities terminated very late after an excellent banquet prepared under the supervision of a Freemason who was for many years owner of one of the few restaurants awarded three stars by the Michelin Guide.” My grandparents too would have understood banquets. The family business of groceries and animal feedstuffs existed in a golden, pre-supermarket age when hatted customers perched on high stools at polished wooden counters and gave their orders to genial, obliging assistants. Butter arriving in barrels was cut, patted, weighed and wrapped by hand. Bacon, green or smoked, was sliced to order on a shiny white machine, (‘what number, Madam?’) and the port and sherry delivered in casks was bottled, corked and labelled in an adjacent warehouse. My grandfather blended the house teas himself by thoughtfully tasting various brews before unceremoniously spitting them into a bucket. Indian was packed in blue and white papers, China in red and white. Orders went out to the surrounding farms on horse-drawn drays. Distance was no inhibition for those maddening customers who then requested forgotten items, - some, Carr’s water biscuits perhaps - and the horses, on their return to the busy yard behind the shop where the loose boxes stood almost adjacent to my grandfather’s office, would immediately be sent out again.
    When organising a festive board, this set-up, one street away from the town’s masonic rooms, would have been invaluable. Stiletto guesses that the finest amontillado sherry was on tap, perhaps a York ham, and the best stilton cheese in the world. No wonder my grandfather’s Brothers made a point of showing up, to enjoy again the tastes of home. And did they toast the ladies? I hope so.