As David had already done two morning tours, Susie — one of20 volunteer guides — did the afternoon shift. The Homewoodis reached by minibus from Claremont Gardens, another Trustproperty just down the road, and as we emerged from the curving,rhododendron-lined drive Susie was standing in the vastport-cochère, ready to greet us. “Let me tell you a little about Patrick,” she said,framed by an industrial-style, forest-green front door set into awall of glass bricks. “Such as the fact that he was just 24when he built this house.” There is no getting around the fact that the Gwynnes were loaded.They were a four-car family even in 1938 and by the time theirtalented son had flattened their existing Victorian house and builtits startling replacement, the cost had amounted to about￡10,000. Esher houses at that time were changing hands for￡300-￡400; they had to sell an estate they owned inWales in order to pay for it. What makes The Homewood absolutely remarkable is that, bar awartime stint in the RAF, Gwynne lived here for his entire life,constantly changing and improving — depending on your pointof view — the original design. The only thing that neverchanged was his love of light, spatial forms and storage. It reminded me of a coconut in reverse; blinding white outside,richly textured inside. The hallway had walls of chocolate hessian,wheat-coloured imitation Japanese grass paper — Gwynne lovedman-made materials — and silvery-white mosaic tiles. Verticalwindows overlooked a terrace patched with squares of red poppiesand the swooping garden with its purple smears of heather and theshivering greys and greens of silver birch, acer and conifer. In the grey study, lit by black-framed horizontal windows, a wholebank of narrow architects’ drawers, cream with black edges,lined the back wall. The black leather meeting table had drinkstrays concealed in its circular edge, cupboard doors sliddiscreetly open, a side-table was bolted to the wall. “See this?” said Susie, indicating the back wall.“It’s not straight, it’s convex. There are veryfew real right-angles in this house.” She was right: thingslooked straight but were slightly kinked, with the sort of curvesthat make aquiline noses sexy and boomerangs return. It was all alittle bit out of true. Imagine a floor-plan shaped like a capital “J”,elevated by pillars to first-floor height, and that’s TheHomewood: four bedrooms in the cross bar (oddly small and sombre,in comparison to the living areas, but with en-suite bathrooms,which was unusual for the time); living area in the vertical bit;kitchen and staff quarters — now off-limits, because thefamily lives there — in an annexe to the left. At its centre, a creamy whorl of a staircase, like the inside of ashell, led up to the landing known in the family as “TheBridge” due to its commanding position, flanked by walls ofwindows north and south and doors into both wings. Then, the pièce de résistance. Susie flung open creamleather double doors in a wall of smoked mirror glass and we allgasped. I felt sick again. A floor of sprung maple glowed underpools of furniture in a room 36 feet long, on one side drenched inthe light from three bays of horizontal, Japanese-style,garden-facing windows, and on the other lined by a wall of warmIndian laurel, inset with three bays of horizontal shelves withglass or tambour doors. A Chinese screen door at the far end revealed a dining room and awhite-railed outer deck, like the stern of a ship that had taken awrong turn and was steaming across Esher Common by mistake.“You, me, a couple of gin-and-tonics,” whispered onevisitor to a friend, nodding at two fleece-covered chaises longuesfacing the garden, and thereby identifying herself as a rival whomI might have to push down the spiral staircase when no one waslooking. Later, I joined David, Louise and Isabella in this room, to askthem about life as a Modernist family. “Well at leastyou’re dressed for it,” said Louise. “Every sooften we put the heat on for a treat, but generally we just wear alot of clothes.” Isabella’s tiny jumper is the sort ofthing that Newfoundlanders wear for a long night on the cod banks.And that’s with the heat on — it’s tour day. David used to be a banker working in mergers and acquisitions inChina, until his department was closed down. He was away threeweeks out of four. Louisa worked in publishing and lived in London.Isabella was still shuffling on her bottom when they first came tolook at the house and Louise, somewhat to David’s surprise,agreed to go through the interview process. When they were offeredthe house, after five rounds, he decided to take a career break. “It’s like wearing a nice suit or something, livinghere,” he says, “You just look at the design and think'That works well’. It’s such an inspiring house to bein.” “I just wanted horizontal space after London,” admitsLouise. “And I got it! It has its challenges though;it’s a quarter of a mile from the laundry basket to thewashing machine.” It is also expensive. National Trusttenants are like any other tenants, though their properties may bemore glamorous. David and Louise spend around three days a week onthe house and, in this case, the tours, and pay the bills.“The heating costs about the same as an averagemortgage,” he says ruefully. The landlord attends to Imitation Fabric. As we speak, Isabella is clutching a glassful of water verycompetently in both hands, but if it drops it will probably smashthe original, irreplaceable, inch-thick glass of the circularcoffee table. “You look worried,” says Louise, drily.“I am worried,” squeaks David. The glass is removed,much to Isabella’s disgust. There are sacrifices to be madeif you want to live in heaven. PS To any Modernist men out there with a couple of children and alarge fixed income: how about joining the waiting list with me? The Homewood, Esher, Surrey (01372 476424, www.nationaltrust.org.uk ) , is open every Friday and last Saturday of the month tillOctober 28: non-members, adult ￡10, child ￡5. It isreached via minibus from Claremont Landscape Garden only; toursmust be booked. More modernist treats
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