'Tears Before Bedtime' and 'Weep No More'

by Barbara Skelton

Nude sunbathing for the first time this year. Pop looking pink. Tried a new harness on the coati. Great dream plans of buying the house at the back and becoming a beech as opposed to an oak. Spend hours planning how we would furnish it with our combined junk. Pop doesn’t think the house has sufficient grandeur. No walled garden, old yew trees or orchard. Spent the whole of today snooping about their back yard and peering into the windows. Their gardener, Godly, was painting and pointed out all the defects, said it was being ruined by ivy which had thrust its way through the brickwork. Said he wouldn’t have it at any price when we were caught by the owner pacing his lawn and had to think up a pretext for being there … Pop unshaven in white shorts hanging well below the knees exposing even whiter coolie legs.

  Chapter XIII

  Life at the Cottage

  Cyril was never altogether happy living in the cottage. He went on pining for a more spacious house. We were always visiting agents and studying lists of other properties for sale. Oak Cottage was indeed very small. It was only because we loved each other that it was possible to live there at all. And, no doubt, it was partly due to our cramped living conditions that we squabbled so much, so that Cyril maintained we resembled a couple of battling kangaroos.

  The cottage had four rooms. On the left as you entered was a sitting room with an open fireplace, on either side of which were built-in cupboards. There was a wall-to-wall Axminster, a chintz-covered settee, bookshelves and a rosewood table. A bathroom had been built on off the sitting room. The dining room on the right had a pretty oak dresser, a refectory table and four highbacked seventeenth-century chairs. There was a strip of kitchen with a door leading into the back garden and an outside privy that we transformed into a coati hut. We were heated by an anthracite stove in the kitchen and the house was lit by Aladdin lamps that had to be filled with oil all the time. Any leftovers were kept in an outside hutch we always referred to as the beehive, often frequented by earwigs. Upstairs were two small bedrooms. To get from one to the other, you had to duck under a beam. There was a garage and a wooden outhouse where intrepid guests could spend the night. Angus Wilson slept in it once and seemed none the worse for wear. When Rosamund Lehmann came down bringing a small suitcase, she seemed to enjoy gathering blackberries from the hedge opposite, but after dinner suddenly recollected she had a breakfast appointment and insisted on taking the last train back to London. Cecil Beaton seemed appalled by our living conditions. He was even more shocked when I appeared in carpet slippers to be snapped standing beside Cyril in the porch. So, although, in its fashion, Cot remained a clos de bonheur, Cyril dubbed her ‘Oak Coffin’, the village Elmstead became ‘Elmdeath’, and the nearest town, Ashford, was relegated to ‘Ashcan’.

  Diary

  August 15

  Had quite a keen couple to visit the cottage. We are convinced it’s sold and a lot of mortgage talk kept us happy all evening. The whole of the next day was spent studying maps of the surrounding country and discussing which houses to visit, the ones described as ‘Manors’ or ‘Priories’ being of the greatest interest to Pop. I don’t know where he thinks the money is coming from. We visited the Appledore farm again, and he stood in raptures in front of the wheat field for almost an hour, visualising a thriving cherry orchard to be carefully nurtured by me. The owner seemed most anxious to get rid of it and talked about lowering the price. When we left, Pop was experiencing to the full the feeling of complete ownership and had already furnished all the rooms with his Regency furniture and built on wings to furnish his books.

  We then visited a large manor house complete with music room and swimming pool. After the gloom and squalor of an over-crowded lower-class household, the spectacle of a comfortable middle-class one was even more depressing, with the owner apologising for the aroma of a roasting chicken, and dim spotty grown-up sons and daughters disappearing behind doors. With great pride, the owner took us into a hay field which they planned to turn into a tennis court! On the way back, we ran out of petrol, but both of us managed to restrain ourselves, with no word of blame. I fretted about getting back to cook a duck and complained that these excursions kept us out so late, as I had to cook in the dark. But, when we reached the cottage, we opened up some bubbly and the duck was delicious with an onion stuffing and apple sauce.

  The forecast for Monday was rain, but it turned out to be a lovely day, so I sunbathed surrounded by wasps and flies and read Maupassant. Pop studied maps. In the evening, he became slasher-minded and disappeared into the dump to cut down the ivy stumps that were strangling all the trees. He refused, though, to give me any support with the sickle to cut down the grass. Then, removing all his clothing, even his espadrilles, he built up a large bonfire, using most of the available dry wood which would have made excellent kindling.

  *

  The beginning of September, I gave up smoking, comparatively easily, by first lighting a cigarette and after a few puffs stubbing it out, then relighting the same stub and once more putting it out. In this way I cut down from thirty to ten a day. Then, by giving up the habit of always keeping a packet in reserve, from the smoker’s dread of being without, I gradually became less obsessed. I now moralise when I see chainsmokers and feel very smug. When in London, I smoke other people’s; it is one of my town treats.

  *

  A month ago Angelica gave a party where I met the Moynihans. Very attracted to Rodrigo. Later I told Sonia that five years ago I used to follow him down the King’s Road. ‘I’ve heard the same thing from him,’ she said, ‘but he is under the impression he was following you!’

  *

  I had a letter from my mother this week saying grandma had had a stroke and was lying paralysed. I rushed down to Hythe expecting a death-bed scene but she seemed to have recovered. When my fifty-year-old aunts had visited her that morning, she had greeted them by saying she was going to give each one a penny that day, she saw them all as children. When my mother went to see her, she said, ‘Is that Evie? Is Barbara looking after Brenda all right?’ They seemed to welcome my appearance as it took their minds off the gravity of the situation. Grandpa was very fretful and asked if I had settled down all right. He gave me some broad beans which he said must be planted straight away.

  November 15

  Sussex Place sold at a considerable loss, the money gained just covering back rent and other expenses like outside painting of the house. Cyril found it almost unendurable being parted from his possessions. He wants to cram every beloved object possible into Oak Coffin. As a result Mr Maggs, the builder, was called in and commissioned to build each room out six inches! Then I was persuaded to sell a greater part of my furniture to make way for Cyril’s, admittedly things that I was not very attached to. The builders remained here three weeks. The whole of the roof was rebattened. We learnt to recognise a valley tile from a hip; as there was a warm sunny spell of good weather, Cyril ordered himself a deck chair from Tip-Top-Taps and spent each day sitting in the garden watching the workmen. If they were laying bricks at the back he would place his deck chair a few feet away from them and sit with his legs crossed and a book in his lap questioning everything they did; his uncombed hair shot in wisps all over his face and when I passed him from behind I could see the beginnings of a bald patch gleam in the sunlight. If there were three builders working in the front and three at the back, he would stroll from one group to the other, usually in carpet slippers and sometimes wearing a dressing-gown, till quite late in the day. ‘Having a good brood?’ I would say to him and when he saw me he would glare and move to another part of the garden. We had calor gas lighting put in the kitchen and sitting room. A great improvement. A new boiler installed. In fact, everything was made very snug indeed.

  Now, every two weeks we go to London and stay with Sonia. Twenty pounds spent in two days; giving people bad meals at the Etoile. ‘Keeping in touch,’ it is known as. And two sleepless nights are spent tossing and turning in Sonia’s bed which dipped in the centre and sloped so much at the sides that one has to cling t
o the outer rim of the mattress to avoid being sandwiched.

  November 17

  Cyril keeps me awake by muttering in a stage whisper all through the night, ‘Poor Cyril!’ over and over while lying sprawled on his back with one eye open to see if I have heard all right! So I insist he moves into the other bedroom.

  This morning I heard strange groans coming from the next room and then what sounded to me like ‘links’ or ‘minx’ accompanied by a deep stage sigh. Was he sighing for his cufflinks in pawn? Was I the minx? Then it came again five minutes later: ‘links … links …’ More yearning this time and a deeper sigh. I went into his room quite soon after to announce that there was going to be a high breakfast … kippers, eggs, and ham for those who wished. I thought the sound of food would cheer him up, but he just looked at me with hangdog eyes and said, ‘I had a wonderful dream about Lys last night.’ ‘How nice for you,’ I said, ‘I hope your dream comes true.’ ‘Why did you entice me away from Lys when all you wanted to do was to push me out of your bed?’ He wouldn’t come down to breakfast but lay in his bed sucking the sheet ends, which is always a bad sign. He sometimes lies for an hour with folds of sheet pouring from his mouth like ectoplasm. At twelve o’clock I got him out of bed with promises of a bath; he lay in it for an hour and through two closed doors I could hear groans and the word ‘Pooey’, which means he is in a very bad state of mind.

  We have not been out of the house for five days. Cyril has been as far as the garage twice. Restlessness and boredom make one cigarette-minded. Last Sunday we motored to Tonbridge to have lunch with Sir Harry and Lady d’Avigdor-Goldsmid. I had been on an orange diet for forty-eight hours. ‘I hope you will break your fast at lunch today,’ Cyril had said to me before leaving. ‘I know the Goldsmids will lay on quite a spread and Harry will be offended if you’re not eating.’ It took us two hours to get there. We arrived at 1.40 to find the whole family seated at table already on their second course. No apologies, except from Cyril. All through lunch Cyril and Harry talked across at each other to the accompaniment of Rosie’s voice telling her child how to eat. I have never met a family so united in confidence. One felt they had not a single vulnerable spot. Rosie said she was trying to slim before having some photographs taken by Baron. I said, ‘But he is such a bad photographer.’ ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘I have seen some photographs of someone he took which were very good.’ ‘You mean the Queen,’ I said, and she giggled. ‘Darling, would you like some butter?’ she asked Cyril. He was busy talking and made no reply the first, second, third and fourth times. But she persevered until he eventually replied weakly, ‘Yes.’ She had won. I wish I could do that. When not eating Rosie had a cigarette dangling out of her mouth the whole time we were there. The house stood wing upon wing at the top of a steep hill and looked like a vast fortress. I was very impressed with the lavatory. I spent half an hour reading the New Yorkers stacked there, surrounded by amber mirrors so that you could see yourself from every angle, while one’s feet nestled on turquoise-blue six-inch pile carpet, and facing one was a cigarette box stacked with gold-tipped cigarettes.

  November 23

  This morning I woke to be told, ‘Why don’t you drop down dead? That’s all I wish, that you’d drop down dead.’ He was lying half naked on the bed. ‘Is there anything you want?’ ‘That you will drop down dead.’ Writs arrive by almost every post. Cyril remains in his bed, sucking the sheet. The Waugh article has been abandoned. The Third Programme has made suggestions. C just potters about the house in carpet slippers dusting his first editions and cluttering up the tables with cracked Sèvres and chipped faience.

  December 2

  The winter drags on apace. The really ice-cold weather has started. Very seldom is the open fire lit but the house keeps warm from the heat of the boiler. The new hot pipe in the sitting room is a great improvement. Went to London Wednesday. A Rothermere party. Before it, the Hultons took us to a Tennessee Williams play. Then a big fuss as Cyril was to be seated next to Princess Margaret. He had spent his day in preparation having nose-trims, haircuts and all his ear whiskers removed. After being ushered into the Rothermere drawing room, we all get split up, and then in a long slow procession troop down the stairs to the supper room, the women clinging to the balustrade, the men nervously eyeing the trains of the dresses that were tripping them up. I was the last in the queue and, on reaching the room where the supper tables were laid, I have the folding doors shut in my face by a swarm of butlers. Find myself in an adjoining room which has been turned into a bar where about four well-behaved couples have gathered and are quietly sipping champagne. They look at me, as much as to say, we got it too, but we’re pretending to like it in here. A waiter serving champagne offers me soup. I see Cyril at the far end of the hall trying not to catch my eye. Peter Q comes in and looks the other way; he is talking to an elderly woman covered in sparklers and doesn’t want to be interrupted. I rush up to Cyril who is being hustled away to the Royal Dwarf’s table by Diana Cooper and I scream, ‘It’s no good turning your back on me.’ But he disappears through the magic doors and from the throwout’s foyer I see him eating a hearty supper and beaming across at the Royal Dwarf. I stand fuming in a corner when Lucian Freud comes in. He tries to avoid catching my eye, but I am determined and, pushing my way through the huddle of throwouts, try to engage him in conversation. He makes no response, is looking peagreen and smarmed down with sticking-out ears. Suddenly, Ann Rothermere, spotting him from her dais at the Royal table, beckons frantically and, shouting at Lucian, ‘There’s a place for another GENTLEMAN here,’ comes across and drags him away. I find a chair and sitting down with a glass in my hand say aloud, ‘There’s only one thing to do. Get drunk.’ The Feddens appear. I pinion Mrs Fedden to the bar and talk at her for a solid hour, when with a look of desperation she asks Robin for a taxi fare. I ask Robin what is the matter. ‘… She doesn’t like you, my dear.’ Cyril reappears well-supped and beaming, followed by the rest of the privileged suppers. They all emerge with a healthy tan, the acclaimed heroes of a Shackleton expedition, and mingle with the throwouts. I turn on Cyril, but we are interrupted by Orson Welles, so I try to be offensive to him but he doesn’t notice. Cyril says he’s going home and leaves me. Mark Culme-Seymour sits with me and we hear a waiter saying as he passes, ‘Fill her up.’ We go upstairs and have a short dance, there is a fearful crash and looking over my shoulder I see an enormous china vase in pieces on the floor. Mark says he doesn’t think we did it. I then want to go home but realise I have no money. I take a last look into the bar in case Cyril is still there but it is empty except for Liz Hofmannsthal* seated on a couch. Peter lies sprawled at her feet in a Byronic attitude which he is now too corpulent to carry off, his puce-tinted face was trying to express ardency, but he seemed to me to be just a dreary old zombi putting on airs.

  January 1952

  Beginning of New Year. Several good omens. Cyril received a cheque for £5 from his mother. He has an obliging letter from his bank allowing him an extra overdraft, and finally to our immense surprise and pleasure a C & A van stops at the gate. We are immediately guilt-ridden and anticipate bill trouble, as we owe £35, but the van man presents us with a parcel of rare plants that were ordered months ago and forgotten. We straightaway put them to ground, while Kupy gets in our way, thinking we are doing the spade work for her to uncover slugs.

  What a miserable Christmas. We see no one, barely each other. New Year worse. Cyril glued to Baudelaire, never looks up from his book, only occasionally peering over the rim of his specs to make a note of the amount of gin I am drinking.

  *

  Visit Pop for a few minutes this morning in his pokehole and find him standing before an open sketchbook crammed full on one page with his neat handwriting and dates carefully written in the margin. He tells me it is his current diary, he says that if he didn’t keep one posterity would only have my view of our married bliss. We have been surrounded by thick snow for several days combined with a log shortage. I complai
n that if only I was given a housekeeping allowance things would be better organised. A great many bills are paid off but we are always short of money; fruitless trips to London cost a fortune. The new Go magazine arrived this morning and we discover to our joy that Mrs Edith Munro has won the literary prize of £25, (a competition Cyril had gone in for in the name of the old char). We have had three visits to London spent at Sonia’s, but she is so morose and irritable I have vowed never to go there again. I cannot feel sorry for her, though she is obviously in a low frame of mind.

  *

  I reach Poppet’s at teatime to find her in a great state of excitement. Am not past the hall before she blurts out that she is about to be married to someone she met at Fryern a week ago, a Dutch painter from Bali, a glamour-tom aged forty-seven with a stomach ulcer called Pol. Robert Kee arrives, incurring fresh excitement, and when he hears the glad tidings rushes out to buy a bottle of bubbly. He is looking at his most attractive, with that misleading air of violence. Then the future husband is admitted. He strikes me as being a charmer needing security, but physically pleasing.

  Cyril and I dine with the Hamiltons – John Russell (a budding art critic), Rosamund Lehmann and the Hultons. Nika comes to life on the subject of bad breath, sex, body odours, pubic hair and deformities. She looked pinch-toed in over-high heels giving her a tilting forward stance, and in the excessively tight skirts she squeezes into, when standing she gives the impression she is about to topple forward. A lot of Billy Budd talk when the Hultons have left. Yvonne Hamilton became hysterical because of John Russell’s enthusiasm. Next day we see the Francis Bacon exhibition. We are baffled by the paintings, but like them just the same. Next day, we read a good article written by David Sylvester explaining Bacon’s attempts to capture the momentary effect of a snapshot, hence the rather monochromatic colouring.