'Tears Before Bedtime' and 'Weep No More'

by Barbara Skelton

  September 24

  Sunday, we went over to see the Flemings. I complained of a sore throat and made it a pretext for not driving there in the little open bus, so Cyril rang Crouch’s garage and ordered a car and chauffeur. We had the usual mediocre Fleming meal. Why is it the rich always have such bad cooks? C mused. Ian disappeared after the first course to play golf. Peter Quennell was wearing that ugly brown cabman’s waistcoat in leather which stretched across the stomach and tied at the back.

  *

  Nothing but Burgess and Maclean talk now all the time. Cyril’s piece a great success, it has given him an excuse to see a lot of people who could provide information. Expensive restaurants, caviar, champagne dinners and endless long distance telephone calls. Joan’s drawl and Sonia’s gush came through today. Wrote a bread-and-butter letter to Raymond Mortimer thanking him for our visit last weekend. We played croquet, ate good food, slept in comfortable beds with eiderdowns and listened to classical music.

  November 5

  We have been hibernating here for a fortnight. Me reading and trying to concentrate on my drivel (A Young Girl’s Touch) to such an extent that I have a permanent headache and eyes like pinpoints. A succession of dirty grey days and every morning the monotonous cry of Mrs Lea outside Cyril’s boxroom, ‘Are you getting up today, sir?’; and then her subconscious mutter of ‘slovenly bugger’. Every few days we drink a bottle of champagne to fortify us for the winter. Cyril is getting on apace with his thriller.

  November 24

  Caroline Blackwood telephones. In a state about Lucian Freud who is stuck in Paris unable to pay the hotel. A concerted drive from Ann Fleming, Caroline and Lucian to get Cyril to buy Lucian’s latest portrait of Caroline. Cyril feels paternal toward them both and is keen on Caroline. I say it is not worth putting himself in a state of debt for the whole of the next year. A dirty grey pall hangs over the ground, the grass browned-up as a result of the nitrate of soda. The hen keeps clucking at the back door for food and I have to rush out and throw brooms.

  *

  Now on to Virginia Woolf’s Diaries. She regarded reading as a kind of duty. Cyril telephones Ann Fleming about Lucian’s painting. They talk for ten minutes of her party last week. Evelyn Waugh being rude to everybody, pretending he didn’t know who Rosamund Lehmann was when she rushed up to greet him with open arms. Waugh criticised Alan Ross’s beard and, when Cecil Beaton approached him when he was sitting on the sofa with Jennifer Ross, Waugh exclaimed, ‘Here’s someone who can tell us all about buggery!’ He then had to be carried into a taxi at three in the morning.

  Saturday, we had lunch at the Grand Hotel in Folkestone, and invited Eric Wood, who bored Cyril by talking about his visit to London and describing all the drinks he had. They talked about how brave all the buggers were during the war. Eric had been in camouflage and was clearly proud of it.

  November 1952

  Ann Fleming has Joan and Paddy Leigh-Fermor, the Duff Coopers and Evelyn Waugh to stay. She rings up and suggests to Cyril they come over for tea. After getting his silver teapot out of pawn, especially for the occasion, Cyril spends all afternoon arranging the table. It is a cold and bleak day, almost dark when they get here. I am in the kitchen when the car is heard backing up the garage path. The next thing they are all trooping through the dining room. They pass me in the kitchen, all bent, it seems, on seeing Kupy. So dark, they peer squinting into her outdoor hut. Waugh dressed in a black and white check suit. He has a check waistcoat and cap to match, and a ginger tweed overcoat, a flabby bulging stomach and a small aggressive gingerbread moustache. ‘Is she carnivorous?’ he asks me, having heard that Kupy is a penis-eater. Kupy is cold and refuses to come out of her hut. Joan whines and sighs, indicating disappointment. Lady Diana Cooper, dressed in a luxurious creamy mahogany mink coat, and a Hermès scarf tied round her head, asks me what Kupy likes eating. I reply to their questions as best I can. They all sit down to tea, a fire has been lit in the dining room by Cyril. Lady Diana remains in mink coat throughout visit. Waugh removes his cap and coat. Paddy is wearing a thick navy fisherman’s sweater with threads hanging and an occasional hole; it suits him and he looks quite attractive for once. I think it is because of the polo collar. They talk about animals in the zoo, mentioning several one has never heard of. Paddy says he spent an afternoon once in the reptile house mesmerising a serpent. Lucian is discussed, as usual. Waugh pulls a face. Peter Watson is mentioned. Waugh pulls a face again. He tries to be pleasant to me, looking down at my shabby grey checks and saying, ‘You have trousers like mine.’ ‘Mine are baggier,’ I reply, returning the amiability. As Paddy is leaving, he says, pointing to Kupy’s hut, ‘Isn’t Kupy lonely out there?’ ‘Well, aren’t we all?’ I say. A few days later reports of the visit drift back. They were all disappointed (a) they had expected our surroundings to have been far more squalid, (b) because Kupy had not come out of her hut and bitten someone’s penis and (c) because I had not been thoroughly rude to everyone. But Waugh said he had enjoyed his tea, the new bread, the farm butter, the bought but home-made honey and the China tea out of the fluted silver teapot, though he had hoped to find me more exotic, a glamorous ‘Lady of the Town’ so to speak.

  December

  Thursday and Friday Cyril spent most of the time on the buzzer as a result of John Lehmann’s loss of status in the publishing world. All the envious wolves ready to pounce. Weidenfeld already planning to snatch up any floating contributors. Cyril anxious to further his aim, to ingratiate himself, but secretly rejoicing at the Lehmann downfall. Middlemen John Russell and John Hay ward‡ (for the sake of culture line) are sending a round robin letter to The Times. They wish to include Pop’s signature. Pop not anxious to lend signature, says he doesn’t want to be part of the ‘dying old liberal phalanx’. I ask him why they are so keen to have his signature; he says they probably require another heterosexual name on their list. ‘La vie est plus grave que ça,’ Cyril says and that they ought to include a photograph of John Lehmann’s house, to show what can be acquired on the proceeds of publishing.

  *

  Saturday a nice mild day. Pop and I in merry mood, the thousand dollars having been sent from America for the Waugh article.

  *

  Weekend with the Flemings. Arrive at the White Cliffs for late tea. Find Colin Tennant§ there, like a spry whippet. Grace Radziwill, an amiable retriever, and Ann. Ian not back, his plane from New York being held up because of fog. Ann fretful. Conversation. Dukes, duchesses and ghosts in castles as seen by Colin Tennant; china, silver and paintings, relegated to a boasting match, each one’s interest being confined to the objects in their possession. Cyril indignant on the subject of ghosts. ‘Who has ever boasted of seeing a middle-class ghost?’ No sleep due to fog siren going all night. After spending ten days in New York, Ian arrives lunchtime Sunday and relates a long boring story about two women biting each other at a party. He has written a thriller which is very competent and readable.

  December 20

  Christmas is upon us. Poppet just back from France. Telephoned her this morning. Her voice seemed to me to have lost its usual bell-like vitality. In the course of five minutes she had used the following terms: ‘Can you afford it?’, ‘Much too hard up’, ‘Must economise’, and ‘Far too expensive’.

  Cyril is standing on the stairs looking out of the window. Me (from the bath): ‘What’s that noise? …’ ‘Kupy after the guinea fowl. She’s chased them to the middle of the goose patch …’ ‘What’s she doing now? …’ ‘Rootling about the ground. The geese are standing either side of her with outstretched necks, hissing. Kupy takes no notice. Now Kupy moves, the guinea fowl are at the far end of the goose patch, the geese close in on Kupy. Now they attack her, one goose bites her tail …’ ‘What does Kupy do? …’ ‘She runs. The geese are running after her …’ ‘What are the guinea fowl doing? …’ ‘They are running too …’ ‘Is anyone hurt? …’ ‘No …’ ‘What’s the noise then? …’ ‘Kupy after the guinea fowl.’ This is whe
re we came in.

  Christmas 1952

  Two days ago, Denton Welch’s friend Eric Oliver arrived on a motorbike with bicycle clips attached to his ankles. He has a very pleasing appearance, a brown complexion, well-shaped mouth, very white teeth and labourer’s hands. I did not sense the ruthless quality he is reputed to have. He seemed to be very shy, listening attentively and nodding to everything Cyril had to say, and would then ask a question, indicating he hadn’t understood anything. Cyril mulled some cheap red wine. We had a delicious lunch of pheasant with bread sauce and brussels sprouts. Cyril said that the bird had been sent by Osbert Sitwell, so it was apt that Eric should be eating it with us. Having entrusted all of Denton Welch’s furniture to the care of John Lehmann, Eric said he was having the greatest difficulty in getting it back. He had even put himself at John Lehmann’s disposal, thereby incurring the jealousy of a ballet dancer in John’s attic. Feeling his smooth chin, Cyril remarked on how clean and spruce we all looked, as sometimes he went for days without shaving. ‘But today I shaved for you.’ Whereupon, Eric turned to me and said, ‘And I shaved for you.’ Cyril laughed, and added, ‘Barbara, as you see, washed her hair for you.’

  *

  Christmas Eve, I was taken to a midnight service by Mrs Lea. ‘You never go out,’ she said, ‘and it will be a change for you.’ I grumble about it all day and wonder how I will keep awake. She collected me at 11.30 all dressed up in a new sky-blue beret, new fawn gloves and new tweedy overcoat, and turned out to be the smartest person in the church. She and the vicar greeted each other like long-lost lovers. We arrived as the warden was still busying about the aisles. A large furnace blazed away with red-hot coals and the church was lit by double-burner lamps. There were about twenty other parishioners. Mrs Lea asked if I would like a hymnbook and went across to get me one. Although unable to hear or read herself, she goes to every service and knew some of the hymns by heart. When she didn’t know a verse, she’d make up for it with an impromptu noise at the back of the throat. The turning of the wafer into Christ’s body and the port wine into blood took an interminable time. Three times the vicar curled himself into a white ball on the ground, muttering to himself and, resuming his normal stature, held his arms before the altar and we all trooped up. Awaiting our turn in the queue, I carefully observed Mrs Lea, as I had forgotten the formality. She insisted on seeing me back as she had a torch and Pop was waiting with the remains of the mulled wine, having drunk most of it himself.

  December 25

  It was a delicious sunny crisp morning and we enjoyed the drive to the Flemings. Arrived on time for once. Everything very Christmassy. There was a holly wreath covered in red berries hanging on the front door; in the hall, an enormous Christmas tree decorated with coloured Bethlehem globes and presents. Everyone very subdued when we entered the sitting room. The Duchess of Westminster, wearing a black suit with gold flecks, was sitting alone in a far corner. Peter Q came up and talked. He was wearing that horrible cabman’s outfit that makes him look so corpulent. He asked me what I thought of his weight. ‘Your middle-age spread has come to stay,’ I told him, ‘and there’s no point in worrying about it.’ They all appeared smug, confident and spiritless. We listened to the Queen’s speech. Someone said how middle-class the Royal family were. Cyril told me afterwards that it’s the chic thing to say. The Queen Mother, they said, was the most middle-class of the lot. The Duchess of W put on a special voice when talking of the lower classes, implying riffraff or rabble. Once more, she said of somebody, ‘What does he do for potatoes?’ And Cyril answered tartly, ‘That seems to be an idée fixe of yours.’

  A good turkey, with a nasty sausagemeat stuffing and soggy brussels sprouts. But the Christmas pudding was good with a rich brandy butter sauce. Ian distributed a collection of sexy mottoes and a dummy Lucky Strike carton he’d brought from the States; when holding it up to the light and turning a small lever one could see a succession of nude girls. Peter of course likes the nude girls, couldn’t stop looking at them, said they had almost prevented him from getting out of bed that morning. During lunch, the inevitable topic … Lucian Freud. Caroline was severely criticised for looking dirty. ‘She needs a damned good scrub all over,’ Ian said, in his blokey manner. And Peter thought les attaches fines so important, he couldn’t bear to see bitten-down fingernails. Cyril then glanced across the table, focusing pointedly on Peter’s hands, as they are not his best feature. Then they talked about a party being given by Maureen Dufferin to which Lucian had not been invited but was determined to go because of Caroline.

  After tea, presents were given – always an embarrassment. Peter gave me a nice book, rather like the one Cyril had given me in the morning (the Berenson book¶). From Ann a box of Floris soap, talcum powder and eau-de-Cologne. From Ian, a used pencil, a used lighter and a dirty motto. And then we had to admire other people’s presents. We left them playing canasta.

  We reached Eric Wood at about eight. When we entered the sitting room, someone rose from the couch, holding a book, and gave the impression he would have been happier if there had not been anyone coming. Our host made everything all right, greeting us effusively and offering drinks. He was wearing a shabby grey flannel suit and looked tousled, and explained they had both slept after lunch. They took it in turns to disappear and change into neat blue suits. There was a strong smell of fish soup and I asked if he was preparing a delicious bisque. We had a very good supper. After the fish soup there was ham sent from the States, mashed potatoes and endive salad, and a pudding which had been made by his housekeeper. We talked about the delinquent Craig, who had shot a policeman, and the Denton Welch journals – how Denton only noticed the unpleasant things in life and how nasty all his meals sounded. I defended Eric Oliver when they suggested he was ruthless. Cyril admired the Larou painting in the dining room. I was offered a cigar with the brandy and we were once more shown round the house. Cyril has been dreaming of it ever since.

  December 29

  We have just had the Bastard to stay. He rang up the day before he was due to suggest I meet him on Boxing Night fifteen miles away in a house of some friends of his, the Dobsons, living near Leeds Castle. ‘You will find it quite easily,’ he ended by saying. ‘They are giving a party. I expect it will be rather a grand house with a lot of cars outside.’ I said it was too far, as I would have driven to St Margaret’s Bay the day before. So B said he would telephone from the party. Seven pm, Boxing Day, he calls sounding very subdued, says should he wait for me. When I say no, he disconsolately says, ‘Oh, well! I just wondered. My host has kindly offered to drive me over to you.’ He arrives one hour later brought by Dobson Junior, and comes swinging up the path with swaying shoulders and fixed grin that stretches from ear to ear, exposing gleaming white teeth. He was wearing cream, stovepipe, whipcord trousers, an off-white flannel waistcoat with gold buttons, a striped city tie and a dark grey worsted jacket of herring-bone design, with solid black leather shoes. The young Dobson was less showily dressed, though they both had a certain similarity with their thick, curly, almost frizzy hair, coarse faces and the confidence of middlebrow philistines. It turned out there had not been a party. Dobson immediately stated that he had met Cyril before on a Chelsea barge. ‘Who can he be mistaking me for?’ Cyril said, as we brewed some mulled wine in the kitchen. ‘Davenport?’ Dobson then began quoting some form of torture (rats gnawing away at a victim’s face while he is powerless to get away, which I had already heard Koestler gloating over) from a book, Dobson said, ‘called 1982, by that chap who died a short while ago’. B corrected him rather sharply, ‘You mean 1984,’ and looked annoyed, as though he were being let down.

  When Dobson had gone, B immediately told us how fabulously rich the Dobsons were. ‘I can’t bear his reverential tone when he speaks of money,’ Cyril confided later.

  B boasted about a luncheon he had attended on Christmas Day given by the Bevans; the other guests included Humphrey Slater with a girlfriend, David Sylvester, Mickey Luke and, I thin
k, Jocelyn Baines. Afterwards, Cyril said how awful it sounded and how it typified the mire of London. B flatters Cyril all the time, treating him as a great man. Cyril says he can only support him so long as he does all the chores. When talking of his firm, B says, ‘We’ and ‘Our policy’ and ‘We employ so many thousand bureaucrats …’ ‘Do you know so-and-so?’ he kept on saying to Cyril, who would grunt and go on reading.

  B and I took Kupy for a walk to the Foxhole pub. She was a great success; came into the bar and was given some sweet biscuits. ‘I think she’s just lovely,’ the pub owner kept saying. ‘I think you will soon have to release Cyril from the confines of the country,’ B said. ‘He should live in London and form the core of the literary world. He needs it and people need him.’ ‘Who are these people?’ I ask. B thought hard. ‘Well, Alan Pryce-Jones for one.’ ‘That radio prattler. He can see him any time.’ ‘Well, he is the editor of the TLS.’

  Saturday, December 27

  Noël Coward Diaries:

  Gave dinner party for Annie, Ian, Loelia,|| the Cyril Connollys, Fionn and Peter Quennell. Played ‘the game’. Great fun.

  In the evening, before motoring over to Noël Coward, I am worried about what to wear. I try on various skirts. B inspects me and pronounces them all to be ugly. So I keep on my utility check trousers and a pale blue polo neck pullover. We stop in Brabourne for petrol and B starts a conversation with the garagiste, complimenting him on his window display. ‘I’m in the petrol business myself,’ B says proudly. We drive on and I can sense Cyril wincing in the back seat. Noël Coward had said, ‘Wear your oldest clothes’; we arrive to find Ann Fleming in a low-cut, flared grey satin evening dress, the Duchess of Westminster ditto and covered in sparklers. A glass of champagne all round and then presents. I was given yet another box of Floris soap. Cyril was given a signed copy of Coward’s Quadrille. When I said to Coward that I would like a copy, too, he replied, ‘You can read Cyril’s.’ The two bachelors, PQ and Michael Renshaw,** who were lying sprawled on the floor at Ann’s feet like a pair of privileged, sacred dogs, were given egg-boiling gadgets with tight screw-lids and did not seem pleased.