The entire house party had a depressed air, the only one with vitality being the Duchess, who enjoyed steering everyone about. Noël Coward and his friend were both dressed in very new-looking Tyrolean clothes. The house was like an oven, so that soon people’s eyes began to puff and close. We ate a cold supper of dry chicken, tomato salad tasting of fertilisers, peas like pellets and lettuce with brown edges. Afterwards we played games. Peter and I groaned when we learnt our fate. Luckily, it didn’t turn out to be so frightening as it sounded. I had to convey the book title The Naked and the Dead which, according to Cyril, I did with GRACEFUL hand movements and, the second time it was Darkness at Noon, artfully chosen by Peter, who knew I had recently been lunching with Koestler. B had a conversation with the Duchess. I saw him wriggling about on his chair and putting on an attentive face indicating rapt servility. But I think he sensed he was not having much success. Later he told me that someone like that could put him off sex for life, in which case she would be doing him a great service, and us, too, I consider. For, on the way back, there he was going on about his new girl again. ‘I have her from the back, that’s what I like.’ ‘Does she?’ ‘Well, I have to play with her first, She gives me some of the best orgasms of my life …’ etcetera.
*
I wake up with a feeling of dread, wonder why and then remember we have to go to London. Mrs Lea brings up breakfast. I get up soon after, fuss over kitchen stove, put out clothes I am going to wear, feed Kupy, throwing in a stock to keep her plenished for thirty-nine hours. Run bath and nag Cyril to get up. Catch train from Folkestone in a rush. No time to buy Picture Post, Listener and Daily Mail. Make for restaurant car. Smile at familiar-faced waiter who used to be on the 7.15 dining car. Asks us whether we would like tea or coffee. I say perhaps tea is safer as the coffee tastes of salt. He says in this restaurant car the steward never uses salt. We order toast and marmalade, complain when coffee is brought in plastic cups and fling one onto the table knowing it cannot break. People at next table look up. The waiter takes away plastic cups and brings us the usual dun pottery marked GWR in black. Arriving at Charing Cross, as I pass through, am screeched at by the ticket collector as Cyril is close behind with the tickets. We both get into a taxi, I drop Cyril off at White’s and go on to massage. Miss Fontaine says everybody has been complaining about their dull Christmas. Go to have fitting with François. We talk about old faces at Schiaparelli. He knows my figure and where to pinch it in and let it out. Go on to Duke’s Hotel Find Cyril installed in a grim two-bedded room, modern stained furniture, a bathroom. Tony Bower for a drink. Toeing the carpet, his eyes fixed on the ground, in an affected drawl, carefully choosing his words, he holds forth on Spain. I noticed how his ears stuck out and, with his tiny head, he looked like a tame rodent. His eyes were tired bulges, glazed and colourless. But his metallic energy kept us amused. He described the life at the Davises in Madrid, almost putting us off accepting their invitation – how ugly the house was, how much Bill drank, the fights he had and how he thought Bill must spend most of his time in brothels, as otherwise he couldn’t see what he did all day. Tony asked us if we knew of a good place for winter sports. Cyril suggested Breitmoos. I described the life there, the heavy four course meals with caraway soup, meat and pudding, the dim lighting so that one could never read and, night and day, the clopping of ski-boots. Then, in trepidation, I prepared myself for dinner with the Hamish Hamiltons. The other guests; Robin Ironside, the Duchess of W again, Isaiah Berlin and the comic Connollys.
Robin had a set of new teeth paid for by the Hultons which gave his face a dead appearance. He told me he had been reading a book on tropical fish that lived on human blood extracted through the penis. I said that must be a rare treat; he said, on the contrary, natives were being sucked dry all the time. Isaiah Berlin talked about the nineteenth century, said he thought the best time to have lived would have been between 1840 and 1860. Cyril said that it was essential to have survived another thirty years to have read Flaubert and Baudelaire, and that he would have preferred to have been a child throughout the revolution and thereby escaped the guillotine. IB said in that case one might have been too old to appreciate reading F and B. Everyone talked a great deal and we had an excellent dinner, sauce tartare with scampi (which was sole cut up to look like prawns), followed by a toad-in-the-hole served hot with a sauce, sautéed potatoes and a delicious lettuce salad. (Yvonne explained afterwards that all their salads were good since using garlic vinegar.) Last of all, mince pies with cream. I talked to the Duchess about Christmas Day and Fulco’s jewellery that I think so vulgar. Then we played musical chairs; people sat about in pairs and, as soon as one seat was vacated, someone came and sat in it. As we were leaving I said to Jamie Hamilton, ‘Do you do this kind of thing often?’ and he laughed. ‘Where was the ten pounds worth of good conversation?’ I said to Cyril later (ten pounds being the cost of a visit to London).
Have a bad night; it is very quiet, but I feel the airlessness of a stuffy town room. On the way out Cyril asks to pay the bill. They refuse to take a cheque, although they remember him from before. Cyril says we might as well have stayed at the Ritz – it is far more comfortable and only a little extra. I get cross and say, ‘Waste of money.’ ‘We don’t enjoy the same things,’ Cyril says angrily. The talk about hotels has put us in a bad humour, so that when we reach Jaegars in Frith Street, an open row begins and, after ordering a baking tin, an earthenware casserole dish and a copper saucepan, Cyril cancels the lot. The salesman smirks, enjoying the scene. We leave the shop in a fearful huff. I meet Tony Bower at the Ritz. Drink gin and peppermint. No sign of Cyril. Eventually, he walks into the bar around one, furious; why are we sitting there? – when I usually sit in the entrance in one of the wing armchairs. I explain Tony has been to look for him twice. Tell Tony I’m pleased that he’s also in disgrace. Taxi to Angelica, having debated whether or not to take her something to eat or drink, but since Tony has said her liver is in such a bad state, she can neither eat nor drink, I go empty-handed. John Maclaren there. Angelica indignant when I tell her Tony’s verdict … She has cooked a roast chicken with creamy mashed potatoes and broccoli. We drink red wine. I drop Angelica off at the hairdresser’s. She tells me they are going to a fancy-dress ball, everyone wearing Russian costume; she, though, will go in evening dress wearing false eyelashes and carrying a long cigarette holder. ‘Let others make fools of themselves,’ she says. Famous last words!
Rather tipsy and uncertain what I’m at, I go to Fortnum’s to buy Cyril a belated Christmas present of a canvas bag for carrying books. I know he won’t like it, but it will be useful. After buying the bag, I telephone Jocelyn Baines and meet him for a quick drink. Talk about his Denton Welch review. He has filled out a bit and looks less invertebrate. I feel he has contempt for me and wonder why. I think him a silly arse, of course, but I was prepared to enjoy seeing him. Kill time and catch the 7.15. Gave Cyril his present. He did seem rather disappointed but pretended to like it to please me.
*
It is always a pleasure getting back to one’s own surroundings after an absence of a couple of days, to go into the kitchen to see a freshly trussed turkey ready for the oven, the gizzards beside it on a plate. Mrs Lea had also left a slice of cake on a plate, but it was not as good as the one Aunty Greta made when I took them the cider on Christmas Eve.
*
To celebrate the New Year, we listened to the radio. At eleven, Cyril opened the Hulton champagne. It was a very good pre-war year. We drink each other’s health. Cyril goes to bed at midnight leaving an unfinished glass of bubbly. I dance round the room to a rhumba band à la Glur, or sit and mope, dressed in my skunk stole. Go to bed feeling frustrated.
*
On Sunday, at a moment’s notice, we had Eric Oliver and Jocelyn Brooke to lunch. There was no time to cook the turkey, so we made a sept heures beef, adding a tin of pimentoes and the dregs of the decanted red wine. The beef had been stewed in butter and the whole thing was delicious, de
scribed by Jocelyn as being a ‘fine ragoût’. Cyril opened two good bottles of twenties claret that the French gourmet André Simon had given him. We started with foie gras, a present from the Flemings. ‘Why is it people never give caviar?’ Cyril commented. ‘It’s only another ten shillings.’ The ragoût was followed by a Scandinavian cream cheese with Romary biscuits and then fudge that Aunty Greta had made, and finally, we christened the Cona coffee machine. Jocelyn and Cyril talked books nonstop. They left early, as Eric had borrowed an army greatcoat from a friend and had to return it that night. We were all very profuse on their departure and many suggestions were made for the future. I even invited Eric to stay, as I thought he might be a good person to help in the garden. He has promised to give me a Staffordshire figure to add to my collection. It’s called Flora and belonged to Denton Welch.
January 4, 1953
Had the Flemings to lunch which meant there was no time to concentrate on anything else the whole morning. I heard Mrs Lea bring the cream about eleven and then sneak away. Cyril said how nice it would be if she just made up the fire without being asked. They arrived at about two o’clock by which time the cottage was lying under a thick bed of snow. Looking into the gilt convex mirror over the fireplace, I thought how broad, flat and Mongolian I looked beside Ann Fleming’s elongated features. She really is very handsome and well-bred, but no sex appeal. Why does she always rouge her cheeks like a painted doll? Ian’s eyes are too close together and I don’t fancy his raw beef complexion. Nothing of the slightest interest said during lunch. It makes one feel what a terrible waste of time people are. And there they are immediately after, tearing off in the sleeting snow to see more people thirty miles away. But they are amiable. ‘Had any rows lately?’ Ian said to me aggressively when he arrived. ‘Not since yesterday.’ I was rather waspish when I spoke. We drank a 1929 claret given to Cyril by Derek Jackson and the Bastard’s brandy with the coffee. I did not think they praised the meal enough but, as Cyril says, my inferiority is such that I just don’t hear praise when it’s given. I felt complacent about not smoking and counted all the stubs left on their plates. ‘How many stubs do you think?’ I say to Cyril in a shocked voice. Ann asks about my book. I say how monstrous of Peter to have mentioned it. As soon as one tells him anything, he has to go beating the drums.
*
On Saturday, we dined at The Rose and Crown with Eric Wood, and drank champagne. Tomato soup, grilled chicken with roast potatoes and runner beans. They had obviously taken trouble, as we had not been there for some time. Mr Millen, the proprietor, gets very familiar when he has had a few drinks, giving me funny furtive little glances between his puffy lids as he polishes the glasses, and calls me Barbara, as though trying it out to see how I’ll take it. When we were leaving, he came and buttoned up my sheepskin coat so well, as I normally never do, that I said, ‘I won’t be able to get out of it now.’ Only Cyril laughed. Mr Millen told us about the number of dud cheques he had been given in his life; one man he had known for twenty years borrowed a pound. ‘He never paid me back and I never saw him again.’ ‘All for a pound, isn’t that rather touching?’ I said. ‘I think it’s the limit, don’t you?’ he added, trying to enlist Cyril’s sympathy.
Eric Wood was very amiable and at his best (undrunk). He always gives the impression he is so pleased to see us. We talked about Staffordshire china and Cyril said that I had become a rival collector. Everyone agreed it was an expensive disease to have. I told him that one of my figures was of an old woman in a bonnet holding a trayload of mice and Eric said, no, he had never seen one like that. ‘Do you think it’s a fake, then?’ ‘Well, you never know,’ he said. But he was more interested to know if we had listened to a ‘wonderful programme on the radio. They call themselves the “Lollypops”. They’re so good, you must listen.’ He said he had definitely decided to give up his house. ‘Although I know, my dear, that I have missed the market, yes, my dear, I know that. But, I’m sick of living alone. And I went up to London the other night and saw Dicky off to America …’ ‘Who’s Dicky?’ Cyril immediately said. ‘You know, the fashion photographer! One of the best,’ said Eric, pursing up his lips as he pronounced BEST. ‘He has so much talent. Well, I saw him off in his Rolls to the airport, an ancient Rolls, my dear, but a Rolls, nonetheless, and he said to me, Eric, what you must do is to sell your house and open an antique shop.’ Cyril, who had been very bored up till then, came to life. ‘What are you going to call it?’ ‘Aspidistra,’ said Eric, firmly. He then told us a long story of how he had wanted to borrow money on a Sunday; the hotel wouldn’t change a cheque, so he went to the police and, when he asked if they would cash him a cheque, the police said no. ‘But, my good man,’ Eric said, ‘look at my new car, I’ve just had it made with a special body.’ Then they asked to see his papers. ‘How do we know these are your papers?’ the police asked. ‘My good man, if I have an accident in the street and you ask to see my papers, you don’t then say, “go away, how do I know these are your papers?”’
March 10
The first day of spring. Several minutes of warm sun. Pop got as far as putting out the deck chairs, sat in one for ten minutes and went in. I hosed out Kupy’s cage. She is getting very fierce and aggressive. She attacked Pop this morning and broke an eighteenth-century piece of china. He had such a deep gash on his foot that, after disinfecting it with dentifrice gargle, I covered it with elastoplast.
* An American who worked on Vogue until she married Philippe de Rothschild.
† Literary editor of the Sunday Times.
‡ John Hayward was a scholar. He had multiple-sclerosis and was always to be seen in a wheelchair. He once said to me, ‘Why waste your time writing a book? You’d make more money gambling on the stock market.’
§ The Hon. Colin Tennant, later Lord Glenconner, married to Lady Anne Tennant. He was Stephen and David Tennant’s nephew.
¶ Italian Painters of the Renaissance.
|| The Duke of Westminster’s third wife, now Lady Lindsay.
** He had a house in Cyprus which was overrun by Turks. After the Cyprus War he returned to live in London.
Chapter XV
Driving through Spain
Diary
Have been back from Spain for a week. February 6 we caught the train for Victoria. Pop slept at his club and I stayed with the Churchills. A bad night due to an excess of brandy after dinner. June picks a quarrel with Randolph over their daughter, Arabella. I am accused of taking sides. My door blown open during the night by Randolph’s snores (he is across the passage). June roams the house at six in the morning.
*
We had a private cabin on the boat, as Cyril says it’s the only way to get any service. We didn’t require any, but men kept bobbing their heads in and out of the cabin as Cyril sat like a pasha greeting each one in turn until the boat became too rocky and he had to lie down.
*
In France, the first thing one notices is the tops of the willows which have been recently pollarded and resemble nutty crunch bar chocolate. On the train, we get into conversation with a bright scruffy Bostonian who attacks England, saying the English know nothing about food or painting. How about Turner, Constable, Hogarth and Gainsborough …? He turned out to be a publisher, George Novack, and, when asked by Cyril what he thought of English critics, could only think of V S Pritchett. It was exhilarating arriving in Paris, humid, brightly lit and a steady downfall of sleet. We bought snacks on the platform.
Am up early, dressed and just belting up my overcoat when we get to the Spanish frontier. We change trains at nine in the morning. Cyril immediately begins grumbling about the armed police and the inadequacy of the bookstall. ‘A country of philistines,’ he says. The Talgo a long windowed moving caterpillar. We sit in twos in a long line, metal trays are placed over our knees. We order huevos and gaze out at the Basque countryside. Granite mountains, scrubby evergreen ilexes, large open spaces with clusters of giant boulders looking as though they had been coughed up from
the bowels of the earth. Then vast stretches of umbrella pines. Piles of swedes were stacked on all the platforms, and groups of desultory travellers loafed about, or put their faces close to the Talgo with inquisitive stares. We might have come from another planet.
We reach Madrid at 6.30 after passing the Escorial which stood out in all its grandeur gleaming in the sunlight. It was strange to come upon a large city, surrounded by a vast plain, in the centre of such wild country. Madrid very much alive. Fountains, crowded streets. Bill Davis met us on the platform, very dandified in a loose, knee-length, grey gabardine overcoat. He was much thinner, full of self-confidence and jauntily swinging a silver-topped cane, directed us to a large American roadster. The flat was spacious and white, full of evergreen plants and modern paintings. Annie (Cyril’s American sister-in-law when he was married to Jeannie) had on an old gabardine skirt and blouse, with gold chain bracelet and necklace that she always wore, in case, she said, she should ever get stranded in a foreign country without her lord and master. We saw the children. Both a dead spit of Bill. The first meal, langostina with mayonnaise, steak cooked by Bill with mashed potatoes, spinach and fruit salad. The conversation Burgess and Maclean, and Bill saying all the time, ‘And what do you think of so-and-so, Cyril?’ Pop unpacks his suitcase and brings out a trousseau, a pair of orange silk pyjamas trimmed with black, hand-stitched with his initials. (Philip Mountbatten has a pair just like them, he tells me.) The next exhibit was a pair of scarlet leather slippers so stiff and ill-fitting that he can barely squeeze his pretty broad feet into them, let alone walk. Luckily, the floors are polished wood parquet, so that he is able to skate. I absolutely forbid him to wear the pyjamas while I am sharing the same room, as they make me dizzy. He says they will suit him better when he is sunburnt. He complains about his sinus, is tomato-red under the eyes (a further clash) and has scales flaking off his cheeks with patches of dandruff round the temple. The following morning he eats a two course breakfast and says he needs some sunshine.
'Tears Before Bedtime' and 'Weep No More' Page 18
