This love of excess led to quarrels. It was inevitable that Father and his strong views would exhaust any wife, but in Moorea he met one whose opinions were almost as pronounced as his own. To this day no one is quite sure why they divorced. However the Incident of the Carved Door Knobs entered family history. It occurred to Father one day that, as Roman emperors had their heads engraved on the coinage, he would have his engraved on the door knobs. In the end Moorea’s face went on the other side. But by the time the ill-fated knobs were completed she had fallen in love with somebody else.
Father said ruefully, ‘I never left my wives, they always left me.’ How Mother managed to buck the trend remains a mystery. They met at a ball given by mutual friends. Father was sitting at a table when he noticed a luscious redhead with pimento-bright lips. Mother was of Hungarian birth, had lived in England for twelve years, and was married to a fellow émigré of noble blood who treated asthmatics.
‘Will you dance with me?’ Father asked her tentatively.
There was a silence and then something loomed into view. The something was a six foot three Hungarian called Baron Bancszky von Ambroz. ‘That is my wife you wish to dance with,’ he hissed. Father was unused to risking life and limb in his amatory pursuits. He retreated at once. Three years later the Hungarian baron died and he and Mother met again. Father’s stock had evidently depreciated, for when the hostess asked who Mother would like to sit beside, she replied, ‘Anyone except that dreadful Woodrow Wyatt. He looks like an Italian waiter.’
No one is sure at what point her froideur began to evaporate, but it cannot have been when Father immediately asked her her age. When she told him he said, ‘Oh, as old as that?’ Mother glowered. There was ice-pack in her voice. ‘In my country, ladies are never asked their age.’
From that unpromising beginning, Father raced around Mother as if he were a leaf blown by a strong wind. He filled her house with flowers, so many that she could only swoon between the blooms in a creole languor. He proposed several times with the unusual proviso that she must on no account accept him. He wept and pleaded until the citadel of her virtue seemed ready to fall. Then Father did one of those inexplicable things that were to mark his entire life. He told Mother he was in love with a married woman. The effect of this confession was dramatic. Mother walked out. Father burst into tears. The fracas had the desired result. On condition that he wrote the woman a letter renouncing their affair, Mother consented to be his wife.
But love refused to wear her romantic mask and insisted in appearing instead in the most comic of disguises; tripping up her two foot-soldiers and setting booby-traps in their path. The first concerned the wedding ring. What was required convention for other people was anathema to Father.
‘I can’t possibly buy you a ring, Buttercup,’ he said dolefully when she raised the question.
‘Why not?’
Father was amazed. ‘Why? Because it would be far too embarrassing to go into a shop and ask for one.’
The wedding was to be conducted away from the prying eyes of journalists at the Guildhall in the City. To acquire the requisite residency, Mother spent two weeks in a boarding house of the kind that might have featured in one of Terence Rattigan’s less salubrious plays. After the ceremony this uninspiring introduction to married life choked Mother with rage. As Father’s car pulled up at a crossing, she leapt from the vehicle. ‘I wish I’d never married you.’
Father was astounded.
‘None of my other wives ever said that quite so soon after the wedding.’
‘Just a minute, madam.’ Mother swung around to find herself face to face with a representative of the British law in all his bedizened glory. ‘Are you soliciting this gentleman? I strongly advise that you leave him alone.’ He bent down to address Father, whose goggle-eyed face was protruding from the car window. ‘Would you like to press charges of indecency, sir?’
17
Father hangs on
FATHER WAS SEIZED with paroxyms of rage whenever any of us became ill. The fortunate possessor of good health, he could not see why everyone was not like him in their attitude towards sickness. The great majority of ailments, he insisted, were all in the mind. All this prolonged discussion of germs was merely a trick by the medical profession, which preyed on the fears of those more feeble-minded.
Father was fearless about ailments. He castigated Mother and me whenever we gave in to one. Mother’s first husband had been a doctor. This was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it left her the possessor of a slight medical knowledge. A curse because, having digested serried medical journals, she had the autodidact’s habit of over-diagnosing. Father said she reminded him of the narrator in Jerome K. Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat who goes to the British Museum to read up a minor ailment and convinces himself he has every disease from A to Z except for Housemaid’s Knee.
Mother happily extended her hospitality to Housemaid’s Knee. No snob she, there was no complaint to which she was not at home. Thus it was with my own health. As a child I often suffered from a sore throat that brought with it a languid lethargy. These minor colds, for it was clear that this is what they were, were treated as if they were the most perilous of diseases. In a trice Mother would have me flat on my back in a darkened room. Her presence there beside me at my bed brought with it a strange influence. It made me feel worse than I was.
‘Are you sure the pain is just in your throat?’ she would ask. An assent would bring a smile of gentle sweetness and self-abnegation. ‘Tell Mummy, dear. I know you have a pain in your chest.’ ‘No I don’t.’ Mother poked at it. ‘Ouch.’ ‘You see. We must call the doctor at once.’ At this Father would snort, ‘What rubbish. Can’t you see the child is just over-tired.’
Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate. Mother always abandoned hope. She sat by my bed with indefatigable vigilance. The curtains would be drawn further and my hand clasped as Mother consecrated with the radiance of her goodness my poor bed. The hospitals of Scutari could scarcely have borne such a sad scene. Father thought her devotion absurd.
This was especially true as after my recovery Mother would succumb herself. She would take to her bed and utter little gasping moans. The trouble was her moans sounded so theatrical that Father couldn’t believe she was really suffering. Father tut-tutted to himself and said it was silly. Mother was perfectly healthy. When people thought they were ill it didn’t mean there was anything the matter with them. It was merely a sign of weak character. He often told Mother how feeble it was to give in to an ailment, but every time he tried to gird her in this respect she seemed to become angry. ‘Now listen, Buttercup,’ he would say briskly, ‘you know there is nothing wrong with you that a bit of will-power can’t put right. Just go into the bathroom, look at the mirror and repeat, “Every day, in every way, I am getting better and better.”’
Father’s own experiences in a sick-bed had been few. When he was twelve he had contracted tubercular glands after lying under a cow and drinking its milk straight from the udder. Then there was a bout of hepatitis when he was twenty-five. But from that time until he was seventy-nine and diagnosed with pneumonia he had no other serious illnesses.
In foreign countries he occasionally admitted falling prey to something he called the colly-wobbles. Depending on which way you looked at them, the colly-wobbles were either the result of food poisoning or overeating. The symptoms were stomach cramps and mild diarrhoea. You caught them in hot climates. Two years before he died Father had decided on a short trip to Morocco. Maroc Air was the only carrier that flew straight to Marrakesh. The airline and Father immediately disagreed with each other. On the plane we were served some indigenous red wine which Father pronounced quite disgusting. He made vomiting noises that attracted the attention of the other passengers. Then he rolled his eyes back into his head, stuck his tongue out and slumped forward in his seat. He looked horrible. The woman behind us began to scream. ‘That poor man is dying. Somebody help.’ She made such a commotion that t
hree stewardesses rushed to Father’s aid. Of course he was only play-acting, and when they got there was sitting bolt upright reading The Times.
We had elected to stay in the Hotel Mamounia in Marrakesh, which had been favoured by Winston Churchill. It had been expanded since his day and resembled a sprawling ocean liner. From the windows could be seen the shimmering minaret of the Katoubia mosque; beneath it the dream-like effect was spoilt by itinerant camels, the odour of which wafted towards us on the afternoon air. Father at once decided that in Marrakesh he was bound to get the colly-wobbles. With the fixed determination of an indomitable will, he declined to leave his room for the first two days. On the third day he was bested. Curiosity persuaded Father to venture out to a picturesque local restaurant.
The journey to the restaurant was indeed lovely. An old man in a jellaba sewn with iridescent thread showed us the way. He carried in his hand a swaying lantern. The camels had long gone; instead the air was filled with the scent of jasmine. After ten minutes we reached a wooden door in a wall. Through it was a garden of such bursting beauty that it appeared to belong in an opium dream. In the centre stood a stone fountain whose bowl was filled with rose petals. On satin cushions reclined pale youths. The owner was wrapped in the richest silks and seemed surrounded by a halo of rainbow-gathering colours; diamonds were sewn onto his fez.
When a waiter brought a menu, Father succumbed to the most powerful and the profoundest of all the instincts of humanity: greed. The feast was begun with a local dish called a pastilla – minced pigeon in pastry sprinkled with icing sugar. Afterwards a man washed Father’s hands in rose-scented water. In vain did I warn of the laxative properties of lamb and yoghurt tagine followed by sweet couscous and honeyed beef, but his enthusiasm was unstoppable. On he went to Berber fish stew – an odoursome brew made with cumin and red pepper – cinnamon tarts and sticky threads of sugar dipped in tea. One could feel the colly-wobbles creeping nearer and nearer. But profound conviction was the basis of Father’s life policy. ‘If I tell the colly-wobbles not to bother me, they won’t,’ he declared with finality. Father believed that the semi-divine force of his personality would stave off any physical misfortune. As Labouchère, who was a cynic, said of Gladstone, ‘He always had a card up his sleeve; but unlike the others he thought God had put it there.’
God deserted his son that night, either that or else he was taking a weekend break from the exhausting task of seeing to his vagaries. Asleep in my bed, I was awoken at one a.m. Father had the colly-wobbles badly.
He did not mince matters. The dinner had played him false. But he would lay the phantom or he would perish. All night he paced up and down muttering to himself as if arguing with an invisible tormentor. By the morning he appeared to have won. By the following afternoon he was well enough to explore the souks. These labyrinthine constructions dated from the Middle Ages and contained every conceivable object for sale from silken slippers to cuts of roasting lamb. A hundred metres into the souk was a herb and spice shop that caught the eye. Its floor was tiled with ancient mosaics and its shelves sweated with bottles from which emanated delicious smells; in caskets nestled exotic herbs and potions.
Alas! The affect was spoilt by a buck-toothed proprietor in a striped suit that made him look like a Levantine Ken Dodd. He waved us to a bench. Leering, the man pulled off the shelves a jar containing some tangled grey roots. He waved it at Father and cackled. ‘Here, sir, for problems in the night!’ Father looked puzzled. Problems in the night? The realisation came. Ah, yes of course, how clever of the man to have guessed about his colly-wobbles. ‘Splendid,’ said Father, ‘I’ll take the whole jar.’ The owner could not believe his fortune. ‘Yes, sir.’ He added, in a voice pregnant with meaning, ‘Lady will be very happy.’
For some reason he was looking at me while he said it. The horrible thought dawned that the odious man had meant something else by ‘problems in the night’. ‘Father,’ I whispered urgently. ‘Do you know what you’re buying? It’s an aphrodisiac, not a cure for diarrhoea.’ Father looked questioningly at the owner. ‘You mean it’s not for the colly-wobbles?’ The man smirked, showing rancid teeth. ‘Yes sir, it stops all wobbles.’
The colly-wobbles aside, Father said illnesses were mostly imaginary. He even declared, when he caught it, that his pneumonia was imaginary. Father never saw a GP. He believed them to be ignorant poodle-fakers. When his condition began to deteriorate, Mother warned him that he really must see a physician. This only strengthened his resolve not to do so. ‘I know all about doctors. They couldn’t diagnose a missing leg. Then they have the cheek to charge you one hundred pounds.’
He refused even to take medicine. Mother had acquired the latest antibiotic treatment for pneumonia, but it might as well have been tap water for all the notice Father took of it. We watched anxiously as he continued to lose weight; his temperature rose and he shivered miserably. ‘Your father is too old to shake it off without treatment,’ groaned Mother. ‘I’m going to be a widow.’
In vain we entreated. Even in his worst throes the patient would decline to swallow anything save mashed bananas. Father was a great believer in the healing properties of bananas. He claimed to have witnessed a Hindu farmer recover from a poisonous snakebite by rubbing one on the wound. Mother’s agonies became more intense. When Father coughed blood she predicted his imminent death.
Eventually we ground up two antibiotic pills and mixed them into a banana purée. It took dexterity to persuade Father to eat even that, but Mother prevailed. Forty-eight hours later the patient began to rally. His temperature dropped; the coughing stilled; the fountains of blood were no more. A week later he was able to come down to dinner in his dressing gown. ‘You see, Buttercup,’ he said, ‘I was right. Nothing like rest and the occasional banana.’ Mother looked withering. The following day she telephoned a friend who was a consultant at the Royal Free Hospital in London. She told him everything. He immediately wrote to Father saying, ‘You are very fortunate, Woodrow. If your wife hadn’t given you those pills you would probably have died.’
‘What pills?’ he responded by return of post.
Father and colds were an interesting combination. He rarely had them, attributing this to his large daily intake of Vitamin C. But when he did get one, his method of dealing with it was to try and clear it out by brute force, either by loudly blowing his nose or by sneezing. Father’s sneezes sounded like a twenty-one-gun salute. They were the loudest sneezes I had ever heard. Once, Father sneezed on a boat and the passengers thought the engine had exploded. You could feel his sneezes at the other end of the room. The resultant debris was just as impressive. Bits of phlegm could be found metres away adorning pieces of furniture. Father was very pleased when a sneeze travelled this far. He said it was healthy. Once a cold had started, he turned the central heating up to high. He went to his room, shut himself in and buried himself under a pile of blankets. He then determined to sweat it out.
The severity of the cold could be judged by the racket one could hear coming from his bedroom. He seemed to be having a skirmish with it. He behaved like a warrior uttering battle-cries. When they were particularly loud, you knew the cold had penetrated one of his flanks. When they quietened, the cold was on the retreat. Sometimes Father stayed in his room for days. He would refuse to emerge until he had thoroughly beaten it. Then with the illogicality that made up his nature he would celebrate the cold’s rout by smoking his largest Havana cigar.
The harmful effects of smoking were denied. Claims by doctors that it caused cancer seemed equally unproven. When people pointed out that the majority of doctors believed it to be true, he would ask contemptuously, ‘Since when have matters of science been decided by majority opinion?’ Father would refer to grandmother as an example of the salutary effects of a regular tobacco habit. ‘My mother-in-law has smoked since she was twelve. She’s ninety-three and she’s the healthiest person I know.’ In later life he believed that smoking prevented Alzheimer’s Disease. Formerly, he had told
me, ‘You must promise to inform me when I become senile. Then I will kill myself.’ Now he revised happily, ‘It’s all right. The more I smoke, the more robust my brain will become. I shan’t have to commit suicide after all.’
In later life, the only thing Father was really frightened of catching was AIDS. In the early stages of our acquaintance with the disease, when science was not wholly certain how it was transmitted, it was easy for people to convince themselves that the minimum level of physical contact was all that was required. Father insisted it could be caught by sitting on a lavatory seat. This was the cause of social difficulties. When Father arrived at a party his eyes searched the room for any well-known homosexuals. Then he would mutter to me, ‘Got to get to the loo before they do.’ There would be a wild dash through the crowd as Father executed his plan. ‘’Scuse me, ‘scuse me, got to have a pee.’ The frequency of this occurrence convinced many people that Father had a weak bladder. I didn’t like to explain the real reason.
On one occasion, having spied Jeremy Thorpe on the other side of the room, Father rushed at once to take up his position in the bathroom. However, so Pavlovian had this reflex become that he had not considered whether he genuinely wished to pee. After five minutes Mother sent me off to find him. He was talking to himself through the door.
‘Oh come on, stupid bodily functions, get on with it.’
‘Father, if you don’t want to pee why don’t you just come back to the party. Everyone is wondering where you are.’
‘I can’t do that,’ groaned Father, ‘because I might want to pee in an hour and then Jeremy will have got here before me.’
Father Dear Father Page 13
