by Anne Edwards
“You’re overreacting,” he cajoled, a familiar vein in his forehead twitching, but his chin set, his voice firm.
“No way, Bobby! Forget it!”
Dinner was disastrous. They departed the next morning. Two days later three large cartons containing Judy’s papers—old contracts, her Screen Actors Guild card, her passport, letters and her writings—mostly poetry—and numerous tapes, arrived. I had no idea what I should do with them. I asked the law firm to contact Judy’s daughter, Liza, who was in Hollywood filming The Sterile Cuckoo, to see if she wanted them. Several months passed before a member of the firm wrote back to say that Liza’s answer was, “No.”
I brought the boxes back with me to the States when I returned two years later, and kept them under lock and key. Mickey collaborated with a writer on a tell-all book. Five years after Judy Garland’s death, I wrote and Simon & Schuster published my book, Judy Garland: A Biography. The first edition concluded with a small section of Judy’s poetry. I don’t know why, but the poetry was pulled from all future editions. It never had been included in the British edition. During my work on the book, I went to Ferncliff and was shocked to find that Judy’s remains were still in that file drawer (so much for Mickey wanting to write his book to pay for her burial. The bill was still outstanding plus steep interest charges). I was in correspondence with Frank Sinatra at the time re his memories and association with Judy. In one letter I wrote about the state of affairs at Ferncliff, whereas Judy remained in a drawer with a nameplate reading—“Judy Garland DeVinko.” Several weeks later the manager of Ferncliff wrote me stating that Mr. Sinatra had paid the outstanding bill and that Mrs. DeVinko would soon be given a proper burial. At Sinatra’s request, I did not include this information—or this disturbing backstory—in my book. Upon the publication of Judy Garland: A Biography, I sent all the material originally in the three boxes to Judy Garland’s legal firm in New York City.
• 16 •
Swiss Interlude
Switzerland was at present my Shangri-la. Gstaad attracted the rich, powerful, and famous. Yet, at heart, it remained a mountain village. Cowbells rang and echoed through the passes. Large tin containers on the milk wagon jangled as it bobbed along the cobbled mountain streets on its way from the Molkerei to the hotels and restaurants. Fresh summer breezes carried the evergreen scent of pine. The glaciers glistened in the sunlight like ornaments atop a circle of massive Christmas trees. Villagers were solid, hardworking folk amazingly tolerant of the multinational strangers who invaded their peaceful community. An enigma existed here as well. For although countrified, Gstaad was the host to some of the world’s most sophisticated people as well as being far ahead of London and other cities I knew in technical equipment and service.
Unlike Klosters, Gstaad had not attracted any of my expat friends, although it was a part-time home to a small group of film folk who were keen on winter sports and the absence of paparazzi. I found myself somewhat isolated, perhaps by my own making. The problem with my leg made me fearful of skiing and après-ski gatherings bored me. I am not at my best with small talk or gossip. I withdraw into myself at such get-togethers. Ever the writer, I become the observer. Dialogue lodges in my brain as if on a mental disk. I missed the most remembered refrains—or those to be placed on file. There was a hole that “we three” had occupied for so many years. My love was not diminished, but I had to accept the reality that both Catherine and Michael were now adults with lives independent of mine. However, loneliness did not overcome me—even with Leon’s long periods away. I had my writing, Jay was ever present, Catherine just a short distance by train. I rather quickly made a few new friends, and my house appeared to be on the stopover for numerous old American friends on European tours. If I had one wish, it would have been that Michael was not at such a distance. But he was currently speechwriting and campaigning for hopeful candidates in the coming state elections.
Jay, quite open in his sexual orientation now, had made a connection with a cultured group of gentlemen of his like who pivoted around Chalet Coward in Les Avants, about an hour’s drive from Gstaad. Noël Coward spent the spring and summer in this his beloved retreat, shared with his longtime lover, Graham Payn, who had first entered Coward’s life at the age of fourteen back in 1932 when he auditioned for a role in Coward’s Words and Music by singing “Nearer, My God, to Thee” while doing a tap dance (quite a “feet”!). Noël was so startled that he hired him on the spot. Payn was Coward’s protégé for the next decade and had cast him in numerous plays to sing, in his strong baritone voice, many of his romantic songs, in hopes that the young man would become a star. That was never to be, possibly because Payn, although talented and good looking, did not have the ambition, which had first been his mother’s and then Coward’s. With Payn in his early twenties, and two decades Coward’s junior, the two men began their lifetime partnership as a couple. Payn presided over their homes and was dearly loved by Coward, who called him “Little Lad.”
Born with the century, Coward was sixty-nine, Payn, a dapper man of fifty, still extremely youthful in appearance. He possessed a dry wit, clever enough to keep up with Coward and their close circle of adroit companions who, when winter approached Les Avants (no member being even mildly inclined toward snow sports), followed the sun with the couple from Chalet Coward to their second home, Firefly, in Jamaica. But some of their members remained in Les Avants, to Jay’s great joy. The town (a village much like Gstaad) overlooked the city of Montreux, with Chillon and an excellent library close by for me to do my research. Jay accompanied me there once or twice a week. Montreux was a jazz center with many jazz clubs and fine dining restaurants frequented by nearby residents of Les Avants and Vevey, which included Coward, Payn, and members of their entourage—Cole Lesley (Coward’s secretary, collaborator, confidant—and later—biographer), and whoever was his guest at the time. I had a somewhat tenuous connection to this traveling group of players through Jay, who met them within a month of arriving in Switzerland.
I never knew (nor inquired) how Jay, for a time, at least, became a fringe member of Coward’s household. I assumed he had become acquainted during evenings when I had decided to remain overnight in Montreux to return to Chillon early the next morning. I had bought him a silver Volkswagen Beetle that was easy to shepherd through the often narrow mountain passes. Before long he told me he would be going into Montreux for the weekend, adding—a bit later—that he had spent time at Chalet Coward and had become friends with Cole Lesley, a charming man, who did come to Gstaad upon occasion. After Jay’s new acquaintanceship began, his attire grew impressively more fashionable. He wore a blazer, with a cravat and matching pocket square, when we ventured into town to have dinner. For Christmas he received from a mysterious sender (not revealed to me) a smart, Asian-style lounging robe. Years later, at a party Elaine Dundy gave in London, which Cole Lesley and I both attended, he asked about Jay. I had to convey the sad news that he had died. Cole said, “I was truly sorry to have lost touch with him. We had some memorable times together. I was very fond of Jay.” I wanted to say, “and he of you,” but I just smiled.
The imminence of Coward’s seventieth birthday had become a national celebration in England. His old shows and reviews with his music were currently occupying London’s theaters. He was, however, in declining health and spent what time he could in Les Avants (and later at Firefly) painting (an avocation Payn shared with much talent) and to conserve his lagging energy. I had not met Noël Coward, but I was a great admirer of his special oeuvre. Among Judy’s letters in my inherited boxes was a warm, flattering, and gracious one he had written to her after her famous 1963 Carnegie Hall concert. With all the moving about, the near homelessness she had endured, the lengthy hospital stays, and hard times, she had kept few mementos. She obviously had treasured Coward’s letter, I was sure, as such praise from a man she so admired must have meant a great deal to her. I thought he might like to know that. I wrote him a short note explaining how I happened to have p
ossession of his letter, adding that I thought he might be warmed by the knowledge that Judy had kept it with her until the end of her life.
Coward swiftly replied. Knowing that the letter had been held so dearly by Judy Garland—“one of the world’s greatest entertainers”—had “brought tears to an old man’s eyes.” We had a small exchange of letters after that. I wrote to congratulate him on his investiture as Knight Bachelor the following February, the honor long overdue—many thought because of his homosexuality. However, he was a great friend of the Queen Mother and of Princess Margaret, as well, and loved being in both their company. Whatever the reason for the delay, he now had “Sir” as a title and I was not sure how I should address him. I wrote:
Dear Sir (?)
Dear Sir Noël (?)
Dear Sir Noël Coward (?)
Dear Sir Coward (?)
Please excuse the ignorance of a girl from the Colonies, but I am not sure how to correctly address you.
He replied:
Dear Madam
Dear Ms. Anne Edwards
Dear Mrs. Anne Edwards-Becker
Dear me! Owing to my ignorance of proper American etiquette, I am not sure how to address YOU. [Then he continued:]
Dear, Dear Lady:
I accept your kind words with deep gratitude.
[He signed the short letter] Yours, Noël Coward.
A parade of good friends visited me in Gstaad throughout the summer months, among them the author-screenwriter Vera Caspary, who at seventy had more vitality than any of the young people Catherine brought home from college. Short and spunky, she hiked for miles accompanied by other guests (I was not much on walks over a mile!). Vera was marvelous company. She always had a good story to tell (the stories seeming to be amplified with each retelling). The Chicago doctor who had delivered her was a Doctor Frankenstein (a fact that stimulated her interest in my current work in progress). In her youth, Vera had been an editor of a dance magazine and the pseudonymous author of mail-order pamphlets on how to dance “by following the step patterns within” (her invention). She had also had a stint as a fortune teller in a Gypsy tearoom before writing her first novel, The White Girl, which was an instant success. Best known for having created Laura (as a play, then a novel, and finally as a film that would become a classic), her career as a screenwriter, mostly at 20th Century-Fox, had brought her a dozen fine credits including A Letter to Three Wives, Three Husbands, Give a Girl a Break, and Les Girls. She was known as a pitch artist—a writer who could go into a producer’s office and in fifteen minutes or less could sell a story she created on the spot. Her success, she claimed, was due to the fact that she always based her stories on the same framework—three women caught up in a predicament that was not solved until moments before the closing credits. Her trick was to place each story in a different setting, and give them a surprise twist. Three was the magic number, she insisted, never two or four. She claimed she sold the studio a story idea titled Three Coins in a Fountain in five minutes—just by placing three girls in Rome to find their true loves, who meet at Rome’s legendary Trevi Fountain where each makes a secret wish and throws a coin into its waters. Vera’s contribution to the film went uncredited.
A spirited woman with glacial blue eyes and a determined chin, Vera had a sharp mind and an inflexible will. She did not suffer prigs or pretenders easily and was quick to lash out at them in a voice containing a scratch, as though being stretched too far, and often in uninhibited language. An early fighter for women’s rights, she believed in free love but, after eight years, had married her longtime lover, Igee (Isador Goldsmith)—only recently deceased. At 20th she had rebelled against the lack of air-conditioning in the Writers Building by working at her trusty typewriter in the nude (and soon got an air conditioner as the male writers in the studio lost too much time seeing how she was getting along). I greatly admired Vera’s candidness and honesty. She was a good friend, loyal, understanding, and not reticent in contributing her true feelings and advice, always given with an attitude of “this is what I think—do with it what you wish.”
Although not blacklisted, Vera returned to the novel form, as her openly expressed left-wing views still made her unemployable in Hollywood. She loved my present story Haunted Summer (“the Dr. Frankenstein connection,” she laughed, “and all that young fucking!”) and accompanied Jay and me to Chillon several times. She and Jay bantered back and forth on our road trips. Of whether Jay and Cole Lesley were lovers, she said: “Of course, a skinny, unattractive man like Cole Lesley is attracted to Jay. He worked for and among some of the most famous of Hollywood’s philistines [referring to his previous associations with Garson Kanin, Ruth Gordon, Katharine Hepburn, Carmen Miranda, and Tallulah Bankhead] and he is fresh fruit to a gay Englishman like Lesley, especially since Jay falls to his knees as soon as he hears an English accent!”
No one could replace Salka’s dear friendship (and guidance) in Klosters, but Vera’s lively stays with me in Gstaad were much appreciated. Work on Welcome to the Club, Leon’s current film, kept him in Denmark for all of the summer and most of the fall. I had spent two weeks with him in Copenhagen and he took several weekend breaks in Switzerland. Once she was settled at Leysin, Catherine did not come home every weekend, but when she did she often brought friends. I was possessed by my work on Haunted Summer, driven by my need to deliver the completed manuscript to my publisher by the spring of the coming year. I had the company of Jay and some new, interesting friends. Yet, my life was absent of elements that remained important to me. I deeply missed being a part of my old group of expats and writing buddies who, when they traveled to Switzerland, chose Klosters over Gstaad as a place of respite. My reconciliation with Leon had been less successful than I had hoped it might be, chiefly because he was seldom there to share with me the experience of everyday life. I came to understand how army wives must feel. We were living separate lives and, in my case, there were no ties of family and home to bind us. Switzerland’s property laws allowed foreigners to buy property only for a one-year period between two seven-year, nonpurchasing periods. That time slot was approaching, as was the expiration of the six-month lease on my current rental. I suggested to Leon that we might do well to look for a suitable house, if we could buy it at a good price. He agreed, with seeming enthusiasm, that we should have a real home and that Gstaad was an excellent choice. With the help of a real estate agent, I started a search for properties in our price range. One, Chalet Fleur-de-Lis, strongly appealed to me. The next time Leon was in Gstaad, we toured it together and agreed that it was the right place.
As most structures in Gstaad, Chalet Fleur-de-Lis adhered to the Swiss village fashion dating back to the nineteenth century (and probably much earlier), in which the exterior of buildings had a sameness, a kind of ski-lodge look that was not exactly ugly, in fact, was rather charming (especially in the warm months when a profusion of bright-colored geraniums bloomed in window boxes), but allowed no building to stand out. The view, however, from the generous windows facing front, was spectacular with the village below like a Disney fantasy, in the distance the tall mountains and the ice-tipped glacier. When I first saw the chalet, the lower mountains were carpeted in brilliant shades of wildflowers. But one could imagine the transforming beauty when in winter Gstaad became a glistening white wonderland.
The interior had capacious rooms, with high ceilings and wood beams. There was a handsome, solid staircase of light wood. The sound factor in the living room (or salon, as it was called) was perfect for a piano. A long balcony overlooked the front and would be lovely for spring and summer lunches, especially when outfitted with pots of bright flowers. And there was a complete apartment on the lower level with a separate entrance, perfect for Jay. Best of all, the place was in excellent condition with an up-to-date kitchen and bathrooms. Except for some personal decorating touches, no great outlay of money had to be spent in renovations.
Directly below us on the mountain where Chalet Fleur-de-Lis stood was Yehudi Men
uhin’s chalet compound with its private yoga building. I confess to imagining musical evenings held when he was in residence (which did not occur).
Chalet Fleur-de-Lis was close enough to walk down to the village. The return trip would be a steep climb, however, so I did not envision myself trooping back on foot or bicycle. The property was owned by an English family, meaning we could purchase it with pounds (my contribution coming from my British earnings) and not lose anything on a money exchange. Leon and I agreed that I would be responsible for the down payment (50 percent of the agreed sale price of forty-seven thousand pounds) while Leon would take care of the monthly mortgage payments on the loan for the remaining sum. The deal could not be closed until the following year, and our current lease expired at the end of October. The owner, a Mrs. Maitland, kindly allowed me to rent the chalet (which was not presently occupied) until the time when a sale could be put through and executed, the outlay to be deducted from the sale price. She was also happy to leave the piano and some of the furniture that, if we chose, we could buy at the time of final purchase. For Leon the chalet would provide a financial base, which demanded only a small amount of Swiss taxation and gave legitimacy to his tax situation in Great Britain. For me it would be a home.
With Jay’s help and additional assistance from local workers we moved into Chalet Fleur-de-Lis in mid-October. The first snows of the season had turned the outside world into a dazzle of brilliant white during the day, the sun still shining high in the azure sky. We had, I felt, bought ourselves a parcel of paradise. The next morning I awoke to the sound of a lashing wind whipping around the corners of the house. I could barely see through the broad windows of the room as my new world was veiled in a thick, gray mountain mist that brought Wuthering Heights to mind. Had I made a terrible mistake? I admit to having some thoughts that it was possible. Then, about noon, the sun finally emerged to renew and reinforce my enthusiasm.
