Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle (11 page)

As always, it stood by the bay window rising up from floor to ceiling, emitting a sensational sweet smell of pine, and was garlanded with tinsel, coloured lights, and enough sweets and chocolates to sink a battleship. Underneath, neatly arranged and beautifully wrapped, were presents for all the children.

As the former saloon began filling up, happy faces appeared wearing paper hats in all the colours of the rainbow, blowing whistles, and bearing other strange objects found in the Christmas crackers. Then Granny made her stately way into the room, accompanied by my mother, and everyone made a lot of fuss over them. Morg followed and made a lot of fuss over everyone else. No other members of the court made an appearance. Nanny eased her way through the crowd towards me, selecting, to John Money’s annoyance, one of the large, ochre-coloured cushions (made from Breton sailcloth and found on the cane chairs outside the castle front door in summer) for me to sit on, in front of my mother’s chair. He felt this was stuff and nonsense, me being silly, not participating on equal terms with the other children, and Nanny pushing her weight around. I just thought she was being kind.

Slowly but surely we were all in place; castle grown-ups in armchairs against the wall, close by the tree; children on cushions from in front of the stage to three-quarters of the way back; and the estate parents, some standing, some sitting on folding chairs, lined up along the back wall. For a brief moment the noise of chatting stopped as the curtain swept back to reveal a very funny-looking man in black tailcoat and top hat who bounced onto the stage bellowing, “Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen!” several times before proceeding to pull a large number of handkerchiefs from both his ears. I enjoyed that. For half an hour he regaled us with tricks and stories, sometimes asking for assistance from someone in the audience. I dreaded his asking me, but fortunately I escaped his attention, and as the final rabbit was gamely plucked from the ever-faithful hat, we all waved and said farewell. Time, now, for the presents.

Granny and Morg stood up, their commanding presence drawing all eyes. One by one John Money passed Morg the gifts and he, revelling in the situation, glanced at the card and whispered the name in Granny’s ear. She then called out the names in her deep, husky, and mesmerizing voice, each time being assailed by a happy shout of “Me!” and “Over here!” When it was my turn she lowered her voice a little because I was sitting right in front of her.

It was large. “Darling Anthony,” the label said, “Happy Christmas and much love, Granny.” I tore away some of the paper and saw exactly what I had been hoping for. I felt a surge of excitement. It had been top of my list. I tore off more paper.
Yes!
Fantastic! A Davy Crockett outfit! Concentrating hard on the decimation of paper and ribbon, I almost forgot my manners. “Thank you, Granny,” I said. She smiled at me, as did my mother. They could tell they’d picked a winner with this one.

I grabbed Nanny’s hand and told her I was going upstairs to put my costume on. Oblivious to the pandemonium all around, balloons popping, babies crying, adults getting ready to leave, and children begging to stay with fierce intensity, I rushed back up to the nursery. I opened the box on my bed and took out the heavy buckskin jacket and long pants. The moccasins. The powder horn and strap. The leather belt and holster, the double-barreled pistol and hunting knife. And the hat. The big fur hat with a tail.

When dressed, I went over to the mirror on Nanny’s dressing table. It looked great. It felt great. King of the castle. King of the wild frontier.

*   *   *

It was time to hang up my stocking. Nanny had found for me a long, thick woollen sock that we hung over one of the bedknobs. I wondered which fireplace Santa Claus would come down.

Indeed, considering his remarkably heavy load, I wondered if he might not consider putting tradition aside and come in through the front door. Mildly frustrated at my inability to assist Mr. Claus with his complicated travel arrangements, I turned out the light and tried to go to sleep. I could just hear Nanny and the boys watching television next door. Perhaps if I stayed awake Santa wouldn’t come. Help! What was he going to bring?… An orange for the bottom of the stocking, surely … and lots of toys …

James had a stocking just like mine, and it seemed logical that David would too, although being in his separate bedroom meant waiting until the morning for comparisons. Strangely, Nanny’s stocking was a lot smaller than ours, which mystified me a bit. Why did Father Christmas bring fewer gifts for Nanny? I should have asked her, but never got round to it.

When I awoke it was totally dark. My big toe had come into contact with something hard. Wary of making a noise, I gently prodded and explored with both feet, coming rapidly to the conclusion that Santa Claus had paid his call and left behind a full and weighty stocking as evidence of his endeavours. With reluctance I waited patiently for a while, but as my eyes adjusted to the dark, and what was lying across my feet became visible (as well as the sleeping figures of Nanny and James), curiosity got the better of me and I reached down. Christmas Day had begun, and not a moment too soon.

By the time James’s head popped up, accompanied by a “Bloody hell, what time is it?” I was able to read Nanny’s clock and inform him that it was just past six o’clock. I had already been hard at play for about an hour, but such was my diligence in maintaining minimal noise I had succeeded in opening only three small parcels, two of which remained a mystery as to what they were, or what they did, the third being a very smart pair of slippers. Small pieces of wrapping paper were strewn across my entire bed.

By six thirty the lights were on, we were all up, and Nanny was making tea. While David and James nattered and squabbled over their presents in the playroom, I went to work on an Airfix model Spitfire fighter plane, with one-third of my sock still remaining.

Breakfast over and dressed in full Crockett regalia (chest, accordingly, a little pumped up), I awaited zero hour, nine thirty—the only day of the year we were allowed to invade our parents’ bedroom quarters so early—with outward calm and inner turmoil. I had recently been introduced to the music of Cliff Richard and the Shadows. That was as deeply significant as my introduction to cricket. So intense was my enthusiasm that, having saved enough tokens and pocket money to buy, and become intimately acquainted with, their long-playing record, I had concluded that I must have a guitar just like the one they played. On the back-cover sleeve-notes of the record there was a description of the instruments Hank, Bruce, and Jet favoured, and so onto my Christmas list, under the Davy Crockett outfit but above a new cricket bat, pads, and ball, went “One Fender Stratocaster, red, with tremolo arm.” To make things sound a little more authentic, I put the word out that I’d had a few guitar lessons at Hill House and was well on my way to achieving a modicum of skill. Curiously, my claims were not greeted with the ridicule which they deserved.

Christmas Day was, in fact, practically the only day of the year we invaded our parents’ bedroom quarters at all. At nine thirty on the dot, the three of us left the confines of the nursery and trooped down the corridor, past the long seventeenth-century oak refectory table, above which hung another fine Flemish verdure tapestry, under the arch, past the housekeeper, Mrs. Walsh’s linen closet, and past Lady Huntley’s bedroom.

Knocking loudly, we entered the inner sanctum. Cupboards right and left, designed by Monsieur Boudin and hand built by his craftsmen. Father’s bedroom to the left, mother’s to the right, marbled bathroom straight ahead. A sumptuous and very comfortable set of rooms with plenty of space to swing a few cats. We knocked again on our mother’s door.

“Come in,” she said, loud and clear.

There she was, neat and tidy, not a hair out of place, pink cardigan around her shoulders, sitting up in her antique four-poster bed having breakfast off a tray and glancing through a newspaper.

“Happy Christmas,” everyone said all at the same time, followed by a flurry of kisses and more “Happy Christmases.”

During the greetings, our father had entered the bedroom wearing a fine-looking pair of striped pyjamas, to be greeted by another chorus of “Happy Christmas.” Eyes darted about the room in an effort to locate the presents. Our mother directed traffic from the bed, telling us in which direction to head. I experienced what can only be described as the onset of grave disappointment as I noticed that my pile of gifts contained nothing large enough to house a guitar. I inspected the labels: Mummy, Daddy; Mummy and Daddy; Godmother Anne; Godmother Margaret. And two envelopes: Godfather Francis, and Godfather G. All present and correct. No guitar. Too bad, on with the show. D and J had bought Daddy a tie, which seemed to give him great pleasure.

“Ah! My dear sirs,” he said, smiling broadly. “A tie. How delightful. Many thanks!”

All three of us had boxes which contained the different parts of a motor-racing game called Scalextric. It looked incredible. I was just opening one of my envelopes when I noticed my mother bringing something out of the corner cupboard. My heart took a leap. Could this be it? It looked like a giant violin case.

“Here you are, darling,” she said in a tone which, had I been older, I might have described as verging on the conspiratorial. “It’s not quite what you asked for, but we hope you like it.” I felt everyone was looking at me, and I wished they wouldn’t. The paper had bells all over it. Perhaps “Jingle Bells” wasn’t so hard to play. The case was soft, in dark brown with a zipper. The guitar didn’t look at all like a Fender Stratocaster. It was non-electric and had strings like a tennis racquet. I was still pleased but had no idea what to do next. I was caught out in a fib. What on earth had I been thinking? I hadn’t been thinking. I had been dreaming, salivating, imagining a glorious red Fender Stratocaster slung over my neck, my fingers miraculously finding the positions on the frets to make the desired sounds ring out loud and true, and all without the benefit of an amplifier which I didn’t even know was needed for an electric guitar.

I toyed with the instrument a bit, holding it in a manner which I thought appeared exceedingly professional, knowing my face was turning the colour of a red letterbox. I gave my mother a hasty kiss and said thank you, explaining I was a bit rusty and in need of a little practice.

Fortunately it was time to get ready for church. Nobody but me seemed at all put out by my acute discomfort. We tidied up and carried what we could back to the nursery. Before changing into church apparel I hid the guitar under my bed.

*   *   *

Outside the front of the castle a spectacular array of motorcars sat waiting. Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, an Aston Martin, and Granny’s huge black Mercedes-Benz directly in front of the door, all with their engines running to warm them up. Borrett, Brewer, and other chauffeurs had brought the cars down from the garages and were in the process of brushing off the snow and ice in preparation for the ceremonial ride to church.

The mere two occasions during the year, Christmas and Easter, that Granny and the court attended St Nicholas, our very pretty village church built around the same time as the original stone castle, revealed a certain lack of religious fervour in the castle way. By way of recompense, those two visits, at 11:00 a.m. sharp for all attendees, did succeed in maintaining a connection with those who lived and worked on the estate, the villagers, and church workers. For many of them it was a rare opportunity actually to see Granny B in the flesh, and sometimes to speak with her. It was also a semi-formal spectacle which, in our 1950s English countryside, gave voice to a unique form of affection for one’s locale and the continuity of a way of life that was better understood and better appreciated then than it is today.

As we waited in the hall, I got to see some of the grownups who had come for Christmas—briefly evaluating their potential with regard to the well-established and all-important precedent of distributing, during the prelunch adult beverage period, Christmas Day cash hand-outs to the young.

Lady Huntley and the Duchess of Roxburghe: only C
+
on the generosity scale; Bert Whitley and Johnny Galliher: full of fun and each a sure B
+
; Guysy-Wee, Bottle, and bridge champion Reg Shurey, commonly known as the Old Faithfuls: fluctuating B’s if I remembered correctly. Then there was Princess Djordjadze, my brief, but lively, hallway encounter with whom, two years previously, I hoped was forgotten. Granny B and Morg were not down yet, and Woody and Uncle Gawaine never went to church.

Granny B’s father, Almeric, the first (and last) Lord Queenborough, had had three daughters—Audrey, Enid, and Cicili—with his second wife, Edith Miller, another American woman, whom he married in 1921. My mother, therefore, had three aunts approximately her own age, one of whom, Cicili, lived with her husband, Capt. Robert Evans, and their family, at Squerryes Lodge, a handsome seventeenth-century manor house in Westerham, about forty-five minutes’ drive from Leeds. Bobby and Cicili were towering, strong-willed, no-nonsense types; they were kind, good natured, amusing, and were stalwart family members. Uncle Bobby ran the castle shoot and Aunt Cicili seemed capable of running everything else. They came to the castle, and we went to see them in Westerham, often.

Audrey and Enid lived abroad and were infrequent castle guests, but every now and then Audrey turned up with her husband, Cdr. Peter Lucy, formerly a Royal Navy submarine man, who had an Aston Martin and a yacht generously provided by her. He was quite dashing and, for the most part, agreeable company. His reputation, which preceded him at all times, was that of an accomplished swordsman. Indeed there was a rumour that he enjoyed displaying his expertise with the wife of another family member while that other family member practised his own lovemaking skills with a petite and pretty family friend.

Uncle Bobby, Aunt Cicili, Uncle Peter, and Aunt Audrey had driven over from Westerham, so after we’d all piled into the motor cars and the stately procession had begun to wind its way slowly up through the park, I felt the outlook for the day’s take looked favourable.