Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle (12 page)

*   *   *

By one o’clock the library was throbbing with animated chit-chat and tinkling ice cubes. It was one of my favourite rooms in the castle, with its tall bookshelves chock-full of leather-bound books, celestial globes perched atop; cosy sofas everywhere; oak table in the centre strewn with more books, including the visitors’, and a pair of handsome lamps; the backgammon table at which Guysy-Wee was kind enough to play with me sometimes; and the hidden bar tucked away in one corner. Nanny and I had boldly positioned ourselves in one of the window banquettes, enabling us to see and be seen without actually having to participate. As executive decisions go, it could not have turned out better. Everybody stopped by with a little something, and their individual methods of disguising the inherent vulgarity in handing out cash proved irresistible theatre.

Lady Huntley sidled up in the manner of a French prostitute attempting a pick-up, her hands behind her back and a come-hither expression on her face. Murmuring “Happy Christmas,” she turned and leaned backwards, wiggling a pound note between her fingers.

“Thanks, Lady H,” I cooed, as she meandered off looking to all intents and purposes as if a rejection had just taken place.

Woody strode up and manfully shook my hand, dispensing the two pounds from his palm into mine with the precision of a robot and the secrecy of a spy.

The princess stopped and looked at me in much the same way I imagined she looked at the accidents on her carpet left by her Chihuahua.

“Which one are you?” she enquired (clearly she had forgotten being forcefully instructed by me to leave the premises) in a throaty mid-Atlantic drawl.

“This is Anthony,” Nanny replied for me. Personally I felt like ignoring the woman, but as she started to shuffle some envelopes, I forced myself to remain neutral. She found mine, dropped it in my lap, and moved away with a flourish. Although her perfume lingered rather longer than I would have wished, inside the envelope was a record token for two pounds. An LP and a single. I made a mental note to try and modify my opinion of the princess.

The Old Faithfuls slipped one-pound notes into my shirt pocket with ease and charm, as if they were repaying an outstanding debt. They all stayed for a moment to find out what I’d been up to, which struck me as polite. Morg came over and sat with me for a moment. When he produced a five-pound note from behind my ear, it merely confirmed my growing belief that here was a substantial man whose words and deeds I should emulate if remotely possible.

*   *   *

Borrett announced lunch and opened the double doors to the dining room, where a children’s table had been set up in the giant bay window. The pair of late-eighteenth-century Louis XVI Aubusson pastoral tapestries, set in panels, continued their vigilant watch over the long William IV mahogany dining table laid in customary fashion for the grown-ups, with French china and silverware, Baccarat crystal glasses, and lilies of the valley in the centre. A precise replica of the Gloriette’s floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree, decorated for adult consumption, stood in regal splendour in the smaller bay window behind Granny B’s chair at the head of the table. The morning’s activities gave every impression of having turned out well. Despite the disappointment of no Fender Stratocaster, it would have been churlish in the extreme to think otherwise.

As friends and family assembled, footmen in dark suits and ties flew in all directions, assisting ladies with their chairs before dispensing magnums of chilled vintage champagne. Then Borrett, in tails and striped trousers, went around the table serving foie gras de Strasbourg that Woody had brought down, as he always did at Christmas, from Fortnum & Mason, London’s grandest food hall. Because of the tallness of the pot and the firmness of the foie gras, Borrett was obliged to struggle just a little to maintain a dignified posture as each guest attempted to extract the correct portion size of the famed delicacy with a silver serving spoon and fork.

Our table was not invited to try the foie gras, perhaps because no one thought we’d like it. Nanny, David, James, and I, joined by our cousins John and Michael (and Nanny Evans), munched away on chipolata sausages wrapped in bacon and baby triangles of toast as we awaited the arrival of the Christmas turkey.

Finally, with great fanfare, Borrett strode into the room carrying the enormous bird on an oval silver platter, presented it for Granny’s inspection, and immediately took it back to the kitchens for carving. Returning with three footmen in tow, Borrett served the thinly sliced turkey as the footmen offered an array of vegetables, all from silver dishes, including roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts and chestnuts, parsnips and swede, stuffing, bread sauce, and hot gravy.

We, at the children’s table, were served with the same splendid formality. After the grown-ups’ glasses had been refilled for the umpteenth time with more champagne, or claret for those who preferred red wine, and our glasses of water, fruit juice, or Coca-Cola had been topped up, Christmas lunch entered that stage of conviviality so often the hallmark of this day.

Only the arrival of Borrett and a flaming Christmas pudding, as large as a football and stuffed full of sixpences, could adequately crown the occasion. At the time my fondness for this sticky mess of suet, sultanas, raisins, currants, brown sugar, and many other ingredients was limited to a search for the silver coins and a quick sampling of the brandy butter.

When she felt the time was right, Granny B stood, followed by everyone else, and led the ladies out of the dining room, through the library, the main hall, and the inner hall, to the drawing room for coffee, leaving the men to their port, politics, and cigars. This was the cue for the children to retire to the nursery for a rest.

Christmas at Leeds displayed the castle way at its best. The hierarchy softened noticeably, and special consideration was given to all, by all. Time off for the staff included a festive banquet in their own dining room, and Granny B’s oft-beleaguered card-table companions enjoyed the benefit of eased regulation.

Even I, during these few glorious days, found myself treated as something other than a mere annoyance. This forever sealed in my imagination the otherworldliness of the whole thing.

8.

C
ONVERSATION
P
IECE

By the age of seven I had, quite knowingly, begun to develop different conversational styles based on a number of specific influences. As I was so unsure of myself, it made exquisite sense to me to base my words and phrases on people whose words and phrases reeked of worldliness, brainpower, and panache.

As I was not in a position to speak directly with Robin Hood, William Tell, or Davy Crockett—television heroes who set shining examples for my confused young mind through their upright behaviour, decency, and strength—all three were obliged to remain rather more in the realm of motivational speakers than act as direct aides to my linguistic advancement. This left the field open to Nanny, my father, and Morg (whose combined expertise in the art of conversation I considered to be nothing short of matchless) to beef up whatever talking skills I may have attained up to that point.

I was, of course, very seldom in my father’s company, and even less Morg’s, which made it vital to pay attention whenever I was. Morg’s expressions of uplifting humour came trippingly off his tongue, and even when he swore after a bad croquet shot (“God rot it!”), he made it sound like a friendly aside and not an expression of anger. It would have been ideal if Morg had had the time or inclination to be my mentor as well as a man I looked up to. Life lessons conveyed in his inimitable way might well have worked wonders in correcting my more wayward inclinations, but unfortunately “mentoring” was not a recognized word, or activity, in the castle way system. It would have interrupted the ebb and flow of the mentor’s normal daily functions and, probably, disturbed the chatelaine’s calm. As a result, despite having a number of brilliant and important individuals close to my sphere of operations, I was not able to benefit much from their wisdom.

My father spoke at all times with quiet authority, just like his mother, and could also be very funny, but often at some poor innocent soul’s expense. Later, that poor innocent soul too often turned out to be my mother. Both Morg and my father always gave me the impression of possessing enormous vocabularies and the ability to string words together better than anyone else I came into contact with at the time.

Nanny, my constant companion, kept it simple and to the point. She never was at a loss for well-spoken words, and I suspect her fondness for BBC radio, which in the 1950s insisted that the English language was a thing of beauty and should be spoken as elegantly and formally as possible, played its part in keeping her standards high.

It is conceivable that some A. A. Milne descriptive passages and even some tried-and-true cricketing metaphors wormed their way into my youthful subconscious, but that is conjecture at best.

*   *   *

It was four thirty in the afternoon on a cold Saturday at the beginning of January. David and James had gone to stay with friends for the weekend, so I had Nanny all to myself in the castle nursery.

Word had filtered through the system that the grown-ups were expecting me down for tea that day. Not being convinced that this was cause for celebration, I was about to go in search of Nanny’s advice when she walked into the room carrying a large bundle of knitting. I stopped my rummaging through the bottom drawers of the tall oak cabinet where I kept some of my toys and turned to face her:

“Nanny, do I have to go down for tea?”

“I would think so, dear. They are expecting you.”

Nanny sat at her worktable in between the windows and arranged her knitting. “Is there something bothering you? You look rather worried.”

“Well, the last time I had tea in the drawing room nobody talked to me. Hardly anyone.”

Nanny peered at me over her needle and thread and responded thoughtfully, “They probably didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me?”

“Yes. By forcing you to talk when you didn’t want to.”

“Forcing me?”

“Yes. You see, if someone talks to you, that means you have to say something back. Maybe they think you prefer not to be put in that position.”

“Sounds a bit odd.”

“Yes. I don’t know why they might think that. We all know you talk very well. Extremely well. In fact, I think you have an outstanding vocabulary.”

“Vocabulary?”

“Words, dear. You know a lot of words.”

“Ah!”

This came as a surprise to me, but Nanny ignored that and went on,

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“What, my vocab-u-lary?”

“Oh no, this tea business. Who’s going to talk to you and who’s not. Why not approach it as a learning situation? Think about it. Here you have gathered all these intelligent, worldly, and important people, and they’re talking to each other about high-level things. You never know what interesting information you might pick up if you keep your ears open.”

“Is Granny B important?”

“Why yes, dear, she’s very important. She takes care of lots of people, gives them jobs and houses to live in. And she’s your mother’s mother. That makes her very important.”

“What sort of high-level things should I be listening out for?”

“Oh, I don’t know … current affairs, history, all sorts of things.”

“I still wish they’d talk to me more.”

Nanny’s face lit up with sudden inspiration. “Why not try talking to them first? That should put a cat among the pigeons.”

“Do what?”

“Make them take notice. Acknowledge your being amongst them. A representative of the nation’s youth in their midst, alive and well and dying to contribute.”

“That doesn’t make an awful lot of sense.”

“
Mmm
, perhaps my last cup of tea was a little strong.”

“So you think I should go down to tea?”

“Why not? It makes Fortnum & Mason look really quite a simple affair. And besides, now you have a strategy. It will make all the difference.”

Now it was my turn to be inspired. “I think I’ll wear my Davy Crockett pistol.”

“Good thinking,” Nanny concluded. “Always be prepared!”

I reopened my investigation of the bottom drawers and soon found the splendid double-barreled pistol in its leather holster. I stood up and tied it round my waist, thinking back to the staff Christmas party when I’d been given the Crockett outfit by Granny. I checked the clock on the mantelpiece. Five to five. It was time to go.

“Nanny, why don’t you come with me?”

“No dear, it’s not my place.”

“I know it’s not your place. It’s Granny B’s! But that doesn’t mean you can’t come down to tea with me.”

“No dear, that’s not what I meant. What I meant is that it wouldn’t be right for me to come down with you, unless I was specifically invited.”

That sounded beyond the pale. “But you’re Nanny! Why do you need to be invited?”

“Well dear, it’s complicated, I know. But it’s a bit like you’d never see Mr. Borrett sitting down to tea with your grandmother and her guests. Both of us, you see, work in the house. Well … not unless specifically invited, of course.”

“All this inviting!”

“Off you go now,” Nanny told me. “You wouldn’t want to be late. And remember, it’s
William Tell
on television tonight. Seven o’clock. You’d better have your bath before.”

“Gosh, thanks. I can’t believe I’d forgotten. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Very good.”

*   *   *

Curiously, at no point during my childhood did it ever cross my mind (so concentrated had it been on manufacturing acute levels of self-importance, artfully encouraged by the opulence of my surroundings) that I, too, was, and always had been, as much in need of an invitation to castle way ceremonies and functions as both Nanny and Borrett.

I left the playroom and strolled down the short corridor, past the giant rocking horse and a bevy of family portraits—why did we need so much family representation in the nursery?—and raised the iron handle on the heavy door which led to the landing. Closing the door behind me, I set off down the staircase. I loved the wide, solid stone stairs; you really felt you were in a castle as you raced up and down.