Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle (7 page)

Granny B was generous with her friends, her family, and especially with those in her employ, but she refused to be taken for a ride and skillfully chose the people who worked for her. Cash was her preferred method of payment for purchases, whether in person or by a member of her staff. From time to time stories filtered through as to how this worked.

One day Lily, her London housekeeper and dog walker, was dispatched to Christie’s to collect a pair of gorgeous porcelain ho-ho birds destined to end up on brackets in the drawing room at the castle. She arrived at the very grand West End auctioneers clutching a loosely tied and rather grubby-looking brown paper bag. “I’ve come to collect some birds!” she announced at the reception desk. Once her identity had been established, and the objects in question located, she handed over the bag, which contained several thousand pounds in cash.

Each of my grandmothers was a law unto herself, and unto all those who came into her orbit. I always thought my mother’s feelings towards Granny A—especially when an upcoming visit triggered the red-alert systems in our London household—hovered uneasily between dread and resignation. She would get noticeably agitated as arrival day loomed, and the rest of us took our cue from her, except my father, whose bond with his mother appeared to be so strong that little could upset their equilibrium. When I was little, one of the best things about Granny A’s visits was that she would always come up to the nursery and spend a lot of time with me playing games and reading stories. I particularly enjoyed “bing” (her word). I would sit on her lap as she bounced me vigorously up and down, holding my hands, laughing and singing and generally making the most foolish of noises. Suddenly she would part her knees, I would fall to the floor with a tremendous thump, yelling, “Again, again!” and we would repeat the manoeuvre at least a dozen times. “Enchanting,” Granny A once described me in a postcard to my mother, which now comes as a surprise, because I always thought she regarded me as a young chap rather in need of some straightening out.

Granny B did not play games with me. In fact she very seldom saw me, even though most weekends we were both in, or around, the castle. She ruled her roost with an imperial touch, keeping a watchful eye over the efficiency of her operations and the well-being of her friends, employees, and family. Fraternizing with the grandchildren was not her forte. Indeed, I never had what might be called a proper conversation with her.

*   *   *

My first participation in a full-fledged castle way event turned out to be both pleasurable and mildly disheartening. The joyous prospect of finally being allowed, at the age of six, to join Granny B and the court in observing one of the weekend’s most keenly anticipated ceremonies was muddied by my being treated like the invisible man from start to finish.

It was a glorious afternoon. The sun bathed the magnificent castle and its equally ravishing moat and parkland in a glow of spring perfection. Not a single cloud was visible. The daffodils that lined the outer edges of the moat danced merrily in the occasional breeze. The black swans and their families whistled and crooned with gusto. The pike rested dreamily in the shallow water. The smell of recently mowed lawn permeated the air like a delicate aroma from the kitchen of a master chef. The ranks of lush woodland stood firmly to attention behind the commanding and majestic cedars. It was a scene of consummate beauty and tranquillity.

I, on the other hand, was in a state of feverish excitement now that Nanny and I had been given permission to join the highly select group invited to accompany my grandmother to the launching of the ducks.

Granny B had always struck me as looking very old, very distinguished, and more than a little fierce. Everyone would say she was a wonderful person, albeit eccentric. That may well have been true, but I never got to know her because the only times I was in her company were when I watched her play croquet and when I was allowed down from the nursery for tea with the grown-ups. These occasions were so fraught with ritual that leaping off the castle battlements always seemed preferable to making inept attempts at conversation with people who appeared indifferent. No amount of shyness, however, was going to prevent me from witnessing the launching of the ducks. I’d had my lunch, and my rest, and at three o’clock on the dot Nanny and I positioned ourselves right outside the castle doors on the very comfortable chairs from which guests liked to watch the croquet, or have a snooze, the one often leading to the other.

I was surprised to see Granny’s huge black Mercedes 600—a gift from Gawaine, who was in the motorcar business and was also an accomplished racing driver—and Brewer, her chauffeur, waiting. The duck ceremonies took place only half a mile or so down the front drive, and I had assumed we’d all be walking. But there were more cars behind Granny’s, including the dark green van I knew belonged to Peter, the birdman, so clearly a convoy was going to be the order of the day. It wasn’t long before I heard voices coming from the library and the
clomp-clomp
of shoes on the stone floor in the entrance hall. I wondered who would speak to me and what they’d say.

The door opened, and there was my grandmother, looking very old, very distinguished, and more than a little fierce. She was holding on tightly with one hand to the arm of Peter, the birdman, and smoking a cigarette through a long ivory holder with the other. I wasn’t sure if she’d seen me because her glasses made it quite hard to tell if she was looking at you or not. After a pause I heard her say, “Anthony, darling, why don’t you and Nanny come with me?”

Granny B’s voice was deep, husky, and mesmerizing. It seemed to travel through space and time, which is exactly what I did upon hearing it. I found myself between Nanny and Brewer in the front of the large black car, and immediately felt carsick from the smell of leather. Fortunately, my mother’s smiling face suddenly appeared at the window, so Nanny wound it down and let in some air.

“Everything all right, darling?” she asked me, puffing on a cigarette and adjusting her scarf at the same time.

“Fine thanks,” I replied, this being one of my longer speeches of the day.

“I’m going to walk down and join you at the ducks,” she announced, as if the ducks were very grand people who lived down the road and were expecting us all for tea. Off she strode with her purposeful gait and all round air of charm and civility, leaving Brewer, Nanny, and me to talk amongst ourselves like old friends, which I suppose is exactly what we were. I heard a
tap-tap-tap
on the back window, and as Granny wound it down there was Johnny, the young head footman, looking very handsome in a dark suit and tie: “Everyone is ready, m’lady.”

“Thank you, Johnny. All right, Brewer.”

With that brief exchange completed, Brewer started the engine and we were off. At a snail’s pace, Granny B not being fond of speed. Funnily enough, the unstoppable Borrett, who actually won a medal in World War II for running an officers’ mess with distinction, was also known about the estate as Fangio, after the famous Argentine racing driver, because of his fondness for driving around at frightening speeds, usually in second gear.

As we eased our way around the croquet lawn towards the gatehouse, I saw we were being followed by two more large cars, a silver Rolls-Royce and a blue Facel Vega—the weekend’s favoured guests, no doubt. Peter’s green van had gone on ahead, leaving in a cloud of smoke. It was then that I noticed a curious feeling of importance creeping up on me. For the most part, children at the castle tended to get overlooked in the grand scheme of things, but there I was, ensconced in the great Mercedes 600 with Nanny, Granny B, and Morg, on my way to the launching of the ducks and feeling almost elated.

The convoy wound its elegant way down the little tree-shaded hill, across the stream, past the giant rhododendron bush in full bloom on our left, with the tennis court, pavilion, and wood-garden beyond. My gaze drifted to the right as we drove up the small incline, and I marvelled anew at this magnificent view of the castle. Slowly on for a couple of hundred yards, bisecting the first hole of golf, and we had arrived.

A large pond sat on either side of the drive, each covered with an array of ducks, geese, and assorted flying beasts. We parked beneath the tall beech trees to the left. Nanny and I climbed out while Brewer hurried round to get Granny’s wheelchair out of the trunk and help her out of the car. Morg was laughing, and after making a joke about the long journey we’d all just undertaken, he asked me: “Might we have another concert soon, my dear fella?”

“Absolutely. I know ‘Puttin on the Style’ by Lonnie Donegan pretty well now.”

“Well, that sounds like a fine plan! Off we go now. Let’s not keep those ducks waiting.”

I pondered briefly if Granny B really needed the wheelchair—after all, she happily played croquet for an hour or two, using just a shooting stick for the occasional rest—but I took it that she merely preferred to oversee the ceremony in maximum comfort. The chair also allowed her to cover her legs with a large rug: Despite the warm weather my grandmother often felt the cold.

As the group gathered, I noticed many familiar court faces were present and correct. Lady Huntley, plumpish, tweedy, and, for the most part, rather delightful. Her thinning red hair sat very flat and left something to be desired. She wore excessive makeup, had a beak for a nose and eyebrows that looked painted on. She drove the Rolls-Royce, which may have been her sign of assertiveness. She was chatting with Colonel Anson (Ret.), also known as “Bottle,” a moniker readily explained by his corpulence and voluptuous red nose. Whenever I saw him Bottle was genial, and everyone said he was brilliant at golf. Guysy-Wee (Capt. Guy Lambert) was also there, a little stooped and frail. He was the oldest member of the court and possibly the sweetest natured. His clothes were always exquisite, his manners a dream, and he played croquet and backgammon with grace and consummate skill, something I discovered after another six or seven years had gone by and he was kind enough to play with me.

The homosexual contingent, the ever-revolving door of well-heeled, international sophisticated wits and card players, was represented by Johnny Galliher and Bert Whitley. I used to enjoy observing the mannerisms and walk of these two gentlemen, with the exaggerated thrust of the hip and grandiose use of hand gestures, usually accompanied by a wrist cocked backward at forty-five degrees. Bert, I heard later from unimpeachable sources, liked to wear red trousers and a navy cashmere smoking jacket when he dined
alfresco
with friends in Beaulieu, near Cap-Ferrat, in the South of France, where he kept a small pied-à-terre.

Mickey Renshaw, a social gadfly of ill-defined occupation, very tall, thin, and outré in manner and dress (far more so than Johnny and Bert), hovered next to Granny B. I always thought he slithered rather than walked, which helped explain the venom in what passed for his sense of humour. After Granny B’s death, when the castle had become a foundation, he and my mother were discussing “the old dump”—as she liked to call it—in the library before lunch. My mother referred to Leeds as “her home,” which Mickey Renshaw, unapologetically, almost with zeal, corrected to “Your
ex
-home, Susie, darling,” in his deep-voiced exaggerated drawl, giving offense and causing hurt at the same time.

Rounding out the group were the Duchess of Roxburghe, dark-haired, compact, and well turned out in an unobtrusive way, who appeared to be
gentille
without any overwhelming evidence one way or the other, and the Hon. Mrs. Robin Warrender, a small, charming, and very pretty lady whose two lovely daughters, Carolyn (my age) and Annabel (three years younger), were my best friends in the world.

As we made our way along the little pathway to the special launch area, my mother, bursting with energy after her vigorous walk, caught up with Nanny and me. “How was the drive, darling?” she asked, removing her gloves and smoothing her coat.

“A bit
long
,” I replied, borrowing Morg’s joke, “but okay.”

Just up ahead, parked close to the water’s edge, I saw Peter the birdman’s green van. Its back doors were open, and there were lots of big cardboard boxes stacked up, all of them with holes in the side. Peter, a tall handsome man who never failed to look anything other than furious (perhaps he was merely serious) was talking to two young men standing beside him and pointing to the boxes. All three were wearing corduroy trousers and gumboots.

Then I spotted the funniest thing. I must have played around that area a hundred times, but I had never seen it before. In all its glory, sloping gently down from the grassy bank into the water, was a six-foot-long and two-foot-wide wooden plank. I grabbed Nanny’s hand, struggling to control an onslaught of the giggles. A launching pad, of course, I thought to myself. You don’t just toss a duck into the water and cry,
“Bon voyage!”
Indeed you do not. Especially not Granny B.

Morg had positioned Granny’s chair at the uppermost tip of the launchpad, and one of Peter’s boys handed her what looked like a clipboard with a pencil attached.

“Now, have you got them all in the correct order?” I heard her ask Peter.

My mother took my hand and guided me to an exalted position just to Granny B’s left, giving me an uninterrupted view of everything that was about to take place.

As the last of what looked like about ten boxes was laid out on the grass, Peter began opening the first. It wasn’t sealed or fastened, so it was a matter of seconds before it was open. With both hands spread wide, he leaned in and lifted out into the afternoon sunshine the first quintessentially well-bred duck.

Amidst a smattering of applause, Peter brought the duck over to Granny B and held it close for her inspection. With her glasses delicately perched on the end of her nose, Granny studied the duck with the intensity of an art historian who has just been introduced to a newly discovered work by an Old Master. Checking a little marker attached to the duck’s right leg, she proclaimed, “Ah yes, George is a most handsome fellow. And what a fine beak!”