Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle (21 page)

I was having a quick puff of James’s cigarette when Granny’s voice echoed from below: “I can smell that.” Seconds later she marched into the room: “How dare you smoke in my house?!” I’d never seen anyone look so angry and talk so quietly at the same time. She took the cigarette from James, holding it between her thumb and forefinger as if it were a diseased goat’s testicle, walked into the bathroom, and flushed it down the loo.

“Don’t ever let me catch you smoking again,” she said and left, leaving the three of us speechless and staring at our feet.

Oozing guilt, we soon afterwards stepped into the spacious, brightly lit, rectangular kitchen and stood rather sheepishly for a while by a long wooden table awaiting instructions. Granny was peeling potatoes with speed and precision and appeared not to notice us. Standing next to her, deftly slicing a large slab of beef into neat little cubes, was a short and rather wide Irish lady with red hair and a wicked accent. Both talked without pausing for breath and without waiting for the other to finish a sentence.

“Make yourselves useful,” Granny said over her shoulder, “and lay the table, if you please.”

Rinsing the potatoes and moving on to the carrots, she informed us with a series of points, nods, inferences, and verbal directions as to where everything was. Her anger was gone. She was smiling and vigorously applying herself to the next important function of the day. Whatever she had meant by high tea at six obviously had little to do with the preparations under way.

Watching Granny and her cook, whose name was Mary and who happened also to be the woman who came in to clean, chatting away like old friends, was a revelation. How come, I thought, everybody back home was intimidated by Granny A and made allowances for her, and yet this little woman from the local village of Kinvara, who looked half her age, seemed to get on with her as well as I did with Nanny?

We ate at eight o’clock. The food was excellent, and there was much laughter and gaiety. Granny could be as funny as anybody I knew, and this night she was in full flow. By nine thirty I could stay awake no longer and was allowed to skip clear-up duties and go to bed. Tomorrow we were getting to know our horses, and the day after was the hunt. Something told me I was going to need as much sleep as I could get.

*   *   *

I was improperly dressed. Also, both I and the pony assigned to me were half the size of everybody else. David told me the clothes didn’t matter and I looked very distinguished anyway. Granny told me I sat well in the saddle and my pony would handle the rest. I wanted it all in writing.

It was ten fifteen on a grey morning, and I was surrounded by fifty or sixty ladies and gentlemen on horseback and perhaps fifty more on foot, most of whom were knocking back glasses of port with abandon. As I had never before attended an equine cocktail party outside a large country house right after breakfast, the humorous side of the event did not elude me entirely. But I was a little concerned that in the heat of the chase, the somewhat excited and inebriated throng might fail to spot me altogether. If anybody needed some port it was I, but with Granny on patrol that was out of the question.

In keeping with my freshly minted, slightly more outgoing persona, I did my best to look relaxed and in control of the situation as I walked my pony around. I raised my riding hat to a brace of good-looking ladies who may or may not have noticed. Having seen other gentlemen do this and get an enthusiastic response, I surprised myself by brushing aside my shyness and putting in a little practice for the future. Surrounded by a sea of black jackets, black hats, white stocks, and high black boots, I compared my outfit against everybody else’s. My jodhpurs were pretty much all right. It was the tweed jacket, shirt, tie, and short dark brown boots that caused grief. The outfit didn’t look bad, but it didn’t look right either. It was the same old problem; getting stuck with the hand-me-downs. At least nobody appeared to be looking at me strangely.

I trotted over to Granny, who was talking to a man in a bright red jacket, which for some reason was called pink. I had a feeling he was the local big cheese whose large and very attractive manor house provided the backdrop—and, I daresay, the port—for the enormous gathering. Just then, I heard the
yap-yap-yapping
of the hounds for the first time, immediately followed by the blare of a hunting horn, expertly blown. Around the corner they came—goodness knows how many hounds—and in the middle of them all their boss, also in a pink jacket and riding a powerful-looking grey.

“Never overtake the Master; it simply isn’t done,” Granny reminded me with the look of a hanging judge. “Stay close to me,” she went on, “and don’t forget, give your pony his head.”

This sounded remarkably like “If in doubt take your hands off the wheel,” but I nodded and promised to heed her advice as best I could. If I had been a soldier in the trenches during World War I, I imagined this is how I would have felt just before going over the top. And I was meant to be enjoying myself!

David and James came up. James looked very smooth. Black horse, black jacket. A touch of devil may care about him. David seemed in his element, immaculate and raring to go. “We’re off,” they both said. And we were.

A sense of urgency and expectation hung in the air. Heavy clouds and a slight chill provided an ominous additional touch to the proceedings. As we
clop-clopped
our way down a narrow country lane lined by hedgerow, I noticed my pony’s behaviour had taken on a rather authoritarian air, quite absent up till now. I wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not. His whole demeanour seemed more alert, even aggressive, and when I let the reins hang loosely round his neck, he marched on without missing a beat. Clearly he was not out with the Galway Blazers for the first time.

For half an hour or more we cantered gently across fields, jumping the occasional wall or gate, or walked and trotted down the lanes as the hounds attempted to pick up the scent of a fox. Up front the Master of Foxhounds led the way, issuing commands and goading his pack to greater efforts in a voice that sounded like the mating call of a hyena. I was riding close behind Granny, admiring her dash and elegance, when suddenly a mighty howl went up from the hounds and I knew the moment of truth had arrived.

The Master’s horn began to wail with a vengeance. I looked around and noticed many riders adjusting their riding crops and making sure their hats were firmly in place. I did the same. My pony broke into a gentle canter without my asking. The whole field was now moving forward inexorably, momentum and speed slowly building like an ocean wave. I heard the crack of whip against rump. The thud of pounding hooves grew louder as each second went by, and the field of riders formed a kind of egg-shaped mass. If it was not exactly like a cavalry charge, I thought it must be close.

As we were approaching a gallop, I was caught up in the most exciting, hair-raising thing I’d ever done in my life. I was loving it. And I was terrified. The first wall was coming up. It was a big one. Everybody was shouting at their mounts. I wanted to but couldn’t. I tried to focus. Just a few strides now. My God, it looked huge! “C’mon boy!” I called out.
Whoosh!
We went up. We went over. We made it. No pause, maintain speed. “Yes!” I bellowed at my pony. “Bloody great!” I couldn’t believe the rush. I was near the middle of the field, a bit to the left. I could see D and J and Granny. I felt as though I were surrounded by people possessed. The roar of hooves was now constant. The next wall loomed. I gripped tighter with my knees. “C’mon boy!” I shouted again through clenched teeth. There were huge horses on either side of me. No time for panic.
Whoosh!
Over. Made it. How can my pony keep up? I wondered. He’s half the size of the rest of the field.

We were going downhill now, slowing. There was a stream and a wall just beyond. It looked tricky. I watched Granny delicately cross. Four, five strides, up and over the wall. I gave my pony his head and held on tight to the saddle. We slipped a bit in the water. A couple of good kicks, more for my benefit than his, and we cleared the wall. We quickly picked up speed, and again I was struck by how strong my little pony was. Somehow I had made it towards the front of the field. I was close to Granny A once more. She looked stunning galloping side-saddle with grace and breathtaking skill, her face beneath her veil and black top hat a vision of unbridled joy and determination. The fear and the thrill were both so intense I couldn’t tell which one had the upper hand. I saw the next wall. It didn’t look big. We took off a little late. There was a drop, a large drop, on the other side. Too late. I felt myself going. I couldn’t hold on. I went over my pony’s head and landed hard on the grass.

Everything became slow motion. Horses thundered by. I couldn’t tell how long I remained on the ground. I felt battered but not in pain. I got up and dusted myself down, happy not to have broken my neck or been kicked or trampled underfoot. There were some hunt followers who’d been standing close by and had witnessed my fall. One of them retrieved my pony, who’d been kind enough not to disappear into the wild blue yonder. I picked up my hat, which had performed its task to perfection, and after warmly thanking my helpers, climbed back atop my trusty steed.

I caught up with the hunt an hour and a half later. I knew the direction in which to head, but when a very attractive public house appeared before my eyes as I rounded a bend in the road, the opportunity to recharge my batteries with an iced Coca-Cola proved irresistible. The landlord allowed me to tether my pony to a fence at the back, which I found hilarious—just like in a cowboy film. Entering the pub, I removed my hat and was introduced to the landlady and their two daughters, who were about my age and quite pretty.

They were all very friendly to me. One of the girls brought me a Coca-Cola, and I told them about the hunt and my fall. They thought it was amusing that I should decide to drop in for refreshment before rejoining the other riders. I told them that I had found the whole affair quite scary but also incredibly exhilarating. They taught me how to play poker-dice and for almost an hour we had an enjoyable time chatting away. Saying good-bye, I told them how much I hoped I would see them again, but I never did.

*   *   *

Had I grown up between London and Dunguaire Castle and not between London and Leeds, it is easy to imagine that most of my spoiled habits would have been ground to dust, all the weak spots in my personality whitewashed with marine-like thoroughness, and all my many other imperfections swatted into eternity. Granny A was that kind of person. My contacts with her were limited, however. I went to stay at Dunguaire only twice. Contrary to what I believed as a child, my father and his mother quickly got on each other’s nerves when under the same roof, so Granny A’s visits to see us were infrequent and brief. Granny A also avoided coming to Leeds as much as possible because she and Granny B had as much chance of seeing eye to eye on just about anything as Wellington and Napoleon.

If my father blamed his mother for inflicting the “Russell baby” stigma on him, he surely had a point. Nevertheless, when he was a child she had proved herself to be an extraordinary mother, considering all she had been obliged to contend with.

15.

F
RENCH
C
ONNECTION

Following a now well-established pattern, the court was spending August, and parts of July and September, at Granny B’s villa in Cap-Ferrat. Both my parents routinely were in the South of France for two to three weeks during that time, dutifully soaking up the sun and adhering to the strict timetable of breakfast in bed, morning swims, sunbathing, cocktails, luncheon (sometimes taken with friends on the Cap, Beaulieu, or Èze), afternoon rests, shopping, cards, evening drinks, changing for dinner, and dining on the terrace or with friends on theirs. After that Granny went gambling in Monte Carlo, or to the casino in Beaulieu, accompanied by a small, devoted coterie who shared her enthusiasm for the tables or were merely needed to act as escorts.

I was shipped off to the Côte d’Azur for another solo spell of Granny, the court, and me because Nanny was on holiday in Bournemouth, David and James had gone off elsewhere together, and I was left dangling like a seven-hour roast for a two-week period in mid-August, my long weekends with Soames and with Steel having come and gone, and nothing else appearing on the horizon until the family returned to the castle to recuperate from it all towards the end of the month.

My mother and I flew down to Nice on a British European Airways (BEA) Comet, which took off like a Ferrari at Le Mans and had seats as comfortable as our new Jaguar. When the doors opened and we walked down the steps, I reeled from the heat of the afternoon sun and the powerful smell of jet fuel which filled the air. I had felt exactly the same sensations the summer before, when my brothers and I had been invited to stay with Granny and the court at Château Saint-Jean, which she had again rented before finding Castèu Cansoun de la Mar in nearby Villefranche. On that occasion I’d finally learnt to swim in the oval pool and been presented with a pair of goggles as my reward from a glowing Auntie Pops. Peter Lucy had taken us sailing on his and Aunt Audrey’s gorgeous yacht, and David had been bitten by a giant jellyfish just off the rocks by the jetty, necessitating a house call from the doctor and a day in bed.

Mr. Brewer, a small man of gentle disposition and neat appearance, was waiting for us after we had passed quickly through passport control and customs. He had brought Granny’s Mercedes 600 (driven down from Leeds laden with trunks and suitcases) round to the front of the terminal, and I helped him put Mummy’s two large cases and my smaller one in the trunk. The remarkable scenic drive along the coast I remembered from last time, starting with the panoramic crescent and azure water of Nice’s Baie des Anges and the Promenade des Anglais. My mother told me that it was the English who had first had the good sense to “discover” the South of France as a sophisticated getaway a century ago, which, though less astounding than the much-ballyhooed exploits of Captain Cook and Dr. Livingstone, still struck me as a good thing. As we left Nice behind, the view of the Mediterranean and the town itself was captured for a brief moment from high atop the bluff, a shimmering landscape, gone too fast, but firmly embedded in the mind. Winding our way along the coast, my mother and Mr. Brewer had lots to discuss—“How is Mrs. Brewer? I know she hasn’t been well lately.” “Oh, she’s much better, thank you, Madam. In point of fact she’s…”—so I continued in silence to soak up the vistas and the villas and the bougainvillea-studded hillsides that soared up into a cloudless, incandescently blue sky. With very little traffic in our way (almost unrecognizable as the same stretch of coast today), we soon arrived at Villefranche-sur-Mer, where, way off in the distance, at the mouth of the bay, silent, grey, and still, was a mighty warship. “She’s American. They visit quite often,” my mother explained.