—Ellis Plaice,
Daily Mirror, 27 February, 1976
THE REUNION PARTY
William Randolph Hearst’s monumental pile had first been displayed to the public on 2 June, 1958, and since then had become one of California’s greatest attractions, on a par with Hollywood and Disneyland, under the supervision of the California Department of Parks and Recreation, in accordance with Hearst’s legacy after he had died, aged 88, on 13 August, 1951; a mock Hispano-Moorish haven, crammed with the greatest collection of second-rate art ever assembled in one private building, it lay on top of a hill once known as Camp Hill, now rechristened the Enchanted Hill and a visit to it was, according to the official guide book, “an experience unsurpassed by the other great dwellings built in a fabulous era when American tycoons were erecting imposing structures and importing art treasures found throughout the world. A walk through its grounds with terraced gardens, paths lined with camellia hedges, great banks of azaleas and rhododendron, more than 50 varieties of roses and the soft tinkling of water dripping from marble fountains, is a stroll through the epitome of beauty and grandeur. A great dream, never quite completed.” The building began in 1919, nearly twenty years before the Derry & Toms Roof Garden, an echo, an exquisite miniature, had been opened in London. “There are”, the guide book tells us, “100 rooms in the main building, including 38 bedrooms, 31 baths, 14 sitting rooms, 2 libraries, a theatre and an area that was meant to contain a complete bowing alley.” Work on this building continued to 1947, when it was abandoned. There is no real evidence for the legend that in a year sometimes given as 1955, sometimes as 1985 and sometimes, obviously erroneously, as 1918, an important and secret meeting was held there of a number of men and women, representatives of most schools of thought and of many nations in the world. This has been variously described as the “Veterans’s Meeting” or the “Reunion Party” and, of course, a number of books have been written in an effort to ‘explain’ the legend. So far a satisfactory book has yet to appear, though all accounts are agreed on the authenticity of one piece of evidence, a guest list, giving the names of the guests in order of arrival, “with one notable absence, impossible to remedy at this stage” (as a pencilled note on the card points out). Accounts by local people concerning a huge concourse of ghosts on a day and a night in midsummer 1951, when shadowy figures were seen laughing and talking in the grounds, swimming in the Neptune pool, playing music of bizarre and unrecognisable origin, chiming the thirty-six carillon bells, housed in the twin Hispano-Moresque towers of the Casa Grande; feasting in the huge refectory, with its silk banners representing the seventeen wards of Sienna, its Gothic tapestries and its fifteenth-century Spanish choir stalls, whilst seated at long tables of rich, old wood, burning oddly coloured lights, to ride off in a great flurry of hoofs shortly before dawn, heading for the sea, have been independently confirmed and described, according to the taste of the teller, as a meeting of vampires, witches, devils or the Wild Hunt itself. Reports also agree that there was nothing sinister about the haunting, that, indeed, a great sense of peace and tranquillity pervaded the surrounding countryside on that Midsummer Night, a peace which those ancient Californian hills had not experienced for many a century, and the ghosts were generally thought to be “lucky” rather than “evil” (Butler, Haunted California, 1975). “Men and women from all sides of the conflict would meet on common ground and exchange information in the timeless halls and passages of the four castles, in the peaceful groves of the noble Tanelorn” (Butler, ibid.). “Their voices were hushed and relaxed and there wasn’t one who showed any animosity he or she might feel…” (Hall, The San Simeon Mystery Explained, 1971). “The time of the final conflict was not yet. Their garments, their manners, their languages, their gestures represented the best that the twentieth century had been able to offer, the inheritance of Golden Age on Golden Age. Every enthusiasm was represented; every beast was in its prime. And, for a day and a night, there could be no question of invasion, even from within” (Morgan, Law v. Chaos: The Last Great Meeting, 1975). “Time travellers? Visitors from space? Ghosts? Or just a bunch of hoaxers—a gang of kids having fun? Then how to explain music that was years ahead of its time, fashions that were not seen until twenty years later, snatches of conversation referring to events occurring towards the end of this century?” (Fromental, San Simeon, the Flying Saucers and Patty: Who is getting at who?, 1976).
The note of guests attending the “coven” or “sabbat”, as others have called it, was found under the billiard table in the Game Room, written in longhand, not evidently American and probably English, headed “Manifestations” and, under that, “Arrivals in order of appearance”. The names included the following:
Mr J. Daker, Mr J. Tallow, Mr E. de Marylebone, Mr Renark, Mr E. Bloom, Mr C. Marca, Mr J. Cornelius. Prof. I. Hira, Mr Smiles. Mr Lucas. Mr Powys. Miss C. Brunner, Mr D. Koutrouboussis. Mr Shades. Mr F. Cornelius. Mr J. Tanglebones. Rev. Marek. Duke D. von Köln, Mr K. Glogauer, Cpt. Arflane, Mrs U. Rorsefne. Prof. Faustaff, Mr U. Skarsol, Bishop D. and Miss M. Beesley, Dr K. von Krupp, Captain C. Brunner, Mr F.G. Gavin, Prince C.J. Irsei. Mr E.P. Bradbury. Mr J. Cornell. Mr O. Bastable. Miss U. Persson. Cpt. J. Korzeniowski. Mr V.I. Ulyanov, Gen. O.T. Shaw, Major and Mrs G. Nye. Captain and Mrs G. Nye. Miss E. Nye. Miss I. Nye. Master P. Nye. Col. M.A. Pyat. Mr S.M. Collier. Mr M. Lescoq. Mr M. Hope-Dempsey. Mr C. Ryan. Prinz Lobkowitz. Mr S. Koutrouboussis. Mr C. Koutrouboussis. Mr A. Koutrouboussis. Mr R. Boyle, Mnr P. Olmeijer. Mrs H. Cornelius. Mrs B. Beesley. Mr S. Cohen. Miss H. Segal. Prof. M. O’Bean. Mr R.D. Feet. Mr C. Tome. Captain B. Maxwell. The Hon. Miss H. Sweet. Mr S. Vaizey. Miss E. Knecht. Lady Sunday. Mrs A. Underwood. Mr J. Carnelian. Lady Charlotina Lake. Lord and Lady Canaria. Miss Q. Gloriana. Miss M. Ming. Mrs D. Armatuce. Gen. C. Hood. Lady Lyst. Mr E. Wheldrake, Lord Rhoone. Lord Wynchett. Baroness Walewska. Sir T. Ffynne. Dr J. Dee. Captain Quire, and a great number of other experienced people.
Notting Hill’s annual Summer Carnival is unlikely to take place this year in its traditional form. The Royal Borough Council has told its organisers to find a fixed assembly point for this year’s Carnival—preferably the White City Stadium in Shepherd’s Bush. Alternative venues like Wembley Stadium and Wormwood Scrubs were also mentioned. But all the proposed sites are outside the Royal Borough, and the organisers have rejected these suggestions as boding “total destruction of the fundamental concept of what the Carnival should be”. Their objections to deputy council leader Ald. Peter Methuen’s “compromise” solution to the carnival problem were raised at a closed meeting between Royal Borough officials and various concerned parties at Kensington Town Hall last week. Cllr Michael Cocks, who called the meeting, said it was vital to decide in good time how to avoid the controversy which followed last year’s massive three-day celebrations. Nearly a quarter of a million people (mainly West Indian) flooded into the borough for last August’s carnival—the tenth. But the aftermath of complaints from residents, the police and from certain councillors themselves, prompted the council to insist on a change of attitude to recognise that this once local event has now reached “national proportions”. The objections of local residents, itemised in a 196-signature petition to the council, include noise (particularly from steel bands playing late into the night) and dirt and litter left after the weekend’s festivities. Their petition called for “the immediate and effective prohibition of amplified music and vocal performances in the Westway and W.10 and W.11 areas and for the re-siting of the Notting Hill Carnival in 1976 and subsequent years”.
The police added that the crime rate had increased seriously during Carnival time and that traffic congestion had blocked access for ambulances and fire engines. The council said that the event was now too large for them to provide adequate hygiene and litter amenities … “To move to the White City would totally destroy the event as we know it,” Mr Palmer said … “The festival is a street carnival and the whole atmosphere would be lost if it were moved out of the streets of North Kensington,” sai
d Labour leader Val Wallis … But Mr Anthony Perry, Director of the North Kensington Amenity Trust, warned that if the Carnival were to go ahead without approval, then the Trust, on whose land much of the festivity takes place, would not make the land available. “We are eager that it should be used by the community,” Mr Perry said, “but not against the wishes of the community.”
Kensington News and Post, 6 February, 1976
6. BAC COOLS HOPES OF AIRSHIP BOOM
Jerry was still shivering as he waded out of the dirty Cornish shallows onto Tintagel’s ungenerous beach. A careful search of all the caves in that half-eaten bay, of the ruins of the castle, of the deserted town beyond, had turned up nothing but débris, seaweed and dead fish. Now his cold feet struck something white and mushy lying on the shingle and, glancing hopefully down, he discovered only a bundle of quarto paper, secured by green admiralty tags, typewritten. He went to turn the pages but they disintegrated at once, like the flesh of a rotten sole. He folded his arms for warmth, his ancient oilskins creaking and cracking at armpits and shoulders. He rid himself of his stiff sou’wester, throwing it behind him, into the Atlantic.
As he looked above the looming cliffs at the petulant sky grey rain fell on his face. He tramped for the dangerous steps leading up the south face of the cove, beginning to regret overreacting and giving in to the impulse to smash all his equipment, to rely entirely on metaphysical methods for a final solution to his sister’s malaise. Now his foot slipped on a piece of rotten granite. He paused. A darkness had entered the bay. His upward climb became hastier. There was no use crying over diffused plasma (or ectoplasm, for that matter): the world was splitting up, like so many dividing cells, and the energy was unlikely to be concentrated in any one place for much longer. He had been foolish to believe that his remedy had been any better than the others.
He reached the top of the cliff and made his way to the old wooden café shack where he had left his camouflaged jeep. It was still there, parked at an angle of forty degrees on the rutted path. He climbed in, thinking of Captain Brunner and wondering if the noble old anachronism’s sacrifice had been worth anything in the long run. He took a yellowing packet of Black Cat cigarettes from the map compartment and lit one with the brass Dunhill he had found there; the lighter’s flame was very low. He put the Black Cats in his pocket and abandoned the Dunhill. He turned the ignition key. The starting motor rolled sluggishly a few times but the engine failed to fire. Jerry had expected this. Even the American equipment wasn’t what it had been; the mainland had sent no new supplies for months. In the back seats of the jeep he found his fur hat and mittens, his heavy P&O Norfolk jacket. He stripped off the oilskins and dressed himself more warmly, buckling the jacket’s belt tightly around his waist.
He left the jeep behind, walking up the steep path towards the town. His search was proving entirely fruitless and he was tempted to give it up altogether, retiring from any kind of involvement, and yet his instincts had to be satisfied; he was resigned to continuing his quest. After all, most of his old enemies had themselves retired to safer zones. On the surface it seemed that the field was completely open.
The town had never been anything more than ramshackle, built primarily in response to the late-nineteenth-century tourist boom which had owed far less to Coleridge than to Tennyson and the Pre-Raphaelites. Even ruin could not make it picturesque. The streets were awash with weather-stained postcards, bedraggled and muddy King Arthur tea-towels, broken plastic Holy Grails, Excaliburs carved from chalk, tiny Round Tables to hang on the wall, and polystyrene crowns. In the reign of one Elizabeth the ideal had reached perfection and, in the reign of another, it had achieved its ultimate degradation. Jerry sniffed to himself. It had to happen sometime. Perhaps that was what he had failed to understand before.
He began to check the few parked cars, but all were in poor condition. The exodus had been made in less than a day, when the area had been, like so many, declared a non-civilian zone. Something to do with the Cornish Nationalist Movement. But the military had lost interest in the site almost immediately and had never established anything more than a few yards of barbed wire here and there.
Personally, Jerry thought the Americans had been a trifle naïve in thinking they had scored significant points in recruiting the CNM, a notoriously unreliable outfit whose members remained loyal only until they were trained and re-equipped when they deserted, returning to their rented farms and tied-cottages to await the calling of their traditional landlord leaders. A few of them still worked freelance for the Americans but, Jerry had heard, the military advisors were reconsidering the system of paying scalp-bounty, since the scalps in question were always difficult to identify and, on more than one occasion, had proved to originate with their own personnel stationed in the remoter parts of West Penrith. Scalp-hunters had been reported in the area only a few days ago, so Jerry kept a wary hand on his vibragun and gave close attention to the shadows, though it was unlikely that any hunter would bother with Tintagel which was known to be abandoned.
Eventually Jerry gave up inspecting the cars and stepped through the smashed plate-glass window of a tea shop. From the counter a curious rat looked up and, for an instant, Jerry mistook him for the proprietor. Casting a prudent glance over its shoulder the rat beat a leisurely retreat. Jerry found himself a Coke in the powerless icebox and took it to a grimy table to consider his transport problems. The Coke tasted peculiar, having undergone some sort of transmutation, but he swallowed it anyway. It could always be that his own metabolism had changed, there had been so many fluctuations recently. At least the temporal shifts had become less crude, flowing smoothly one into the other, layer passing almost imperceptibly through layer so that it was not always possible to tell exactly what one’s bearings were. Although it made his job harder, he couldn’t complain. After all, much of it was his own fault. It was only demonstrating his theories.
He was awakened from this somewhat tranquil mood by the distant sound of an ageing engine.
7. UFOS–OCCUPANTS AND ARTIFACTS IN EASTERN INDIANA
It was a broken-down Bedford two-tonner with a tattered canvas canopy; definitely a pre-war job. It moved slowly up the street as if searching for something. Jerry couldn’t recognise the driver but, since this was his only chance of a lift, he decided to expose himself.
He ran to the fractured window and climbed carefully out to the pavement. The lorry stopped. Through the wound-down window a tired military face was presented to him. “Colonel Cornelius?”
“Well—” said Jerry doubtfully. “I think he’s… Can you give me a ride?”
The man had kindly but confused pale blue eyes. He was in his fifties or sixties, wearing a shiny blazer, a frayed shirt with washed-out pink stripes, a regimental tie. He had a small grey moustache and thinning grey hair. “I’m Major Nye.” He took a small photograph from above the driving mirror and looked from it to Jerry. “I’m to take you to Grasmere, I believe?”
Jerry, trusting the major’s identification better than his own memory, walked round the lorry and opened the door on the passenger’s side. He put a foot on the step as Major Nye cleared various maps and documents from the worn leatherette upholstery. He climbed in and sat down, shutting the door with a slam. The Bedford’s engine was still running. Major Nye put it into gear and began to back slowly up the street. “You came ashore here, did you?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Jerry.
“You knew about Grasmere?”
“I know about Grasmere, certainly.”
“You’ll be briefed there. Sorry we couldn’t give you something more sophisticated, but the Americans took their best stuff with them or else they destroyed it.”
“The Americans have gone?”
“Didn’t you know, old chap? Certainly. Pulled out altogether. Given Europe up as a bad job. Can’t say I blame ’em. It means chaos now, of course. But, still…” He stopped reversing and moved forward up the B road for Camelford. “It’s going to be a struggle
to get through. As you can imagine, communications are breaking down left, right and centre.” He turned on the windscreen wipers as the rain grew heavier. “But so far no one group has displayed any sort of significant gain.”
“Do you mean it’s Civil War?” said Jerry in astonishment.
“It hasn’t come to that yet.”
Jerry smiled to himself. “It was always a game of Roundheads and Cavaliers for years, wasn’t it? If you look at it one way.”
“Oh, I quite agree with you.” Major Nye was concentrating on his driving. “Come on, old girl. Come along then, beauty.”
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