'Tears Before Bedtime' and 'Weep No More'

by Barbara Skelton

  *

  Have been twice to Wimbledon. Once with Patrick and once with Cyril. It was the first time Cyril had been. The Queen being there, he spent the whole time looking over at the Royal box, where Ali Forbes was sitting, and felt he was getting some of the reflected glory. As far as the tennis was concerned, he was only interested to know which of the women players I thought had the most sex appeal.

  July 27

  Wake up with terrible gloom. No char. Spend all the morning cleaning while Cyril soaks in the bath. He is obsessed with arranging a luncheon party for tomorrow, has asked Nika Hulton, but could not find any other guests who were not already lunching. Takes each refusal as a slight, even on telephoning someone and finding them out. Goes off to dine with Angelica Weldon.† I feel rather peeved at not being asked. Mooch about the flat, do washing.

  Cyril telephoned at midnight to say how much he has missed me and pretended his dinner with Angelica was a great embarrassment, saying she became maudlin and sentimental, cooed over her dog and kept saying what beautiful legs she used to have. When Cyril took her home, she produced Mounsey’s rubber bone and made it into the shape of a cock, saying, ‘What do you think of that?’ Cyril just whistled! We decided she had definitely made a pass.

  *

  Went down to the cottage for the second weekend running. Cyril very active in the garden, rolled up his sleeves and, bare-footed, clipped the hedge. Said the air is very good for him there. He is always telling me of the number of women he nearly went to bed with and when I say, ‘Why didn’t you?’, he says their scent put him off.

  July 28

  The bell rings very early in Queen Street and Xan (Fielding) appears with a suitcase. Says he is on his way to catch a train and wants to borrow my typewriter, as he has just got a temporary job typing out the memoirs of an Egyptian staying at the Hyde Park Hotel. Finds the unmade bed inviting and immediately tries to get into it. Seems very worried about money, as usual. I said that Daphne Bath should find some work for him on her farm, but he thought that a very comic idea. Actually, Xan dislikes any form of work more than most. What a pity he can’t be kept by the state for doin’ nothin’. As soon as he had gone, Chuff appeared with a letter in longhand that he wanted typed to a Mr Money. ‘You won’t have trouble spelling him!’ he said. He enjoyed dictating the letter and kept saying, ‘We should do this more often. If I had you to type my letters, I should get a lot more work done.’ Another writ arrived from the Canterbury Telephone Service. Being in a happy generous frame of mind, Chuff wrote out two cheques, one for the writ and one for me. Then Cyril arrived in a taxi laden with food and drink. We reached Sussex Place as the first guest arrived. State of panic. Lys, having been over-zealous in tidying up on her last visit, had hidden the key to the cellar and all the corkscrews. An amiable lunch. Cyril fussed. Nika and Henry Yorke‡ talked nonsense, Henry’s wife Dig made prattling noises, remaining throughout in a large black straw sunhat, as though attending a garden party.

  The lunch upset the plans for the weekend. We came back to Queen Street and had an hysterical quarrel as I wanted to go to the country and Cyril didn’t. He kept sneaking out to telephone Lys while I went downstairs to have a drink with my neighbour, the streetwalker, who showed me photographs – ‘Mon amour! My doggie!’ – and made me admire her flat all over again. Then C and I went to see a film starring Joseph Cotten, whom Cyril feels sentimental about, as Cotten once made a pass at him. Went back to Sussex Place and cooked some chops. Then as a joke I suggested Cyril put on his diving apparatus and flippers, which he dutifully did.

  *

  The weekend in the country passed without any rupture until Monday, when we went for a long excursion to find Grove Ferry Hotel set in very pretty country beside the River Stour, but the menu was disappointing, so we decided to return to our haddock. We were both delighted with the country round Upper Hardes and were admiring the cottages in that area, when I caused C to take the wrong turning and we found ourselves on a long strip of road leading back to Canterbury. ‘Really, you have the brain of a feather!’ ‘With all your brain, you can’t even drive a car!’ I responded. And once more we were locked in battle. ‘I’m not going to be shouted at any more,’ Cyril said, and scrambling out of the car hovered about the bonnet before deciding to demonstrate his independence by walking away. I had driven about two miles when I felt guilty and returned to pick him up. He was nowhere to be found. Searched all the pubs and, in a great state of fret, drove back to the cottage. At one in the morning, I heard the click of the gate and a jaunty beaming Pungle appeared. ‘The air suits me very well here,’ was all he said, and ‘What is there to eat?’

  August 15 Cottage

  After preparing some tomates provençales, the calor gas ran out. The builders said they had no staff to send to repair the stove. So we went to dine at the Smugglers which pleased Cyril. He discovered it on his nine-mile walk and considers it a welcoming port in a storm; he can also buy cigars there. We ate a very dull mixed grill. A red-faced, check-coated man came in and exclaimed joyfully, ‘This place reminds me of the Old Trout at Oxford.’ Cyril said disparagingly, ‘What do they know of Oxford!’ When we got back, still feeling hungry, I cooked the tomatoes on the bonfire which was still smouldering.

  August 16

  We had to leave early as Cyril had arranged a lunch with Peter Watson.§ A great state of fret, as I insisted on taking the mowing machine into Hythe on the way, which seemed unreasonable even to me. It had been lying in the garage for years. Each ironmonger took one look at it and hurriedly said they were overworked. When we arrived in London, I was complimented on my driving, as Cyril had got to his lunch on time. He suggested I join them, but I was unwashed and in trousers. Chuff came to see me at six, still in a financial flap. Said his two weeks in Paris had been spent reading the Continental Mail and working out figures.

  *

  Cyril has another luncheon party. Stephen Tennant, a strange Frenchman, Janetta, Tony Bower and a friend of Sonia. Stephen: ‘I hear you know Cairo well?’ Me: ‘Oh, do I?’ ‘But you were there?’ ‘Oh yes.’ ‘Were you there for long?’ ‘Eighteen months.’ ‘Then you do know it well!’ Long pause. Sonia’s friend: ‘I hear you like swimming?’ Me: ‘Well, I like the sun.’ Apart from answering everyone’s questions, the Frenchman hardly spoke either. There was a conversation about jewellery. To bring him out, Cyril asked, ‘And what stones do you like the most?’ The Frenchman said dourly, ‘J’aime les cailloux.’

  August 17

  Lunched with Cyril at Sussex Place. At my suggestion, he had prepared a table in the garden, but as soon as we went out the sun disappeared. The lunch was not a success, the garden being overlooked by workmen, and the food was cold. C very solicitous as he is going to Scotland. Talks of our living together, preparatory to marriage, when he gets back. He said that, if two people who live together don’t marry within the first year, they never will. He can’t live alone at Sussex Place and that if he doesn’t marry me he will marry someone else. Half an hour later, says he thinks he has been in a married state too much in his life.

  August 18

  Cyril was dining with Clarissa (Churchill) and told me in such a way that it was meant to arouse jealousy, so I arranged to see Jocelyn, who came round with a book on French cathedrals put down on Chuff’s account.

  *

  Sidney visits me in the morning. Appears to be in better health. Moaned a great deal about financial problems. When I told him my debts amounted to £200, he said that if it had been for less he might have been able to help. I wonder why he likes these short morning visits.

  August 19 Queen Street

  All the papers full of Farouk’s visit to Deauville. Both the tarts from downstairs flown over there! C has arranged to lunch with Tony Bower. I spend the day with Poppet, but rush off to have an abortive interview with Chuff’s bank manager about getting an overdraft. Manager asks me how I intend paying it off. Did I have any income? I said, ‘None whatsoever.’ Told him I could a
lways pay off overdraft with my jewellery. He said he wouldn’t like me to have to do that as it was probably a family legacy. I didn’t tell him it was mostly unpaid for and that Chuff still owed Cartier £100. Returned to Poppet and whined about Chuff sending me off to such an unhelpful interview. She agreed. Gossipped. Went off to see Cyril. Tried to justify his visit to Scotland with Clarissa by saying he thought about me more when I wasn’t there. Said they dressed for dinner and, after packing his dinner jacket, asked what other suit he ought to take, so I suggested he took a pinstripe, if it was that kind of house. On the way to the station tried to justify his departure once more by saying he always managed to write so well at Glen. And, anyway, I wouldn’t be missing him as I would be spending my time with some other man. I said he couldn’t reproach me for that, as he always seemed to need the company of other women and was, in fact, going to stay with one now. Then he became indignant, said there would be a large house party. In that case, I told him, it doesn’t seem you will be doing all this writing you mentioned. In order to reassure me further, he then stated he had quite made up his mind not to take Lys back and that he had told Joan very firmly he had no intention of going abroad with her again.

  Cottage

  Start feeling more adapted to my own company. Have no desire to see anyone. The char, Mrs Willett, comes round to clean and helps me carry the desk upstairs. Clear the outhouse and give her an old racket and broken down baby chair. Tell her how nice I think her husband is. She says everyone tells her that, but she finds him difficult as he never argues, so she cannot pick a quarrel. Cigarettes arrive in the post. Sent by Chuff. Do a lot of sickling and build up a bonfire. Heavy rain in the evening. Go and eat at The Smugglers. Talk to the proprietor. Tells me he has a snack bar at the Elephant and Castle, and a beach bar in Folkestone, but cannot make either place pay. In London he is cheated by his manager and at Folkestone the weather is bad. Very proud of all the notables who have visited the Smugglers, in particular the actress Martha Raye. While at the bar, he said, she did more acts in half an hour than in all her films. He gives me some gardening hints. Pour boiling water on weeds and you will never see them again.

  *

  A very satisfactory day. Early morning, a lot of sun. Take all the empty wine bottles into Tappendens, useful for bottling vinegar, they said. Go into Wye and buy a dozen eggs and visit the builders. Find them most helpful. Hands me over a plumber who was about to have his dinner. Brings his sandwiches with him and sets to work on the stove. Spends three hours here. Tells me that he gets six pounds fifteen shillings a week, is not allowed to work overtime because of the unions and has to spend twenty-three shillings on renting a house. He was a very nice man. Took great trouble over the stove. Said he would like to come and do the garden. Then it poured with rain. I discovered the advantages of forking and dug up all the nettles. Visited the farmer and asked if he’d mind a hole being made in his hedge to let in a tractor. ‘Don’t want no holes in my hedge,’ he said firmly, but laughing. Some more cigarettes arrive in the post. Chuff rang to say perhaps it would have been more sensible if he had sent me a bird. Took a boiling bath and went to bed aching.

  *

  Go over to Hythe. Mummy completely exhausted from looking after Brenda’s children. When I timidly suggest she lent me Tina the dog for the night, she took great pride in saying she was not going to let anything entrusted to her out of her sight and treated me as though I were attempting to rob her of a bag of gold. Before leaving I told her I had met the Barenlays in the lane. She said, ‘You ought to call on them, they would be useful people to know.’ ‘But they must be so dull,’ I said. ‘Of course not!’ Mummy was most indignant. ‘How can they be dull, she worked with you at Schiaparelli.’ I then realised whom she meant. ‘A rather pretty girl, a similar type to Auntie Vera, with large fishy dead eyes,’ I said. My mother became quite excited, as though she had caught me out. ‘You mean to say you think Auntie Vera has fishy dead eyes?’ And, when I tried to reword the sentence, I could see she already visualised herself repeating the slander to the whole family. Got back to the cottage at eight, feeling very lonely. Cooked a nasty meal but there is no pleasure in cooking for oneself, even if you feel hungry. Slept better. Chuff telephoned at nine.

  Queen Street

  Last night, I had a strange call from Paris Plage. A voice said, ‘I wonder if you remember me?’ I said, ‘Who are you?’ It was Farouk. ‘It would be nice to see you again,’ he said, ‘why don’t you come out and join us?’ I told him I would have to think about it and asked him to call me next day. The two men of letters, PQ and Cyril, were in the flat at the time. Pungle guessed at once, and went into the bathroom to lie and soak and brood on it. An hour later, to my surprise, he said, ‘I think you ought to go. After all, a King’s a King.’ He then jokingly ordered me to have us both invited to Egypt this winter. Get myself a beaver coat. And extract enough francs for us to spend a week in Biarritz. ‘Say you need it for a honeymoon.’ I was quite surprised on hearing these instructions, not wanting to go a bit. Had a confirmation call this morning. Cyril more enthusiastic then ever, almost wanted to speak for me, to make it quite clear I was accepting.

  Cyril saw me off, very attentively buys a bundle of newspapers and then forgets to give them to me. A clear blue sky, as the plane flew up over the damp haze surrounding England. At Le Bourget airport, I ran into Robert Capa, the photographer, who had just arrived from Germany. We sat in the airport café drinking and reminiscing about our initial meeting, sitting in a hammock at a diplomatic garden party during the war. Am met at La Baule by Freddie, the Copt, who is now married. The royal party consisted of about twenty guests, including Freddie and his wife, Farouk’s doctor, barber and bodyguard, and took up two floors of the Hermitage Hotel. I am introduced to Monsieur et Madame Kahil. ‘What does Monsieur Kahil do?’ I ask. Farouk laughs. ‘In England, I think you’d call him a drone.’ They had all come on from Le Touquet, where there had not been any pretty girls, but Farouk added, ‘In Deauville there were plenty, professionals, too. They cost me a packet.’ I said, ‘Your doctor says I look run-down.’ ‘It’s after your journey. We all looked run-down when we got here.’ He tweaked my ear, and turning to the Kahils said, ‘She’s a real minx, this one.’

  At this time Farouk resembled a huge sawdust teddy bear badly sewn at the joints. Wherever we went, we were surrounded by people screaming ‘Vive le Roi’. Every evening we dressed up and after dinner trooped into the Casino where I was given a thousand francs to play roulette and, when that was lost, I remained seated beside Farouk as a kind of mascot. After I had lost everything at a roulette table three nights running, the King’s doctor, a rather taciturn, sympathetic man, knowing I did not have much money, persuaded me to keep some chips aside and cash them in as we were leaving. The Casino in La Baule is small and, if it was not full, Farouk would say, ‘Not enough suckers here tonight.’

  Members of his bodyguard haunted the hotel corridors. Mornings, I would be summoned by one of them to join the King for breakfast, then his barber appeared to curl his moustache, when we would be told the plans for the day. Farouk had a mania for cleanliness. One time, in a star restaurant, they brought in a cracked soup tureen, whereupon he strode into the restaurant kitchen and proceeded to break all the cracked crockery he could see, splitting them into two with his hands. Should one ask what he was joking about with his Arab staff, he said simply, ‘I like to have cheerful people about me. None of your English poker faces around for me.’

  The Daily Mail had commissioned Cyril to do an article on him. Farouk had a horror of journalists. To him writers and journalists were synonymous: when Cyril arrived in La Baule Farouk refused to see him but we would meet for drinks. When Farouk announced that we were proceeding to Biarritz and would be ‘hitting the road’ the following morning, black berets were meted out and we were told we would have to wear them. Still hoping to be included in the trip, Cyril bought himself a black beret and told me he would be sitting drinking coffee in t
he last café outside the town on the route to Biarritz. A French bus stacked with luggage went on ahead of us that we kept overtaking all along the route. As the convoy of cars left La Baule, with Farouk and me in our berets in the lead and a police car in the rear, the streets were lined with people excitedly shouting and waving, for as we know the French are mad about royalty, no matter whose. Sure enough, there was Cyril wearing a black beret, reading Le Monde, seated at an outside table at the last café, a suitcase beside him. But no pleading on my part would induce Farouk to pick him up. The journey from La Baule to Biarritz took ten hours. When I complimented Farouk on his driving, he said, ‘A compliment from you is a rarity, I’ll take it.’ We stopped for a late breakfast, and then at four o’clock trooped into the Chapon Fin. Innocuous souvenirs like labels were steamed off bottles and the accumulation sent back to Egypt, and crates of mangoes accompanied us everywhere. Once more, we took up two floors of the Palace Hotel in Biarritz. Before allotting us our rooms, Farouk strode into his suite saying, ‘Let’s get everything shipshape in here,’ and proceeded to move all the furniture around. When shown the specially large bed he had commanded in advance, he expressed his satisfaction and jokingly said to the manager, ‘Now, I’ll be able to have some fine partouse.’

  In Biarritz we were pursued by journalists wanting to interview the English Mystery Woman. I went on losing at the roulette table but managed to put enough aside to give Cyril some cufflinks and provide for our eventual trip back.