The following morning I am up early, after a bad night. I feed the animals. Tell Mrs Lea to make an extra breakfast. Still in my dressing-gown typing when Joan enters the bathroom. I call out that the water is not very hot and would she like a kettle? She replies, ‘No.’ I tell her I will fetch a clean towel. Confronted by me at the bathroom door, she frantically rubs her face. ‘Ton amie. Eh! Elle a beaucoup de rides, n’est-ce pas!’ I say to Cyril, and he actually laughs. I am still typing when Joan appears fully dressed. She is in a panique, says we are already late. Cyril is still in bed. He calls out for her to go up to his room. A flap. I quickly dress, wearing the new grey suit with pleated skirt, white shoes, white sweater and, without washing, run to the car that Joan has successfully manoeuvred in the right direction.
We stop once for petrol. Joan buys several cans of oil, says it is much cheaper in England. We arrive in Folkestone Harbour to find the gates closed and a barrier across the road. Cyril rushes off to buy two tickets. Eric Wood, whom we have invited to join us, is already on the boat. An AA man appears; he tells us it is too late to take a car over, but that we can go as passengers. Cyril contemplates this, but Joan’s face darkens. Up to then she had been quite light-hearted. We had even exchanged a few giggles. Now the wrinkles reappeared. While I sympathise with the distraught driver, Cyril rushes off to rescue Eric Wood. A consultation takes place beside the hampering vehicle. The AA man suggests two alternatives. Calais or Le Touquet. Joan discards Calais because of the cobblestones. I see that with a lot of persuasion she will agree to Lympne. By the time the two men have claimed back their tickets, the fatal decision has been made. We split up in two cars, Eric Wood wearing a dark suit with a pink rosebud in his buttonhole and a clerical coat. To my embarrassment, Cyril has pointed out I am wearing a new suit and tells them the cost. Obligatory compliments are paid. A lot of hanging about at Lympne and several brandies drunk. Go to the cloakroom and glimpse myself in a long mirror. Picture the tailor’s wife in the new suit and decide it looks suburban. Back at the bar, I consult Eric Wood; he agrees. ‘It’s not YOU, my dear.’
At 1.30, we all settle into the plane, wedged together in a small lilac box. Joan grips the arms of the plush seat and tightly shuts her eyes as we take off. Cyril leans towards me and shouts, ‘Nice AIR.’ He has bad breath. I point a finger in my mouth and mimic him, saying, ‘NICE AIR.’ He realises what I am getting at and actually smiles. When we arrive, after showing our passports, we tumble into Joan’s car and make straight for the Grenouillère restaurant. Joan thinks she remembers the way. She was there three weeks ago. Cyril thinks he knows the way from the map. Joan suddenly swerves off the main road and gets deep into the country. Everything very luxuriant, more advanced than in Kent. Cyril tells her she has taken the wrong turning. ‘Wasn’t there an arrow?’ she asks. No one remembers seeing an arrow. She is ordered to turn back. We drive along for several miles. Joan: ‘This is wrong.’ We stop and ask a boulanger the way. He has not heard of the Grenouillère. We drive on. ‘Can’t you remember the way from before?’ Cyril says irritably. We ask some road menders. They point down the road Joan originally took. We then see a large arrow pointing to the right. The Grenouillère is empty, but there are dying embers of a fire, a nice bar, lots of mixed bottles behind it, a fat chef, wearing a chef’s cap and a pleasant Madame serving drinks. We order Cinzanos. The menu is brought. On the wall, a newspaper cutting of Farouk with Madame Kahil seated on his right. It was taken the year I joined them in La Baule. Cyril orders the wine. Joan advises me to have the truite meunière, which is their speciality. I have the trout, with roast lamb to follow, spinach and delicious new potatoes. The trout is a dream cooked in wine, cream, butter and fennel with a strong flavour of tarragon vinegar. The meal almost ruined by an acid champagne nature, chosen by the master, that we drink with gross helpings of brawn and pâté maison, chosen by Joan. The meal did not exactly go off with a swing. Eric was laborious and somehow created a false impression. The meat was juicy, slightly pink and full of taste and the Burgundy with it was excellent. It was not a stimulating lunch. I think there was some love lacking. I complain about the acid champagne. Joan glares. Cyril agrees and apologises. We have Calvados to finish.
On the way to Montreuil, Cyril suggests staying the night. Horror! I am against it. Joan is pleased. Eric is thinking of his cat. We both vote against it. Cyril is furious. A row starts. I am attacked and accused of having no taste and no intelligence, but am simply a slave to an indomitable will. ‘Have you no spirit of adventure?’ I am asked. ‘What is there adventurous in a continuous round of multi-course meals, with dyspepsia to follow?’ I buy some espadrilles which turn out later to be too small. Eric and Cyril go off to a bank to change some money. With me still protesting we drive to the aerodrome. Approaching the runway I say, weakly, ‘Well, do whatever you want.’ So we stay. Having decided to return the grey suit, I get out of the car as we reach Le Touquet and slip off the skirt, borrowing, at the same time, Eric’s clerical coat and folding the suit neatly on my lap remain semi-dressed for the remainder of the jaunt. It was a watery day. Montreuil was provincial and grey with a pretty main square and a statue of Haig in the centre. We wandered round in the rain. Cyril then suggested that we spend the night on the outskirts of Normandy at a place called Mesnil-Val, as he had never been there and the Michelin recommended a Hostellerie de la Vieille Ferme. Determined not to suffer any more discomfort than I could help, I now placed myself in the front seat of the car. We embark on a long drive. Eric says that now that we have given in to the ‘mad Irish boy’s’ whim he had a small request – to stop at a perfectly simple roadside café and have a drink. I am all for this. The other two scowl. I am always frustrated in this request because of Cyril’s snobbery leading him to the most expensive restaurant. I stress that I must halt and buy a toothbrush. The two ‘food snobs’ not in favour of either stop.
After a fuss, Eric and I get our way. Me running half-naked across a main street with clerical coat flying, having borrowed some francs from the driver and Eric being allowed three minutes in a waterside café for a fine à l’eau, drunk in haste and despair. We press on into the night, Joan bent double over the steering wheel, squinting before her like a ‘mad learner’. ‘Tell me if anything comes towards us,’ she says to me, ‘sometimes I don’t see things.’ Darkness descends. Cyril directs the way from the back. We get lost. I have to get out and peer at signposts which have Mesnil-Val pointing in several directions at once. We arrive at a place called Criel four times, each time halting in the main part of the town to ask the way. We back. We turn. We stop on a deserted heath. We call at a house. We turn, Cyril all the time confidently directing; ‘bear left here, turn right.’ Joan groans and sighs. Eric laughs hysterically. ‘Mad Irish boy!’ Cyril haughty and cross and righteous. Me silent. ‘You must laugh at your husband sometimes,’ Eric says to me. ‘She is always too furious to laugh,’ Cyril says bitterly. At ten o’clock we arrive. La Ferme is empty, but it is sympathetic in a checkcloth way. Madame helpful and anxious to serve. Joan grumpy as hell. A great parking fuss ensues. I decide to cut myself off from everyone as much as I can. Cyril asks if we can have four rooms for the night. Eric (thinking of the extra expense) questions this. Cyril explains it away by saying that I object to his snores. Since I have not been consulted, I protest and say he prefers to sleep on his own anyway, and why must I take the blame? A large menu placed before us. The men decide to eat a five-course set meal. Joan and I not hungry. I sigh. Cyril turns on me and says something unpleasant. ‘I don’t see why I should eat five courses just to please you,’ I say. We all order moules marinière. The small moules and the best. Eric objects. He likes the giant Dutch type. Cyril says we must have some white wine for the fish and red for the meat. Eric scorns this by saying that it is only the English who live up to being such wine snobs and that you don’t find the French fussing about the wine all the time. Cyril glares as only a wine snob can glare at someone he considers a complete philistine. The meat
is high. There is an argument on the subject of homosexuals. Joan gets whiney. Eric calls them ‘fairies’ – after all he is one himself. Fairies have spoilt things for themselves by becoming so blatant and there was a time when they were included in the most select gatherings by the best hostesses and no one was any the wiser, they constituted a magic circle, but now they were asked because it was known that they were fairies and people thought them interesting. In time, he said, he thought society would turn on them. A homosexual is just the same as anyone else was Joan’s contention, neither more interesting, nor less, and she could not see what all the fuss was about.
A lot of Calvados drunk. Madame falls asleep by the fire, nursing her cat. Cyril says we ought to go to bed. We all drift up to an annex and spread out into our cubbyholes. We gather together in Joan’s, which is the largest. Eric wants to talk about ‘LOVE’. He tells us once again that he is impotent. ‘Did it happen suddenly?’ I ask. ‘Or was it gradual?’ Joan looks cross, as much as to say, ‘She is now on her favourite topic.’ Eric tells me it set in at forty. Cyril accuses me of being provocative, walking about in Eric’s clerical coat, thereby stressing my nakedness underneath. Who could I be wishing to provoke? After all, by taking off the suit (which I intend to take back), I am saving Cyril having to pay for it. I ask Joan if I might borrow her cold cream. She produces a pot of Pond’s. Eric pretends to be shocked. ‘You don’t use Pond’s! How squalid. You should always use Arden’s.’
We scattered and everyone went to bed. I slept exactly one hour throughout the night. The next day it rained. Had the grey suit wrapped into brown paper and then explored the village. It was triste. I wandered to the sea. It was rippleless and grey. There was a long stretch of sand and high cliffs, and some men installing sewage pipes. I bought some espadrilles and a bar of Toblerone. Returned to La Ferme to hear Joan and Cyril with a map discussing plans for the day. I asked irritably if we couldn’t leave soon.
Later, running into Cyril in the village, he said Joan’s comment had been, ‘If she had been as anxious to leave early yesterday, it would have been more to the point.’ Boiling with fury, I stormed back to the annex and, bursting into her room, said, ‘If you think I was responsible for missing the boat, I would just like to tell you I was up two hours before you.’ Meeting Cyril in the passage, I said for Joan to hear, ‘I suppose we won’t start for ages. She will be spending at least an hour doing her face.’ Eric, unaware of what was going on, turned up soon after fully dressed. Feeling he was responsible for the dismal dinner of the night before, Cyril made a point of being particularly amiable to everyone. In this mood we set off for Abbeville, which had a facade for a cathedral and all the sadness of a many-times bombed town. In a steady drizzle, we all got out of the car to inspect the ruin, each one shivering with cold, before collapsing into a café to drink Cognac and some muddy coffee. Here we parted from Joan and from then on I enjoyed the trip. We took a bus to Montreuil. With Cyril laying on the charm, we walked in the rain to another meal at the Grenouillère. It was even better than the day before. We visited Sterne’s Inn and admired the Ravilious-like butcher shops with their blue tiles, striped awnings and painted shutters. We walked. We joked. It rained. It didn’t matter. We took the plane. We talked. Eric went home to his cat and we were all sad to part.
September 13
A quick one-page journal as the bath is running and Joan, if you please, is arriving any minute from Lympne. September 10 (three days ago) Pop’s fiftieth birthday and seemed to call for a celebration; he had planned to give a big party for forty or so of his would-be friends at the Ritz. Luckily, this venture never materialised and the party was whittled down to six. Peter Watson was the first on the list but failed to turn up, excusing himself by ringing up the Etoile at the last moment to say he was ill, so we were left with Sonia and Janetta (on whom one had taken pity after Derek’s desertion), Robin Ironside (as being a bright spark though non-present giver) and when Peter failed to turn up, thereby casting a blight on the evening, Graham, Joan’s brother, was contacted, but he also was unable to come.
It started off a triste little party, a special meal having been ordered by the host the day before. Bayonne ham with Charentais (English hothouse) melon, followed by a kind of bouillabaisse done with mullet (which turned out to be simply delicious) with a main course of partridge with, if you please, salade Niçoise. The birds were good; no one ate their salad. The two girls (now inseparable) arrived rather tipsy and giggly, and on their best behaviour. Janetta had brought Cyril a smart suitcase (which Cyril had asked for) as a present and there were some jokes about that. ‘A suitcase that Jo Cotten would be proud of,’ Cyril demanded, ‘or that buggers would envy.’
After dinner we adjourn to Sonia’s, her flat having been improved with the addition of Cyril’s patterned Axminster carpet from Sussex Place; the marks of the kitchen stove are pointed out, it having left black weals across the middle, and everyone was amused.
*
Kenneth Tynan’s visit to Oak Coffin. He arrives Friday night on the 7.15 having eaten on the train. We seemed to have been awaiting his arrival for hours. Cyril puts some champagne in the porch to get cold. I pine to drink it having stayed in bed all day without eating. At last, the sound of the taxi stopping in front of the gate. Cyril: ‘This is my discovery of the perfect drink. A very light, agreeable and unacid wine.’ (Taittinger blanc de blanc ’47.) Tynan, sounding shy: ‘How long have you had this cottage?’ An explanation follows. It is not his, but ‘my wife, Barbara, bought it before the war.’ Tynan says little after that, mainly in the affirmative. Tynan: ‘Is there anything that contains all the facts about you?’ Cyril: ‘Enemies of Promise. Who’s Who. Who else have you done besides Graham Greene?’ (Write-up for Harper’s.) Tynan: ‘I’ve done about a dozen of them.’ Then, he talks about a book he’s doing on bullfighting, comparing it to other forms of art. Cyril: ‘You know Spanish?’ ‘Only bullfight Spanish.’ They discuss Virginia Woolf’s Diaries. Cyril: ‘It was quite reasonable of her to have been against critics.’ He says she had described him as the ‘Cocktail Critic’. C compliments Tynan on his skit of the radio critics. Says how much he enjoyed it. Goes on to tell Tynan how annoyed he is when The Unquiet Grave is referred to as the ‘Perfect Bedside Book’. Talks of Eton. Says that anyone he got on badly with there he would get on badly with now. Cyril: ‘Have dramatic critics got worse since Max Beerbohm, do you think? Plays have got worse, haven’t they?’ Tynan: ‘No, but more numerous, I should say.’ Cyril talks of the complacent drama critics like Ivor Brown. Does an imitation of Pryce-Jones. ‘“I thought it MADLY agreeable. I couldn’t have enjoyed myself more.” Have you noticed how all the drama critics have adenoidal voices and how when they discuss homosexuality they always refer to it as “sexual abnormality”?’ He tells Tynan about his new anthology of short stories. Goes through the list. Forgets the name of one of the authors. I feel his embarrassment. Afterwards, he told me he was afraid he was going to forget the names of all of them. Tynan: ‘How about including Rasselas?’ Cyril: ‘Perfect but dead.’ Talks about his Coup de Vieux. Tynan: ‘What charge are you answering?’ Cyril: ‘Coming man who hasn’t come.’
'Tears Before Bedtime' and 'Weep No More' Page 21