Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle

by Anthony Russell

  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!”

  Good heavens, I said to myself, they have names! Granny has actually given the ducks names. Astonishing! Granny continued her conversation with George for a few moments, then she said with a flourish, “Right ho, Peter. Let’s see him go.”

  Very gently and with great decorum, Peter placed George at the top of the launchpad, and without further ado George started to waddle, with as much elegance as he could muster, down the ramp as Granny B, having changed from her short-range to her long-range glasses, leaned forward in her chair, straining to appreciate every nuance of the performance.

  George entered the water and reacted with a flurry of wing flapping and frantic footwork, immediately followed by an exhibition of the most serene paddling imaginable, especially by a duck who has just been introduced to a new habitat, albeit a very beautiful one. As George ambled around his new domain, our gathering responded with the polite enthusiasm of a Wimbledon crowd on Ladies’ Day. A few clapped; I heard Guysy-Wee gruffly mumble “Fine show” a few times; Morg hummed a brief “Trumpet Voluntary” before being overtaken by hiccups. I grinned at Nanny and awaited the next stage.

  Granny was still making notes when Peter appeared with duck number two, and then the whole extraordinary procedure was repeated. Nine ducks were launched that afternoon: George, Jane, Rupert, Sally, Horace, Fred, Bill, Margaret, and Ted.

  When it was all over, the assembled company seemed to agree it had been a sensational display. My personal impressions were not sought by Granny B or any of the court members present—not even Morg—which, at least, upheld a level of consistency for the afternoon and, happily, failed to put a dent in my enjoyment of the show.

  * * *

  If Granny B were alive today, and the taxman, in his infinite wisdom, had been persuaded to leave her fortune intact, I can imagine BBC television crews
periodically being invited down to the castle to record such stimulating “reality” spectaculars as the launching of the ducks for the benefit and bemusement of invited observers and television viewers across the land. Quite what they would make of it all I can only surmise; the hushed tone, the pomp and circumstance, the regal chatelaine and her watchful attendants, the subdued humour, the rather strange intensity—all for nine baby ducks who had received no warning about what to expect from their formidable grande patronne.

  5.

  HILL HOUSE DAYS

  I was ill prepared for school when I first started at Hill House, aged five. Between the hours of 8:30 a.m. and 3:00 p.m., my formerly self-contained, well-ordered, calm, and exquisitely comfortable nursery existence was suddenly transformed into an unexpected series of embarrassing yet unavoidable encounters over which I had no say or control.

  Arithmetic caused my head to spin and my brain to rattle because never before had I been obliged to display my foolishness so nakedly and in front of so many. Fortunately I developed an ability to play cricket quite well, which placed me in good stead with both my teachers and fellow pupils. Similarly, by then I was listening to music on the radio with an almost obsessional happiness, and found I could pick up a tune and sing along with it after just a couple of listens. Together with life lessons from Robin Hood, Davy Crockett, and William Tell, my favourite television heroes, these new skill sets became my defence against being completely alienated from my peers by the castle way.

  During my Hill House days, I started to love my mother as much as I learned to be wary of my father, who remained, to this small person, both distant and unapproachable. She became my periodic glamorous companion and teacher of certain things beyond Nanny’s purview. I’d been expecting Chapman, our London butler, to drive me from Egerton Terrace to Hill House for my first day of school, because I knew my mother’s morning routine began when Agnes, the housekeeper and Chapman’s wife, brought her breakfast in bed at 10:00 a.m., long after I was scheduled to be at my desk. But to my astonishment she was up and ready at 8:00 a.m., looking as beautiful and well turned out as ever, fussing over her handbag and preparing to “bundle me” into the Bentley.

  It was an eight-minute drive to Hans Place, a pretty Victorian square where Hill House sat at one corner and Harrods was a cricket-ball throw away. When we arrived, she parked close by the school and we walked, hand in hand, up to the entrance, mounted the steps, and entered the main hall, which was packed with parents dropping their children off for the new term. A fearful discomfort gripped me from head to toe in a flash. I felt as if I was being forced to participate in a ghastly social experiment that I wanted curtailed immediately, so that I could be driven back home to Nanny and the comforts of the nursery. Then a woman of terrifying appearance, dragon eyes and eagle nose, wearing a tweed suit and with lacquered hair, came up to us and announced: “I am Mrs. Townend, the headmaster’s wife.” I was struck dumb. The grown-ups proceeded to have a brief conversation, after which Mrs. Townend took my hand and firmly led me away to the classroom across the hall to begin my education.

  My mother would pick me up from Hill House at least twice a week and either walk me home or, better by far, take me to Harrods. The fourth-floor toy department and the second-floor record department now reigned supreme in my firmament, mystical in their ability to enthral me with the vastness of their rooms and the luxury of their appointments. The most wondrous toys were displayed with panache, including a shiny pedal motorcar temptingly available for testing on the floor. Hundreds of the greatest records were placed in perfectly proportioned wooden racks, just low enough for me to flip through until my fingers ached or I was told it was time to go. There were delightful little booths where one could listen to a single, or part of an LP, before deciding whether to buy it. My mother rarely bought me toys or records on the spot because she thought I should wait for the special occasions when they could be presented as a surprise.

  We frequently visited “Women and Children’s Wear” (I can still hear the uniformed elevator operators now), which gave me a chance secretly to admire the mannequins wearing nothing but naughty underwear in some instances and what appeared to be glamorous costumes in others.

  The ground-floor food hall was always a sight to behold. Wood panelling, tiled floors, and endless counters filled with the best meat, poultry, game, and fish, tended by men in blue-striped trousers, white aprons, and flat-top hats. On shelves and tables, countertops and stands, foods from all over the world were laid out with style and finesse. Most of them were yet to become part of my diet, but they all looked enticing in this exotic locale.

  Whenever my mother wanted to purchase something in Harrods, she would hand over a small, dark green plastic card. I soon found out that such a card was the same as money at this most regal of shopping establishments. Once a month a bill arrived for all the goods she had bought, and all she (or Miss Bird, her secretary) then had to do was send them back a cheque. A Harrods card, I gathered, was a “must” for all who frequented the place, and possessing one was a clear indication of one’s social standing. Although American Express and Bank Americard (later called Visa) were introducing credit cards around this time, it was years before the Harrods account became superfluous and multiple credit cards leaped from every self-respecting wallet.

  At Leeds, my mother played tennis with me and took me out on the golf course, showing me the rudiments of a golf swing, which I quickly picked up because she was a good teacher and had a good swing herself. She never played, claiming she didn’t really enjoy it, but I wondered if the castle way was placing too many other demands on her time. Audiences, card games, weekend guests, Monsieur Boudin visits, local dignitaries stopping by, sometimes the vicar for sherry, always “the birds”—all were time-consuming activities that could never be put on hold.

  “Anthony settled very well to school life and he has made good progress in all subjects.” So began my first end-of-term report, which ended with, “He is a happy form member.” It was written on one page.

  “Well done, darling,” my mother said.

  She, Nanny, and I were in the castle nursery, seated at the big round table in the middle as I devoured bangers and mash for supper. Evening sunlight filled the room, casting light and shadow over gloomy portraits of gloomy people. With only five minutes remaining until Robin Hood was on television, I wasn’t sure the time was right to begin a discussion about the powerful inaccuracy of what I had just heard.

  “Are you sure that’s my report?” I asked.

  “Of course, darling. Whose do you think it is?”

  “Hard to say, really.”

  I was not nearly as happy in my first term as the report maintained. For example, I objected to the headmaster’s habit of raising one’s shorts to smack one hard on the thigh when he thought one deserved punishment. Nanny’s approach to wayward behaviour—“Come now, dear, I’d rather you didn’t do that”—felt more in keeping with castle way standards. Lunches at school were most awkward, all of us crammed onto benches and given unpleasant tinned Spam and Russian salad (mostly diced vegetables in a mayonnaise dressing). I’d performed adequately in the classroom but hadn’t been able to come out of my shell in a convincing manner. Only the excursions to the Duke of York’s playing fields on the King’s Road, ten minutes’ walk from Hill House, to learn cricket three times a week, brought joy. The columned magnificence of the military barracks which loomed above us as we played, the wide, flat expanse of perfectly mowed grass, and the comings and goings of soldiers, jeeps, and sometimes artillery added lustre to the already eye-popping surroundings, and gave a temporary lift to my spirit.

  There was little opportunity to discuss my new favourite activity when I got home. Chapman was a cricket fan but I hardly ever spoke with him or with his wife, Agnes, because they were either too busy or didn’t want to talk to me. Unfortunately neither Nanny nor my mother had the remotest interest in sports. That left my brothers, my father, and Miss Preston, the c
ook.

  Miss Preston lived in the basement, in her bed-sitting room, and in between cooking assignments sat by her mantelpiece, coughed, and pondered her dizzying array of bizarre ornaments: porcelain animals and lockets, ceramic mugs with pictures of the Queen and Brighton Pier, even a miniature Eiffel Tower, all picked up during her holidays at English seaside resorts. Though I was seldom to be found in her lair I never saw her without a cigarette dangling from her enormous, heavily rouged lips, even when she was rolling pastry, slicing vegetables, or cracking eggs into a mixing bowl. She was a large lady with huge eyes, puffy cheeks, and puffier arms. Her legs were always wrapped in bandages to protect her varicose veins, and, in the house, she wore floppy open slippers and a hairnet, or bath cap, over her unkempt halo of frizzy white hair. Her voice was deep and resonant and hoarse from smoking. I loved her cooking, especially her toad in the hole (sausages in batter) and chocolate mousse, the texture of which was a household legend for its ability to house a number of upright spoons without any form of manual support.

  Though never overtly unkind, Molly Preston wore a stern expression most of the time. It later dawned on me that her downstairs life was a lonely one, not alleviated by the less than congenial relations she enjoyed with Reg and Agnes Chapman, whose base of operations was just down the corridor. Alas, Miss P had no interest in cricket. Her main interest was listening to the radio because it meant she didn’t have to keep getting up to bang on her tiny black-and-white television set when the screen went fuzzy and made annoying, distracting farting sounds.

  My father and I never talked about cricket or anything else, even on the rare occasions we were in the same room. After the nursery incident, when he’d smacked James and I’d been a high-chair witness, it was a couple of years before I was prodded by my mother into occasionally stopping by his bathroom to say hello as he made his morning preparations for the office. I think he found it as difficult communicating with me as I did with him. Having been abandoned—in fact disowned—by his own father seemed to have left a mark on his ability to establish a meaningful father-son relationship. The combination of work, a full social calendar, and the comfortable expectations of the castle way suited my father to a T, keeping him heavily occupied and generally removed from the company of his three sons.