Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle

by Anthony Russell

  By six thirty the lights were on, we were all up, and Nanny was making tea. While David and James nattered and squabbled over their presents in the playroom, I went to work on an Airfix model Spitfire fighter plane, with one-third of my sock still remaining.

  Breakfast over and dressed in full Crockett regalia (chest, accordingly, a little pumped up), I awaited zero hour, nine thirty—the only day of the year we were allowed to invade our parents’ bedroom quarters so early—with outward calm and inner turmoil. I had recently been introduced to the music of Cliff Richard and the Shadows. That was as deeply significant as my introduction to cricket. So intense was my enthusiasm that, having saved enough tokens and pocket money to buy, and become intimately acquainted with, their long-playing record, I had concluded that I must have a guitar just like the one they played. On the back-cover sleeve-notes of the record there was a description of the instruments Hank, Bruce, and Jet favoured, and so onto my Christmas list, under the Davy Crockett outfit but above a new cricket bat, pads, and ball, went “One Fender Stratocaster, red, with tremolo arm.” To make things sound a little more authentic, I put the word out that I’d had a few guitar lessons at Hill House and was well on my way to achieving a modicum of skill. Curiously, my claims were not greeted with the ridicule which they deserved.

  Christmas Day was, in fact, practically the only day of the year we invaded our parents’ bedroom quarters at all. At nine thirty on the dot, the three of us left the confines of the nursery and trooped down the corridor, past the long seventeenth-century oak refectory table, above which hung another fine Flemish verdure tapestry, under the arch, past the housekeeper, Mrs. Walsh’s linen closet, and past Lady Huntley’s bedroom.

  Knocking loudly, we entered the inner sanctum. Cupboards right and left, designed by Monsieur Boudin and hand built by his craftsmen. Father’s bedroom to the left, mother’s to the right, marbled bathroom straight ahead. A sumptuous and very comfortable set of rooms with plenty of space to swing a few cats. We knocked again on our mother’s door.

  “Come in,” she said, loud and clear.

  There she was, neat and tidy, not a hair out of place, pink cardigan around her shoulders, sitting up in her antique four-poster bed having breakfast off a tray and glancing through a newspaper.

  “Happy Christmas,” everyone said all at the same time, followed by a flurry of kisses and more “Happy Christmases.”

  During the greetings, our father had entered the bedroom wearing a fine-looking pair of striped pyjamas, to be greeted by another chorus of “Happy Christmas.” Eyes darted about the room in an effort to locate the presents. Our mother directed traffic from the bed, telling us in which direction to head. I experienced what can only be described as the onset of grave disappointment as I noticed that my pile of gifts contained nothing large enough to house a guitar. I inspected the labels: Mummy, Daddy; Mummy and Daddy; Godmother Anne; Godmother Margaret. And two envelopes: Godfather Francis, and Godfather G. All present and correct. No guitar. Too bad, on with the show. D and J had bought Daddy a tie, which seemed to give him great pleasure.

  “Ah! My dear sirs,” he said, smiling broadly. “A tie. How delightful. Many thanks!”

  All three of us had boxes which contained the different parts of a motor-racing game called Scalextric. It looked incredible. I was just opening one of my envelopes when I noticed my mother bringing something out of the corner cupboard. My heart took a leap. Could this be it? It looked like a giant violin case.

  “Here you are, darling,” she said in a tone which, had I been older, I might have described as verging on the conspiratorial. “It’s not quite what you asked for, but we hope you like it.” I felt everyone was looking at me, and I wished they wouldn’t. The paper had bells all over it. Perhaps “Jingle Bells” wasn’t so hard to play. The case was soft, in dark brown with a zipper. The guitar didn’t look at all like a Fender Stratocaster. It was non-electric and had strings like a tennis racquet. I was still pleased but had no idea what to do next. I was caught out in a fib. What on earth had I been thinking? I hadn’t been thinking. I had been dreaming, salivating, imagining a glorious red Fender Stratocaster slung over my neck, my fingers miraculously finding the positions on the frets to make the desired sounds ring out loud and true, and all without the benefit of an amplifier which I didn’t even know was needed for an electric guitar.

  I toyed with the instrument a bit, holding it in a manner which I thought appeared exceedingly professional, knowing my face was turning the colour of a red letterbox. I gave my mother a hasty kiss and said thank you, explaining I was a bit rusty and in need of a little practice.

  Fortunately it was time to get ready for church. Nobody but me seemed at all put out by my acute discomfort. We tidied up and carried what we could back to the nursery. Before changing into church apparel I hid the guitar under my bed.

  * * *

  Outside the front of the castle a spectacular array of motorcars sat waiting. Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, an Aston Martin, and Granny’s huge black Mercedes-Benz directly in front of the door, all with their engines running to warm them up. Borrett, Brewer, and other chauffeurs had brought the cars down from the garages and were in the process of brushing off the snow and ice in preparation for the ceremonial ride to church.

  The mere two occasions during the year, Christmas and Easter, that Granny and the court attended St Nicholas, our very pretty village church built around the same time as the original stone castle, revealed a certain lack of religious fervour in the castle way. By way of recompense, those two visits, at 11:00 a.m. sharp for all attendees, did succeed in maintaining a connection with those who lived and worked on the estate, the villagers, and church workers. For many of them it was a rare opportunity actually to see Granny B in the flesh, and sometimes to speak with her. It was also a semi-formal spectacle which, in our 1950s English countryside, gave voice to a unique form of affection for one’s locale and the continuity of a way of life that was better understood and better appreciated then than it is today.

  As we waited in the hall, I got to see some of the grownups who had come for Christmas—briefly evaluating their potential with regard to the well-established and all-important precedent of distributing, during the prelunch adult beverage period, Christmas Day cash hand-outs to the young.

  Lady Huntley and the Duchess of Roxburghe: only C+ on the generosity scale; Bert Whitley and Johnny Galliher: full of fun and each a sure B+; Guysy-Wee, Bottle, and bridge champion Reg Shurey, commonly known as the Old Faithfuls: fluctuating B’s if I remembered correctly. Then there was Princess Djordjadze, my brief, but lively, hallway encounter with whom, two years previously, I hoped was forgotten. Granny B and Morg were not down yet, and Woody and Uncle Gawaine never went to church.

  Granny B’s father, Almeric, the first (and last) Lord Queenborough, had had three daughters—Audrey, Enid, and Cicili—with his second wife, Edith Miller, another American woman, whom he married in 1921. My mother, therefore, had three aunts approximately her own age, one of whom, Cicili, lived with her husband, Capt. Robert Evans, and their family, at Squerryes Lodge, a handsome seventeenth-century manor house in Westerham, about forty-five minutes’ drive from Leeds. Bobby and Cicili were towering, strong-willed, no-nonsense types; they were kind, good natured, amusing, and were stalwart family members. Uncle Bobby ran the castle shoot and Aunt Cicili seemed capable of running everything else. They came to the castle, and we went to see them in Westerham, often.

  Audrey and Enid lived abroad and were infrequent castle guests, but every now and then Audrey turned up with her husband, Cdr. Peter Lucy, formerly a Royal Navy submarine man, who had an Aston Martin and a yacht generously provided by her. He was quite dashing and, for the most part, agreeable company. His reputation, which preceded him at all times, was that of an accomplished swordsman. Indeed there was a rumour that he enjoyed displaying his expertise with the wife of another family member while that other family member practised his own lovemaking skills with a petite and pr
etty family friend.

  Uncle Bobby, Aunt Cicili, Uncle Peter, and Aunt Audrey had driven over from Westerham, so after we’d all piled into the motor cars and the stately procession had begun to wind its way slowly up through the park, I felt the outlook for the day’s take looked favourable.

  * * *

  By one o’clock the library was throbbing with animated chit-chat and tinkling ice cubes. It was one of my favourite rooms in the castle, with its tall bookshelves chock-full of leather-bound books, celestial globes perched atop; cosy sofas everywhere; oak table in the centre strewn with more books, including the visitors’, and a pair of handsome lamps; the backgammon table at which Guysy-Wee was kind enough to play with me sometimes; and the hidden bar tucked away in one corner. Nanny and I had boldly positioned ourselves in one of the window banquettes, enabling us to see and be seen without actually having to participate. As executive decisions go, it could not have turned out better. Everybody stopped by with a little something, and their individual methods of disguising the inherent vulgarity in handing out cash proved irresistible theatre.

  Lady Huntley sidled up in the manner of a French prostitute attempting a pick-up, her hands behind her back and a come-hither expression on her face. Murmuring “Happy Christmas,” she turned and leaned backwards, wiggling a pound note between her fingers.

  “Thanks, Lady H,” I cooed, as she meandered off looking to all intents and purposes as if a rejection had just taken place.

  Woody strode up and manfully shook my hand, dispensing the two pounds from his palm into mine with the precision of a robot and the secrecy of a spy.

  The princess stopped and looked at me in much the same way I imagined she looked at the accidents on her carpet left by her Chihuahua.

  “Which one are you?” she enquired (clearly she had forgotten being forcefully instructed by me to leave the premises) in a throaty mid-Atlantic drawl.

  “This is Anthony,” Nanny replied for me. Personally I felt like ignoring the woman, but as she started to shuffle some envelopes, I forced myself to remain neutral. She found mine, dropped it in my lap, and moved away with a flourish. Although her perfume lingered rather longer than I would have wished, inside the envelope was a record token for two pounds. An LP and a single. I made a mental note to try and modify my opinion of the princess.

  The Old Faithfuls slipped one-pound notes into my shirt pocket with ease and charm, as if they were repaying an outstanding debt. They all stayed for a moment to find out what I’d been up to, which struck me as polite. Morg came over and sat with me for a moment. When he produced a five-pound note from behind my ear, it merely confirmed my growing belief that here was a substantial man whose words and deeds I should emulate if remotely possible.

  * * *

  Borrett announced lunch and opened the double doors to the dining room, where a children’s table had been set up in the giant bay window. The pair of late-eighteenth-century Louis XVI Aubusson pastoral tapestries, set in panels, continued their vigilant watch over the long William IV mahogany dining table laid in customary fashion for the grown-ups, with French china and silverware, Baccarat crystal glasses, and lilies of the valley in the centre. A precise replica of the Gloriette’s floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree, decorated for adult consumption, stood in regal splendour in the smaller bay window behind Granny B’s chair at the head of the table. The morning’s activities gave every impression of having turned out well. Despite the disappointment of no Fender Stratocaster, it would have been churlish in the extreme to think otherwise.

  As friends and family assembled, footmen in dark suits and ties flew in all directions, assisting ladies with their chairs before dispensing magnums of chilled vintage champagne. Then Borrett, in tails and striped trousers, went around the table serving foie gras de Strasbourg that Woody had brought down, as he always did at Christmas, from Fortnum & Mason, London’s grandest food hall. Because of the tallness of the pot and the firmness of the foie gras, Borrett was obliged to struggle just a little to maintain a dignified posture as each guest attempted to extract the correct portion size of the famed delicacy with a silver serving spoon and fork.

  Our table was not invited to try the foie gras, perhaps because no one thought we’d like it. Nanny, David, James, and I, joined by our cousins John and Michael (and Nanny Evans), munched away on chipolata sausages wrapped in bacon and baby triangles of toast as we awaited the arrival of the Christmas turkey.

  Finally, with great fanfare, Borrett strode into the room carrying the enormous bird on an oval silver platter, presented it for Granny’s inspection, and immediately took it back to the kitchens for carving. Returning with three footmen in tow, Borrett served the thinly sliced turkey as the footmen offered an array of vegetables, all from silver dishes, including roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts and chestnuts, parsnips and swede, stuffing, bread sauce, and hot gravy.

  We, at the children’s table, were served with the same splendid formality. After the grown-ups’ glasses had been refilled for the umpteenth time with more champagne, or claret for those who preferred red wine, and our glasses of water, fruit juice, or Coca-Cola had been topped up, Christmas lunch entered that stage of conviviality so often the hallmark of this day.

  Only the arrival of Borrett and a flaming Christmas pudding, as large as a football and stuffed full of sixpences, could adequately crown the occasion. At the time my fondness for this sticky mess of suet, sultanas, raisins, currants, brown sugar, and many other ingredients was limited to a search for the silver coins and a quick sampling of the brandy butter.

  When she felt the time was right, Granny B stood, followed by everyone else, and led the ladies out of the dining room, through the library, the main hall, and the inner hall, to the drawing room for coffee, leaving the men to their port, politics, and cigars. This was the cue for the children to retire to the nursery for a rest.

  Christmas at Leeds displayed the castle way at its best. The hierarchy softened noticeably, and special consideration was given to all, by all. Time off for the staff included a festive banquet in their own dining room, and Granny B’s oft-beleaguered card-table companions enjoyed the benefit of eased regulation.

  Even I, during these few glorious days, found myself treated as something other than a mere annoyance. This forever sealed in my imagination the otherworldliness of the whole thing.

  8.

  CONVERSATION PIECE

  By the age of seven I had, quite knowingly, begun to develop different conversational styles based on a number of specific influences. As I was so unsure of myself, it made exquisite sense to me to base my words and phrases on people whose words and phrases reeked of worldliness, brainpower, and panache.

  As I was not in a position to speak directly with Robin Hood, William Tell, or Davy Crockett—television heroes who set shining examples for my confused young mind through their upright behaviour, decency, and strength—all three were obliged to remain rather more in the realm of motivational speakers than act as direct aides to my linguistic advancement. This left the field open to Nanny, my father, and Morg (whose combined expertise in the art of conversation I considered to be nothing short of matchless) to beef up whatever talking skills I may have attained up to that point.

  I was, of course, very seldom in my father’s company, and even less Morg’s, which made it vital to pay attention whenever I was. Morg’s expressions of uplifting humour came trippingly off his tongue, and even when he swore after a bad croquet shot (“God rot it!”), he made it sound like a friendly aside and not an expression of anger. It would have been ideal if Morg had had the time or inclination to be my mentor as well as a man I looked up to. Life lessons conveyed in his inimitable way might well have worked wonders in correcting my more wayward inclinations, but unfortunately “mentoring” was not a recognized word, or activity, in the castle way system. It would have interrupted the ebb and flow of the mentor’s normal daily functions and, probably, disturbed the chatelaine’s calm. As a result, despite having a numbe
r of brilliant and important individuals close to my sphere of operations, I was not able to benefit much from their wisdom.

  My father spoke at all times with quiet authority, just like his mother, and could also be very funny, but often at some poor innocent soul’s expense. Later, that poor innocent soul too often turned out to be my mother. Both Morg and my father always gave me the impression of possessing enormous vocabularies and the ability to string words together better than anyone else I came into contact with at the time.

  Nanny, my constant companion, kept it simple and to the point. She never was at a loss for well-spoken words, and I suspect her fondness for BBC radio, which in the 1950s insisted that the English language was a thing of beauty and should be spoken as elegantly and formally as possible, played its part in keeping her standards high.

  It is conceivable that some A. A. Milne descriptive passages and even some tried-and-true cricketing metaphors wormed their way into my youthful subconscious, but that is conjecture at best.

  * * *

  It was four thirty in the afternoon on a cold Saturday at the beginning of January. David and James had gone to stay with friends for the weekend, so I had Nanny all to myself in the castle nursery.

  Word had filtered through the system that the grown-ups were expecting me down for tea that day. Not being convinced that this was cause for celebration, I was about to go in search of Nanny’s advice when she walked into the room carrying a large bundle of knitting. I stopped my rummaging through the bottom drawers of the tall oak cabinet where I kept some of my toys and turned to face her: