Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle

by Anthony Russell

My mother took me with her to the town that afternoon because she needed to stock up on cigarettes, Aquafilters, and Squibb Angle toothbrushes, which she always brought back to England in the belief that they worked better than any other kind. Bay Street looked splendid with its single-storey row of shops on each side and raised sidewalks like a Wild West town. By now I had become used to seeing mainly black people wherever we went, many of whom struck me as possessing far more jovial personalities than a majority of the people I came into contact with back home. But still I wondered why my parents had not told me anything about Nassau and its population before we’d left.

  For my last night I was allowed to join the grown-ups for a dinner party on the mainland. Carl and Bubbles Holmes were our hosts, and very charming they were. He wore dark red trousers, a blue jacket, and had a freckly, sun-tanned face; she, with her dress billowing and white hair in a bouffant, resembled a sophisticated version of Miss Preston; but she treated my grandmother like royalty and entertained in the same gracious manner. The house had warmth and was well staffed, and the evening was no more stressful than any other of its kind.

  Increased familiarity with the court and its ways helped broaden my understanding of castle way protocol. Although, in Nassau everyone around Granny appeared to be relaxed, at ease, and enjoying themselves, there was always the implicit understanding that her wishes must be at the forefront of each day’s activities. As at Leeds, her mouthpiece was the ever-present and unflappable Borrett, ably and loyally assisted by his staff. Morning, noon, and night, he would appear to make announcements, “Her Ladyship wishes you to do so-and-so” or “Her Ladyship is in conference with so-and-so, and therefore lunch will be delayed by half an hour.” Sometimes Borrett was given the unenviable task of changing the afternoon four at the card table, which entailed a whisper in the ear of the relevant guest or guests (usually during the lunchtime cocktail hour), who may then have had to cancel or reschedule other plans for that afternoon.

  * * *

  Unfortunately a single unpleasant incident almost ruined the whole trip for me. One day, before lunch, I discovered Mickey Renshaw’s venom, purporting to be humour, to be even more pronounced than I had previously suspected. Whenever I’d found myself within hearing range of his conversation I would notice a distinct preference by him to focus his agile mind on destroying as many reputations as possible with a stream of hypercamp critiques and bons mots. Worse, I thought, was how Woody and my father, instead of registering even mild disapproval when the nastiness was directed at my mother, guffawed gently into their cocktails, Cheshire-cat grins spread wide.

  My mother and Mr. Renshaw, together with Auntie Pops, Woody, and my father, were sitting at the beach bar almost in a circle, out of the sun, drinks in their hands, and I was perched on a bar stool, nursing my Coca-Cola, observing. The conversation was centred on the presidential campaign in the United States, and, in particular, on the chances of the young, handsome Democrat, Senator Kennedy, winning his party’s nomination.

  “I think Senator Kennedy is likely to win” was Woody’s view. “Because now television is playing such a prominent role in political campaigns, his looks and charisma will bolster his obvious intelligence. His being Catholic will, of course, upset many, but perhaps not enough to stand in his way.”

  “Woody’s right,” Auntie Pops said with authority. “My friends in New York and Long Island are gung-ho for Kennedy, as am I. There’s nothing wish-washy about him at all, which stands in marked contrast to the drift of late from Eisenhower.”

  “Susy, darling,” Mickey Renshaw then addressed my mother in his heavily Noël Coward–influenced diction. “You like reading the newspapers, what do you think?”

  My mother seemed to know where this line of questioning was headed, and it did not please her at all. “Really, Mickey, you do like to put me on the spot,” she said.

  “Indeed not, darling girl, but I’d like to think you are au fait with what is going on.”

  “I think Susy’s still wading through last year’s crop of papers, or possibly the year before that,” my father said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “My, what a hoot! Which article are you reading at the moment?” Mr. Renshaw went on.

  Woody and my father were now displaying signs of being distinctly amused at my mother’s discomfort, and not trying to hide it. She gamely attempted to ignore the slight.

  “If you must know, I think Mr. Kennedy seems quite charming and capable, and so does Mr. Humphrey.” She looked embarrassed and sounded indignant. “And, Mickey, you are starting to make me cross.”

  At this Woody, my father, and Auntie Pops almost laughed out loud.

  “Ahhh.” Mr. Renshaw stretched out the word, opening his eyes wide as if greatly enlightened. “And Mr. Nixon. Do you find him charming and capable, or, perhaps just charming, or merely capable?” This was like Hamlet toying with Polonius, but Mr. Renshaw was not feigning madness with his “Words, words, words.” He was enjoying causing my mother distress.

  “I feel Mr. Nixon may be untrustworthy. There’s something about him—his expression—but what do I know?”

  “That is what we’re trying to determine.”

  “Mickey, that is so rude,” said my mother. “And now I really am cross.” To my astonishment nobody appeared to think there was anything unusual or ill-mannered about this exchange. I was soon to learn that making fun of my mother was an all-too-frequent court indulgence. It pained her, and it infuriated me to witness it.

  “Come, come, Susy, you know the last thing I’d ever do is try to upset you deliberately.” This blatant untruth only served to heighten the company’s amusement.

  “Well, that is precisely what you are doing, and I’d like you to stop,” my mother said, clearly in a state. I was mortified on my mother’s behalf by this spectacle and breathed a sigh of relief when Morg wandered up from the beach, dripping water, instantly helping to dissipate the cloud of acrimony that hovered in the air: “Ho ho, what’s going on I’d like to know.” I felt sure he knew. The conversation changed course, and the previous few minutes were seemingly forgotten—not, of course, by my mother, and not by me.

  * * *

  After my mother, who occupied my time heroically, Morg and Borrett were unquestionably the two best items on the Paradise Island menu. They upheld castle way regulations with ease and a sense of proportion, Morg through his commanding presence and sense of humour, Borrett through his mastery of organization and dignified service. I felt fortunate to have been granted the opportunity, at last, to observe these impressive men from a highly advantageous position, and hoped that one day some of their style and communication skills might rub off on me.

  10.

  BOARDING SCHOOL

  Silent and graceful as a panther in a tailcoat, Chapman entered the dining room, his egg-shaped face devoid of expression save total concentration on the silver serving dish he carried perched in the palm of his right hand, upon which eight breaded and sautéed lamb chops were carefully displayed. He served my mother first, who sat at the head of the table in my father’s absence. Then he went around the table, serving James, who was sitting across from me, Nanny at the opposite end from my mother, and, finally, me. Before leaving the dining room he rearranged slightly the spoon and fork, which I had returned to the dish correctly, side by side at an angle of sixty-five degrees, but which appeared to him to be a degree or two off. He returned a moment later, this time with a silver dish full of green beans and roast potatoes, and repeated the procedure. The entire ceremony was conducted, bizarrely, in an awkward silence, made worse by the tinkling of silver on silver as, one by one, we picked up and replaced the serving spoon and fork to the accompaniment of Chapman’s gentle wheezing, an aggravation brought on by his fondness for cigarette smoking and a weak respiratory system.

  Finally, after my mother had picked up her knife and fork and we had all followed suit, James decided to wade in with, “Blimey! These chops have been cooked in enough lard to sink an
aircraft carrier!” Not being familiar with the term “lard” disqualified me from either laughing or commenting, but my mother said, “Darling! Do please watch what you say.”

  “Sorry, but it’s true.”

  Nothing stopped James from pursuing his chosen path, and on this occasion it turned out to be Miss Preston’s method of preparing what everybody present knew was one of my favourite main courses. But I was unable to eat. My tummy felt as if it had been tied in knots by a sailor of merciless cunning. My grey flannel suit was a whole size too big. It felt cumbersome and foolish, and both the matching light grey shirt and trousers itched horribly. My striped school tie already had a gravy stain on the bottom, which no amount of water and rubbing with my napkin showed any signs of wiping away. I was languishing in the doldrums of “off to boarding school for the first time blues”—and there was still pudding to come.

  Boarding schools in England in the 1950s still retained some remnants of the ferocious discipline for which, over the centuries, they had become notorious. Beatings, bullying, and buggery continued to flourish in many of the top ones with famous names, but—as I was to learn over the next few years—St Aubyns and Stowe were relatively mild adherents to the old-fashioned ways of preparing young gentlemen for the rigours of running an Empire.

  James was clearly of no mind to allow going back to school to interfere with his enjoyment of lunch. Amidst the gentle clinking of cutlery on plate, well-mannered chewing, and periodic use of their napkins, he and my mother chatted away, a cheeky grin never far from his face, until their chops were devoured, their vegetables gone, and the pantry bell was rung to let Chapman know we were ready for pudding. When the chocolate mousse arrived, I almost gagged after a tiny taste. James was kind enough to notice the depths to which I had plummeted and said, “There’s nothing to worry about. Really. Besides, I’ll be there to take care of you.”

  This helped a little. Once back in the nursery Nanny and I had about half an hour until it was time to leave for the station. We both realized the significance of what was taking place. For nearly eight years, we had spent the greater part of our lives almost exclusively in each other’s company and had become much more than just a child and his Nanny. In my eyes she was part of the family, an intimate part, a best friend, and I loved her in precisely that way. Now the time had come for her to stop taking care of me and for me to start learning how to take care of myself.

  We said little as she fussed over last-minute things, brushing imaginary fluff off my new grey flannel suit, miraculously removing the stain from my tie with a few rubs of something liquid and evil smelling, and checking through the small suitcase I would take with me on the train (the school trunk having been sent on ahead many days in advance to allow the school matrons plenty of time to arrange their charges’ clothes) just as she’d already done two or three times that morning. We knew we were going to miss each other more than words could say.

  “Good-bye, my darling one. I hope all goes well for you. I’ll look forward to seeing you at half term.” Nanny gave me a nice squelchy kiss.

  “Bye, Nanny. I won’t forget to write.” I kissed her, too, and, holding back the tears, went back down to where my mother and James awaited.

  * * *

  Victoria Station lost its charm with the school train lurking on platform thirteen. We walked down the side of the station accompanied by a porter who wheeled our suitcases on his trolley. I noticed with mounting trepidation the ever-increasing number of boys dressed in grey, all headed in the same direction, surrounded by assorted family members and their dogs.

  My godfather Colonel G, whose son, John, was a St Aubyns pupil, came up, put a firm hand on my shoulder, and asked, “Now then, godson, are you looking forward to boarding school?” An unfortunate question to which there was only one answer. “Very much,” I replied, my eyes wandering over the mêlée of parents and boys (most of whom appeared unbearably cheerful) conducting their farewell ceremonies. I spotted a man dressed in an immaculate Prince of Wales check suit heading our way. He immediately reminded me of Colonel Townend, the headmaster of Hill House, natural authority in every step and gesture.

  “How are you, Susan?” he said with a broad smile and a handshake. “I’m absolutely delighted to welcome Anthony to St Aubyns.” He turned to me and offered his hand, which I shook a little hesitantly.

  “I am very fond of both your brothers,” he informed me, his voice gruff but kind, “and David was a most exceptional head boy. I know you will do very well. My name is Gervis, and I am the headmaster. You may call me Mr. Gervis, or sir, but avoid both at the same time because we’re not in the military!”

  Addressing my mother again, he said, “Susan, may I take Anthony to his seat and introduce him to some other new boys? He can step out again for a last good-bye.”

  Lugging my case I followed him onto the train, noticing his ramrod-straight bearing and the spring in his step. He then gave me an exceedingly friendly minute of his undivided attention. I liked him well enough, although I suspected that might not always be the case. He told me Soames and Steel would be sitting with me on the journey, but since they were currently nowhere to be seen, introductions had to wait. James came aboard and parked himself by me as he had promised to do, and with only a few moments left before departure, we returned to the platform to kiss our mother good-bye.

  “Good-bye, darling, and don’t worry, you’re going to be fine. James will take care of you, and I’ll be down in three or four weeks to see you both.” The whistle blew, we returned to our seats, sliding open the top window and jockeying for position with other boys, eager for one last look, one last wave. There was a small jolt, and the train moved forward.

  “Bye!” A high-pitched, powerful chorus resonated up and down the carriages.

  “Bye!” Frantic waves, kisses from the platform blown.

  “Bye!” Into a long bend, and they were gone.

  * * *

  Miss Pentland, the head matron, an Amazonian woman with a hooked nose and intimidating presence, had turned out the lights at seven o’clock on the dot. It seemed like ages ago but the luminous hands on my Bulova watch told me it had been only half an hour. Before closing the door she’d issued a stern warning against talking, which struck me as a strange rule for all us new boys spending our first night away from home.

  I lay on my back, staring up at the high, barn-like ceiling with its pointed roof and white beams, concentrating, rather oddly, not on how miserable and lonely I was but on the remarkable comfort of my bed. Despite looking like some relic from a medieval torture chamber with its iron bed-head and surround, vicious springs, and five-inch-wide, rock-hard mattress, it turned out to be infinitely more comfortable than anything I had ever slept on in my life. Thinking back over the afternoon, I realized that ever since the train had pulled out of the station, even with James sitting beside me most of the way and two-thirds of the school being in close proximity, I had felt alone. More alone than ever before.

  Strangely, it had not bothered me unduly. I often retreated into my shell when awkward situations presented themselves. I found it a pleasant-enough place to be, and circumstances always controlled the length of stay. It could be just a few moments, sometimes longer. I knew it was going to be difficult with so many strangers and so many rules. Shyness didn’t help; people often mistook it for lack of interest or even arrogance.

  I heard sniffles coming from one or two beds, but still no one spoke. I reminded myself how smart and determined I could be, or thought I was; there would probably be a lot of chances to put this theory to the test in the months to come. Having James close by was a major plus. I wanted to be like him: strong, handsome, self-confident. It had been a good idea asking my parents if I could leave Hill House early, so that my brother’s last term at St Aubyns would be my first. And it was the summer term, which meant we played cricket: another plus.

  I thought of our older brother, David, who was now a small fry again. I wondered what that was like. Aft
er being the biggest cheese here he was back to being a squirt, or whatever the junior boys were called at Stowe. I suspected he would be fine; he was clever, easygoing, and could be very funny. He was probably quite popular already.

  I yawned and looked at my watch again—almost eight thirty. Nanny would have turned my light out about fifteen minutes ago and would be running her bath. She liked to have a nice hot bath after I was tucked up for the night, put on her night clothes and dressing gown, and then listen to her radio while doing a spot of knitting or maybe reading a little bit. I hoped she’d be all right without me to keep her company. It felt horrible, the idea of not seeing her for … how long?… six weeks until half term?

  “Hey, Russell,” a whispered voice broke the silence, seemingly from the bed directly across from mine. It took me a few moments to readjust back to my current surroundings.

  “Yes,” I whispered back.

  “You’re still awake.”

  “Yes. I was thinking.” I hoped no one was listening. “I can’t go to sleep.”

  It was Steel. We’d been sitting opposite each other on the train and together on the bus. “I can’t either.”

  “No talking!” a voice snapped from down the dormitory, startling me and putting an end to all talk. Authority, it appeared, had spoken. Silence returned.

  Was I imagining things or was somebody always trying to tell me what to do? Nanny told me what to do, of course, but it was always in such a nice way that it never seemed as if she was bossing me around. My mother too. But the rest … It was different talking in the dark. From the safety and comfort of your bed you could say what you meant. You could say things that in the cold light of day were so much harder to say. Not that Steel and I had spoken much. But we’d spoken and nobody else had. I was glad.

  * * *

  In the coming days I worked out what I believed to be the essential rules of the game: First, pay close attention to the television programmes Robin Hood, Davy Crockett, and William Tell, trying to the best of your ability to adopt the courage, chivalry, and manners exemplified by these small-screen heroes. These men are always unfailingly polite, even to their adversaries who wish to do them great harm.