Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle

by Anthony Russell

  Now, almost eleven months after my introduction to the full-blown tea ceremony, in which Lady Huntley, Guysy-Wee, and I had made toast as if our lives depended on it and I had been invited to Nassau, I was, once more, preparing to enter the lion’s den. This time I was armed not with my trusty “Glute” but with a copy of “Only the Lonely,” a pop song of breathtaking sweep and grandeur sung by an American called Roy Orbison, who had to have the most beautiful pop-singing voice ever. I had not received a formal invitation, so I considered my plan to be a bold one, akin to storming the beaches armed with a 45 rpm disc.

  “Look sharp,” Nanny said. “If you’re going to go, it’s five minutes past five.”

  Was my uninvited appearance at tea a gesture of defiance or my first real attempt at self-expression? All I knew was that I was fixated on a high-level meeting with both the grandees in the drawing room and the highly polished mahogany radiogram perched in the far corner, next to the Louis XV desk and opposite the Chinese screen. Entering through the double doors, I received the customary welcome of polite indifference and not the looks of surprise I had anticipated. I let this minor affront go, not wishing to stall my momentum.

  “Hello, darling, how nice of you to pay us a visit,” my mother said.

  “Darling, come and give me a kiss,” Granny said, “and have a piece of cake.”

  I crossed the room for kisses, pleased that I had remembered to wear my St Aubyns long grey flannel trousers, which at least made me feel less of a chump around the grown-ups. The drawing room was as warm and toasty as before, log fire crackling and burning, and guests, court, and family dotted around the room with subtly orchestrated informality.

  “What is that you have with you, darling?” Granny asked as I munched on chocolate cake with as much decorum as I could muster.

  “It is the best new record, Granny, and I want to play it for you, if I may.”

  I spotted the Duchess of Roxburghe looking at me from the sofa as if I had just let one go, and even Morg, sitting as usual on Granny’s right, wore a quizzical expression. My mother appeared intrigued by the situation, as did Johnny G and Guysy-Wee. Lady Huntley, Woody, Bottle, and my father remained neutral but cast furtive glances about the room, while the Wiltons stayed stolidly aloof, he seemingly asleep. Granny, though, was thankfully alert to the needs of the moment and said without hesitation, “Let’s hear it, darling. I don’t know anything about this Mr. Orbison, but if you say he’s good I’m sure he’s simply marvellous.”

  The assembled company cleared their throats and focused their attention upon me as I made my way over to the radiogram, all the while suppressing an urge to turn tail and run. Fortunately my mother had previously shown me, when no one was around, how to operate the machine (playing Perry Como tunes endlessly), so at least I knew what to do. I turned the player on with one of the big buttons on the front and opened the lid. I placed Roy on the upright middle prong and brought the lever over to rest on top. I moved the play switch to the right and waited for the clicks. By now the drawing room had been silent for a minute. One click, two, down went the disc, over came the arm, down went the needle; first, a soft scratchy sound and then—“Dum-dum-dum-dummy-doo-waa”—we were off; intimate back-up singers, gentle beat, tinkling piano, and lastly, Roy’s startlingly pure voice: “Only the lonely…” I stood back from the record player to better appreciate the music and watch the reaction. My mother and Johnny G were clearly enjoying the tune, in fact Johnny G gave me the impression he was quite familiar with it already. He tapped his feet and twirled one of the sleeves of the navy cashmere sweater which was draped over his shoulders and loosely tied in well-established beau monde style. The rest of the audience looked as though they were sitting in a dentist’s waiting room, which I found discouraging as the tune was only halfway through. I caught Morg’s eye, and he was kind enough to wink, which helped.

  The record’s crescendo was spectacular, but it, too, elicited no response, so I waited anxiously for the tune to end and for the gramaphone to reverse its starting procedure. As I put the disc back in its sleeve, I was caught off guard to hear a very subdued round of applause, emanating first from Granny and then picked up by the room. It lasted mere seconds but confused me greatly. Surely it wasn’t for me; it must be for Roy, but he wasn’t present. Besides, “enthusiasm” was not the word that sprang to mind when assessing the overall reaction to his record.

  Almost immediately conversation resumed as if the whole nasty business had never taken place. Trying not to blush but failing miserably, I beat a hasty retreat back upstairs to the nursery, but awarded myself the mildest pat on the back for having given the pot a gentle, but carefully considered, deeply felt stir.

  * * *

  I rarely settled down to think hard about whether I had, in material terms, everything I needed, because I thought I did—except for records. If I ought to have been giving greater consideration to the needs of people in less fortunate circumstances than mine, life inside the bubble promoted no such thoughts. As the weeks drifted by, there were constantly new 45s I craved to add to my collection, but my minuscule pocket money always fell drastically short of covering even my most urgent requirements. Christmas, Easter, and my birthday provided three occasions to stock up, but the maddening gap from May until December was barren and hard to bear. My brothers suffered similar iniquities, although their pocket money beat mine by a mile, so they had a little leeway in purchasing power. My sole recourse was to gather a half crown here, a half crown there (after the Roy Orbison “Only the Lonely” incident Morg apparently now considered me past the “singing for reward” stage) and wait until I had the magic six shillings and eight pence. As soon as I did, and I was out of the clutches of boarding school, I beat a path to see my new friend, Richard, at Record Roundabout to listen and make a purchase.

  Record Roundabout was just about the friendliest little shop you could imagine. The window decoration consisted of LP sleeves, and as the shop was right next door to Simpson’s, the greengrocer, Nanny and I had had many opportunities to admire the display before (reluctantly in my case) continuing with our mission to pick up vital supplies (porridge, tapioca, little things Miss Preston must have overlooked) for the nursery kitchen. One day, when Nanny was deep in conversation with Mrs. Simpson, I had gone in, causing the bell to ding-dong, and been straightaway enchanted by the cosy atmosphere and the sensation of being in a place for people who really loved music. Richard had been tucked away behind a half-curtain listening to classical music while attending to paperwork and had ignored me for quite a while, causing familiar feelings of discomfort to resurface. But then, after I’d flipped self-consciously through the racks along the walls and on the countertop, he had leapt up and been all smiles and enthusiasm. He was a handsome man with a deep voice and, as it turned out, a fondness for wearing heavy and hairy sweaters instead of a shirt. Over time, I became aware that he was also a “confirmed bachelor” with a passion for Mahler.

  Richard and I quickly became firm friends. Often, when I did not have the requisite amount of money or token, he would simply tell me to take the record (or records) home with me and pay him when I could. This trusting relationship brought an element of joy to my world which had not always been so much in evidence. And then one day I almost threw it all away.

  * * *

  It was December and cold outside so I put on my duffel coat, letting Nanny know where I was going and that I would be back in under an hour. A brisk walk up Egerton Terrace, a Georgian cul-de-sac where all the houses were four or five storeys, painted toothpaste-white, had black railings and porticoed steps in front, and walled gardens at the back. We lived in number 24, the last house on the right, the only house in the street with a garage. On through Egerton Gardens, the cherry and plane trees winter bare, and in no time I arrived at Record Roundabout, where it was as warm as toast and classical music played.

  “It’s Mahler’s Ninth Symphony,” Richard told me from behind the curtain, neither taking it off nor
lowering the volume. After two or three minutes I admitted defeat:

  “Do you have ‘It’s Now or Never’ by Elvis?”

  “I certainly do,” Richard said, jumping up and skimming through the round rack on his countertop and withdrawing the single in question. As he did so I spotted the other 45 I wanted just as badly but did not have the money for, “Let’s Think About Living” by Bob Luman, an American country singer. On the spur of the moment, without thought for the consequences, I decided to steal this record if I could. But I needed time. I had to think how I was going to do it. I needed Richard to go back to his desk, behind his curtain, to leave me space to carry out this dastardly plan. I knew it was wrong. Ever since the “trash-mag” folly in Bembridge with Nanny, which had left me a quivering wreck for ages, I had told myself I would never do such an idiotic thing again. But there I was, lost in my compulsive “I want/must have” way of thinking, and I really, really wanted Bob Luman’s record, so good-old-fashioned common sense momentarily flew out of the window. Again.

  “I’m going to look around some more,” I said, and Richard went back to his desk and the Mahler, which I was beginning to find a little trying. I started flipping through the same rack on the counter with great deliberation as I felt a nasty creeping sensation of nerves taking over my whole body. Keeping one eye on Richard, who seemed to be busy with his office work, I pulled the 45 out of the rack and looked at it for a moment, still not sure if I was going to proceed. Then I slipped it into the right-hand pocket of my duffel coat, my hand shaking like a leaf. I thought my face had gone beetroot and my feet felt rooted to the spot. The sensation of guilt was appalling, and to make matters worse, Richard stood up. I panicked hopelessly and completely. I took the record back out of my pocket, convinced Richard knew what I had been up to, placed it on the counter together with the Elvis 45, and rushed out of the shop without saying another word. Once outside I ran half the way home, engulfed by waves of embarrassment and shame, tempered only by a blessed relief at having left empty-handed.

  Richard was a kind man. When I plucked up the courage to go back to Record Roundabout several months later, convinced I would need to apologize profusely before any further transactions between us could conceivably take place, he greeted me in such a way that it seemed virtually impossible to begin by saying I was sorry. “My goodness! Where’ve you been? I’ve been worried that you might have gone back to shopping at Harrods, or somewhere, for your records!”

  We resumed our friendship as if the Bob Luman incident had never happened, although I couldn’t help but wonder, the first few times I handed over money or record tokens, what Richard must have been thinking.

  12.

  A CASTLE WAY LETTER

  In January 1961 I wrote a letter to Granny B, hoping that it would act as a harbinger of significant future “audiences” at which I envisaged us sitting together in her boudoir and discussing “high-level things.” I would admire her Louis XVI bureau plat et cartonnier (after, of course, she had explained the reasons why I should be admiring it), and we would chat and get along famously as if all those years of saying little to each other had been a mere preliminary to establishing a fine, friendly relationship.

  But my nerve failed me. Nothing in the past suggested that my grandmother had ever wanted to spend time with me. Also, and this was assuredly the rub, it seemed obvious that the letter would be discussed with my parents, because of what I had written about them, and possibly with other members of the court who would doubtless be keen to voice an opinion.

  The whole point of writing the letter would then be destroyed by one controversial paragraph. Of course that paragraph could have been left out, but the truth was I wanted my grandmother’s help. It never entered my mind simply to go up to her one day and say, “Granny, I would like to speak with you about something important.” The system did not work that way, and neither did I.

  Dear Granny B,

  I hope you won’t mind me writing to you like this but I find it easier to put some things down on paper rather than say them. Also, we don’t really see each other a great deal, and when we do you always appear to be so terribly busy.

  As you know, I think, I’m almost nine years old now and sort-of looking forward to moving into the Maiden’s Tower during the summer months but I’m also really going to miss the nursery and staying in the castle. I’ve always loved the way it feels to press down on the front door’s big handle and step inside on to the smooth stone floor and soak up the atmosphere of the entrance hall. The swords which hang each side of the door remind me how old the castle is. Sometimes I take one down to pretend I’m a knight for a minute, but Nanny takes it away from me before I can do some damage. It’s amazing how heavy they are. I usually check the box which holds the croquet balls and mallets to make sure nothing is missing. Perhaps one day you’ll let me play a game with you and Mummy and Morg? My favourite tapestry is the one in the entrance hall above the long oak table. All those fierce-looking men on horseback with the archers on foot and the woods behind. Sorry if this letter goes on a bit but there are a lot of things to say and as we’ve never actually had a proper talk I thought this would be a good way to mention them.

  Thank you for letting me have lunch in the dining room sitting at the table with the grown-ups for the first time the other day. Woody was very nice to me and told me many interesting things especially about how Monsieur Boudin had suggested building panels around the lovely Aubusson rugs which hang on the wall to make them look like paintings. I saw you and Monsieur Boudin and Mummy and Daddy walking round the Maiden’s Tower recently but I didn’t want to interrupt because you all looked as if you were concentrating on important things and making notes and discussing. Are we moving into the Maiden’s Tower because now I have a little sister there isn’t enough room in the castle nursery for us all? It makes sense. It’s a shame Vanessa will never know what fun the castle nursery is and I’m really going to miss the views although they’re not at all bad from the Maiden’s Tower, as you know.

  I want to tell you I think you seem very nice and very generous. You organize so well and everything always looks wonderful and runs like clockwork. You get everyone to do what you want them to do and still remain popular. It’s funny how all your guests, Mummy and Daddy too, joke about not being able to make plans in case you need them. I don’t know if you’re aware of this but all the people on the estate think the world of you, and Mummy tells me how kind you are to all of them.

  I hope you don’t mind my saying so but another thing I find really funny is how you make sure you have the four you want for cards following tea and after dinner. I once heard Borrett whispering to a guest, “Are you available for bridge, m’Lord, after dinner?” and I thought to myself, “Why doesn’t Granny ask? I’m sure he’d say yes.” Anyway, I like playing gin rummy and pontoon, especially when we have chips and pretend to gamble. I know you and your guests play for real money which must make it more exciting—but no fun when you lose!

  I’ve been meaning to tell you about my bike accident last September and what really happened. I hope Mr. Elves didn’t get into trouble because it wasn’t his fault in the slightest. I was going down through the stable yard at top speed leaning low over the handlebars pretending they were the racing type and Mr. Elves was driving up the hill coming towards me in his green Austin van but because he hadn’t yet gone past the aviaries we couldn’t see each other until he came round the corner and it was too late. It was a head on prang right outside the estate office. I flew off my bike on to his bonnet, banged into his windscreen and tumbled on to the road ending up a few feet away from his left front wheel. If anything, I think Mr. Elves was going quite slowly. He helped me in to Miss Brown’s sitting-room where I lay on the sofa for a while to recover. I felt a bit biffed around. I don’t remember who picked me up and brought me back to the castle but I do remember you and Morg and goodness knows who else coming into the nursery bathroom to see if I was in one piece or needed a doctor. I must ha
ve passed the test because the rest of the evening went by in a nice calm way. Mummy read to me and I heard Cliff Richard’s new hit “Nine Times Out of Ten” on the wireless. Did you spot the Scalextric laid out on the floor?

  I probably shouldn’t be saying this but now that I have had lunch and dinner a few times with Mummy and Daddy in London, sometimes with David and James, sometimes not, I have noticed that Daddy often says unkind things to Mummy. He thinks he’s being funny but I don’t think he’s being funny at all. He thinks we’re laughing with him but I’m not laughing with him; in fact, I’m angry with him. He puts Mummy down, tells her she’s foolish, makes fun of her. It makes me feel horrible. I want to stand up for her but don’t know what to do. I can’t say anything because I feel tongue-tied around him, incapable of standing up for myself. I don’t know why. Does he do things like this to Mummy in front of you? I hope not because she does not deserve it. I think she’s clever and kind, just like Nanny. Please tell Daddy to behave properly if you see him being nasty to Mummy because someone has to. You wouldn’t believe how awful the atmosphere can be in the dining room on these occasions.

  Back to Leeds. I know we’re only moving across the croquet lawn but I want you to know I’ve loved living in the castle even though it’s mainly been Nanny and I with everyone else popping in and out of our bubble. Did you know that when no one’s around during the week I explore all the guest bedrooms and bathrooms, and sometimes I go up in the lift to visit Mrs. Walsh and she shows me the rooms where all the maids sleep? Also, I sometimes visit Mr. Borrett in his pantry and have a peek into the kitchen if no one’s there. Everywhere I go feels different and yet it all fits perfectly. It really is a wonderful place and even though it’s somewhat huge it still has a friendly feeling. I like the old four-poster beds and the big oak furniture and I’m glad you hung the picture of you with Mummy and Auntie Pops in the library because I look at it when I’m playing backgammon with Guysy-Wee. I love the library bar with the mirrors. “Can I get you a Coca-Cola, Master Anthony?” Borrett asked me the other day and he brought me a heavy glass of Coke with ice and a slice of lemon on a silver tray. I enjoyed that. I hope we’ll be able to come over for lunch or dinner every now and then in the future.