Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle

by Anthony Russell

  Boarding school was initially a shock. I thought Hill House was bad enough, but being away for weeks on end, sleeping in dormitories with so many other boys, was ghastly at first but it didn’t take too long to get sort of used to it and now I’ve made some friends it isn’t quite as bad. I’m hoping I’ll be able to invite one or two to stay once we’ve settled down in the Maiden’s Tower and everything’s ready. Mummy tells me the place was used for bachelor guests in the past who would have to be very clever to get into the castle late at night to pay their respects to the ladies. I hope you’ll tell me more about this one day.

  The duck launching was the best fun and I’m sure everyone there thought so too.

  Much love,

  Glute

  * * *

  I should have sent the letter. It might have opened the door to a sparkling new form of dialogue with my grandmother—assuming, that is, it would have resulted in her wishing to talk to me at all. It surely would have sent up distress signals on my mother’s behalf, alerting the powers that be to a sympathetic fifth column lurking in the nursery whose patience was running out but whose warrior skills had not yet matured. The slights my mother was obliged to suffer, from my father and other members of the court, had to be curtailed. Granny B must have known about this disrespectful behaviour, but she would not have known the opinion of the boy with the Davy Crockett pistol. It might not have altered much, but it could have helped in some small way.

  13.

  THE MAIDEN’S TOWER

  If the castle was positioned at twelve o’clock, then the Maiden’s Tower sat squarely at three, and without suffering undue strain or stress, or even having to break into a trot, one walked from door to door in approximately a minute. Initially I found this comforting, almost a form of compensation for having been booted from the mother ship in the first place.

  In keeping with tradition, I asked no one about the precise reason for our move across the croquet lawn to new digs. In return, and, in keeping with the general rule of thumb, no reliable source from the castle hierarchy vouchsafed an explanation. My theory behind the uprooting was that my new baby sister, older brothers (now thirteen and fourteen), Nanny, and I had outgrown the nursery. I would hazard a guess that disturbing the peace played a role. Granny B and the court were getting older and her health was not as robust as she would have liked. Clearly we were now upsetting the orderly manner of things, and castle way calm needed to be restored.

  No one had mentioned the Maiden’s Tower for years. We passed her on our walks, appreciated her Tudor good looks from a host of different vantage points, but never ventured inside until one day word was passed down that she was to become ours, and that there was work to be done. Exactly how much work was revealed when my brothers and I were permitted a cursory inspection and stumbled into a heavily cobwebbed, crumbling interior with no discernible layout beyond a central staircase and a vast billiard room, table intact, with the country’s largest stuffed pike glaring down from the wall through its glass encasement, somehow still managing to look ferocious despite its predicament.

  The Maiden’s Tower looked just the same from the outside when we moved in in 1961 as it had in 1509 when Catherine of Aragon had come to the castle before her marriage to Henry VIII. The building had housed her Maids of Honour, which may, at a later date, have given it its name. Granny B, Monsieur Boudin, and my parents redid the interior from top to toe, carefully and exquisitely transforming it into a fabulous country house, a place where ancient and new sat side by side in perfect harmony, and the triumphant glow of a job well done was immediately apparent.

  The entrance hall was long and tall, stone floored, and suggested baronial splendour, though the Maiden’s Tower, or MT, as my mother almost immediately christened her, had an intimacy which belied her spaciousness. A wide, handsome oak staircase led to seven bedrooms and seven bathrooms on the upper floor, each with its own colour scheme, high-quality antique furniture, and magnificent views. My sister, Vanessa (who was one year old when we moved in), and Nanny shared the pink; down the corridor James and I shared the blue, and David was next door in the yellow. The green guest bedroom with its large double bed, my father’s manly quarters, and my mother’s pink-and-green suite of rooms completed the circle save the cupboard by the top of the stairs, which housed the cleaning lady’s array of equipment, and had steps to the roof and battlements.

  There was nothing not to love about the MT, from the Ping-Pong, Scalextric, television, card corner, bar-billiards, and music-infested playroom to my upstairs twin-white-cupboarded, fancy-dressing-tabled, blue-and-white-curtained and headboarded bedroom, with racing lithographs on the walls and windows looking out over the castle, croquet lawn, moat, golf course, and woodlands stretching far off into the distance.

  The court situation became more elastic as weekends came and went. Now that we were all on top of each other, in a manner of speaking, no longer separated by corridors, arches, and hallways or controlled by the strictest of castle way rules, there developed an almost festive atmosphere to family life at the MT, greatly enhanced by the presence of my little sister. Vanessa not only gave Nanny a whole new lease on life (the pink bedroom and bathroom becoming a jungle of baby bottles, nappies, and knitting) but also appeared to have tempered, at least for a while, the grotesque remarks (“Oh Susy, do pipe down, you don’t know what you’re going on about” and far worse) my father liked to address with airy abandon to my mother, in front of us all.

  Weekend drinks before lunch in the combined drawing room/dining room, which stretched the whole length of the house, were an instant hit with court regulars and visiting guests alike, who clearly loved being able to let their hair down in the informal atmosphere my parents created. The bar, artfully located just outside in the hall, hidden discreetly behind a solid wood door, opened for business without fail at noon. Whereas Borrett and his troops held the fort in the castle, my father performed the task of shaking and mixing, stirring and squeezing, thoroughly adept at satisfying all requests that came his way. Once the glasses were filled he brought them in, two by two, taking great care not to trip on the small step at the entrance to the room.

  Everyone wandered in on the weekends unannounced, and the peals of laughter and general din emanating from these gatherings usually provided more than sufficient cover for my brothers and me in our playroom (formerly the billiard room, pike and billiard table removed) to make some noise ourselves.

  For a while I only had ears for Johnny Kidd & the Pirates, whose blistering “Shakin’ All Over” would probably have caused Perry Como’s short-back-and-sides to stand on end. Though still blissfully ignorant on virtually all matters of a sexual nature, I was starting to recognize a pattern in the music to which I had become addicted, and shaking certainly seemed to play a large part in it. Pop stars (Elvis, “All Shook Up”) were constantly finding themselves quivering wrecks, and without exception the cause of their inability to remain still was a girl.

  Playing doctors and nurses with a young lady quite some time before, underneath the bed in James’s room in London (he being away at school), had taught me a little about feeling particularly nice all over as a result of delicate ministrations to a region previously kept as private as possible. Still, I had never felt “the shakes all over me,” as Johnny Kidd did when a girl moved “right up close,” so I obviously had a great deal to look forward to—unless, of course, it was only pop stars who got to shake.

  * * *

  “Oh my goodness!” Johnny Galliher exclaimed one day, touching his cheeks with both hands and rolling his eyes. “We are going to get a tremendous dose of salts, are we not?” Borrett, looking gravely concerned, had just been over from the castle to announce that Granny B was waiting for everyone in the library, he having already telephoned the MT ten minutes before to say she was on her way down to lunch. This was not good.

  I’d been standing in front of the massive stone fireplace (with “1529” carved into the cross-section, almost at head heigh
t) observing the before-lunch drinks extravaganza in full swing, wondering how long it would all go on before the castle way interrupted the singsong, or perhaps even changed the tune.

  The Wiltons, the Warrenders, Lady H, and Johnny G downed their Bloody Marys and headed for the front door, with Lord and Lady Dudley (the former actress Maureen Swanson), my parents’ houseguests, chasing them on their way, howling with laughter. It was obvious that these before-lunch cocktails at the MT were drawing the ire of the authorities who recognized, perhaps, a form of popularity contest developing between mother ship and impertinent vassal. It was amusing to witness the grown-ups acting as if they’d been caught being naughty in class, but it remained the one minor castle way infringement permitted to endure.

  * * *

  The far end of the MT drawing room was the music area, with a long sofa, armchairs, and mullioned glass doors that led out to the swimming pool. Expensive-looking stereo equipment hugged the wall, and Quad speakers stood just in front. My father liked to put on Mahler after lunch and spend a couple of hours looking gloomy. My mother preferred (though not at the same time) to smile and hum along to Ray Conniff and his orchestra, Andy Williams, and the obligatory Perry Como.

  My parents were so far apart in their likes and dislikes, habits and personalities, that sometimes their charm, good looks, and fondness for a stiff drink seemed to be all that they had in common. Smoking and drinking were pleasures their World War II generation indulged in, and they, along with practically everyone I saw around them, enjoyed both vices to the fullest. I never saw my parents, their friends, or any member of the court particularly drunk, but my mother always had dry sherry in the morning, wine at lunch, a cocktail before dinner, and wine with the meal. Her delicate nature and vulnerability, so susceptible to teasing and torment, frequently needed setting to rights. She never insinuated to me that she was by no means the happy camper our privileged situation in life would have led me to expect. As I grew to understand, it was not in her nature to speak in a derogatory way about others, especially family or the court. But I had borne witness to the gross unkindness shown to her in Nassau, and on other occasions since, and the barbs directed her way never entirely ceased for the rest of her life.

  * * *

  Living as a family a hair outside the castle’s heroically ample bosom—yet still in thrall to its way—inaugurated a period of adjusting to the new setup. We had our own front door, our own staff (who lived in the basement apartment), and for the first time in our lives the seven of us (Vanessa in a high chair when she was able to remain upright and bang her spoon) sat down to lunch at a beautiful long refectory table the opposite end of the room to the music area, two days in a row at weekends, and made what passed for civilized conversation. Perhaps this should not have appeared such a strange phenomenon, but it was new to us. My father always seemed on much better form when guests were present, especially when David, James, and I had our friends to stay. He worked harder on being witty and worldly-wise, elements of his social armoury he particularly prized but that were on display less frequently when only the family was present.

  Both my parents came to the table puffing on cigarettes, lit up fresh ones between courses, and launched a final brace before returning to the drawing-room area for coffee. Four cigarettes apiece, a three-course lunch washed down with a bottle of red wine (we boys drank Coke), two full, tiny pewter ashtrays, and a very smoky dining-room became the order of the day. David never smoked; he didn’t care for it. Not so James and I. We puffed happily away in the playroom whenever possible, blowing smoke up the chimney and stubbing out our finished cigarettes on a ledge inside the massive brick fireplace which also stored the logs for the drawing-room fire. We thought nobody knew what we were up to until one day my mother angelically said over lunch, “Darlings, you must stop putting your cigarettes out inside the fireplace; you’re going to set the house on fire. And while we’re on the subject, I wish you wouldn’t smoke at all. It’s bad for you, and it’s such an unattractive habit.”

  I never thought to argue the point. For many years my mother was a heavy smoker, and it probably was the cause of the cancer that later developed in her mouth. Her mother also was a smoker and, during her later years, was laid low by severe respiratory problems. People then knew smoking could cause health problems, but the social stigma attached to the habit was still thirty years or more in the future.

  One thing I’d been fearful of—that I might feel disconnected from the castle and castle life in general following our move to the Maiden’s Tower—did not happen. What became increasingly apparent, though, was that the chief insidiousness of castle way mores lay in their ability to shut out the norms of everyday life. With three more years ahead of me at St Aubyns, there was still a lot to learn. The question was how, and from whom? When everything was taken for granted, at all times, by everyone, who was going to be my guide?

  * * *

  Morg was the first guest to stay the night at the MT, which was symbolic of how much we loved him, and of his unique place within the Leeds Castle community, where his special gift of friendship was given to everyone without thought for rank, position, or circumstance. If ever the expression “light up a room” applied to anyone, it applied to him because his presence and personality were not just impressive but also generous, warm-hearted, devoid of self-reverence, and suffused with a sense of humour which crackled and popped and always hit the right notes with a ping. He dined, he stayed the night, he signed the guest book, and then returned to his room across the croquet lawn, leaving behind a contented household to revel in the unique aura he had bestowed, like a papal kiss, upon their domain.

  Granny B relied on Morg for counsel in virtually all matters. He performed a role for her similar to that which the Duke of Edinburgh performs for the Queen. He was consort, adviser, closest friend, and, in many ways, a husband in all but name. He was the one member of the court I always hoped would come over to the MT drinks extravaganzas because his uplifting presence allowed me to forget my unease around some of the less than charming, overly unctuous courtiers. But he seldom did because he knew it would be disloyal to Granny B.

  Morg’s career in politics had seen him rise to the top of, and remain for many years a potent force in, the Conservative Party. But after the war he avoided the limelight, choosing to devote himself more to the needs of Granny B and the castle. When he came to see us at the MT it was always a personal visit, just him, dressed in his customary tweed jacket, sober tie, corduroys, and shiny brown brogues. He was very close to both my parents, and they adored him like a second father. Frequently he played croquet with David, James, and me, giving us the benefit of his stellar wit and wisdom for an hour or more on sunny afternoons. We laughed when he dropped his mallet and wandered over to a large bush at one corner of the MT to have a much-needed and highly indiscreet pee, humming and often reciting loudly a dirty limerick for our benefit: “There was a young fella from Kent / Whose prick was so long it was bent / So to save himself trouble / He popped it in double / And instead of coming he went.”

  To have been able to spend considerably more time in the company of David Margesson would have been ideal, but castle way procedures resolutely, frustratingly, barred the way.

  * * *

  Between 1960 and 1965 things started going wobbly in Great Britain for the old-school-tie aristocratic caste who had become serenely comfortable in their top-dog role hundreds of years before the actual invention of the necktie in 1660. (The story goes that a bunch of Croatian soldiers turned up in Paris that year for a parade wearing brightly coloured handkerchiefs around their necks. Their acute fashion-forward awareness was swiftly adopted and, naturally, fine-tuned, first by the French, then by the English.)

  English “society” probably changed more between 1963 and 1970 than during the titanic struggles of the century’s first fifty years. But neither at the MT nor at boarding school were political, cultural, or anything that might laughingly be termed philosophical discus
sions raised as a matter of course. They did not enter the classroom beyond passing reference, and they failed to put in an appearance at our dining-room table—which was strange considering the number of political and business heavyweights who regularly assembled for weekends at the castle and whose presence was keenly felt, often at MT cocktail time.

  When President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on November 22, 1963 (midway through the winter term at St Aubyns), I saw the grim, grainy pictures and read the story on the front page of the Daily Express before heading off to morning chapel. Although it came as a huge shock (“What is the world coming to?” I could hear Nanny expostulating), I still felt alienated from the event and its implications for the United States and the rest of the world. I was focused at the time on work, sports, my friends, and the imminent replacement of “She Loves You” by the Beatles at the top of the charts by their next single, “I Wanna Hold Your Hand,” a feat unsurpassed in the annals of pop music.

  Sir Alec Douglas-Home, 14th Earl of Home, became British prime minister in October 1963 and was the last aristocrat to do so. He was obliged to renounce his title in order to put his name forward for the job, but he did not come out on top as a result of people voting for him. He was appointed by an inner circle who thought his background made him ideally suited to the task. In the general election the following year the voting public disagreed—by the smallest of margins—and sent the pipe-smoking, mackintosh-wearing, lower-middle-class Yorkshireman Harold Wilson to 10 Downing Street for the next six years. He had been director of economics and statistics at the Ministry of Fuel and Power during World War II, when Woody had been secretary of mines and secretary for petroleum.