Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle

by Anthony Russell

  The “Swinging Sixties” then began in earnest. Mr. Wilson wasted no time ingratiating himself with the swingers by including the Beatles on his New Year Honours List in 1965. Amidst great fanfare the band trooped off to Buckingham Palace to receive their MBEs (Member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire) from the Queen, much to the fury of several distinguished former recipients who returned theirs in disgust at what they saw as the cheapening of the medal. I would have preferred to see all the Beatles created peers of the realm (lords) with hereditary rights and have done with it. It would have provided essential viewing to witness Lord Lennon debating foreign affairs with either Lord Carrington or Earl Jellicoe (Conservative leaders of the House of Lords in the mid- and late 1970s), and, of course, we’ll never know what breadth of knowledge and keen insight the 1st Baron McCartney might have brought to the House if given the opportunity.

  * * *

  During these years we had a few changes of staff at the Maiden’s Tower. The kitchen and staff sitting room were off the entrance hall, and downstairs were the bedroom, bathroom, cellar, and back door leading out to the service drive, where all deliveries to the MT and the castle took place. My father kept the key to the cellar always on his person for fear that couples who came to work for us might have designs on his wine and spirits.

  Watts was a half-decent butler with an unpredictable personality and lively manners. He was very short with a face resembling a chewed-up cigar, but somehow he had managed to find himself an attractive wife who also knew how to cook. Upon our return from church one Christmas Day we discovered him dressed in full regalia—tailcoat, striped trousers (at the MT the butler was asked to wear normal jacket and trousers), and wearing his medals from World War II. He reeked of whisky and staggered from kitchen to dining room, carrying spoons, plates, and dishes with great uncertainty, all the while muttering and mumbling under his malodorous breath.

  Having somehow succeeded in serving the turkey and vegetables, which had been neatly carved and laid out on a serving dish by his long-suffering wife, he stepped back from the table, cleared his throat noisily, and proceeded to make a speech, first on the welcoming nature of our family, followed by a disquisition on the greatness of the British Empire. Much to everyone’s amusement my father allowed this spectacle to reach its natural conclusion, which meant waiting until Watts had run out of things to say, which he did after some five minutes. He then bowed modestly and stumbled back to his quarters, not to be seen again until the following morning.

  Watts and his wife were not dismissed for this irregular behaviour because it was becoming increasingly difficult for my parents to find good couples. Working in a household as staff had lost most of its appeal by the middle of the 1960s, on top of which the number of country-house owners who could afford to maintain their properties, let alone fill them with domestics, had dwindled after the war to a fraction of what it had once been. Being someone’s servant connoted a form of deference the age had pugnaciously set out to destroy, and history emphatically notes its success.

  We were fortunate. Thanks to the skill of her advisers (and, perhaps other indeterminate factors) Granny B’s cocoon of wealth remained relatively intact. And so, from inside my gilded bubble, I observed and absorbed the revolution of Socialist Members of Parliament, rock stars and hairdressers, playwrights, theatre producers, movie stars, television personalities, photographers, fashion designers, models, and footballers taking over Great Britain’s airwaves and headlines with my ears tuned in and an idealistic foot planted firmly in two camps.

  14.

  TERROR AT THE GALLOP

  In January 1963 I was given the chance to test my mettle by going fox hunting in Ireland with Granny A and the infamous wild and woolly Galway Blazers. Terrifying as it appeared, the opportunity could not be turned down—or indeed avoided. I’d never been to Ireland, so the prospect of staying in Dunguaire Castle with David and James for a few days right after Christmas seemed like fun. But I was far from convinced about the hunting. My brothers had gone the year before and said it was great, although James’s comments about the jumps—“Holy Moses! You should see the size of those walls”—had not exactly been encouraging.

  I also had reservations about Granny A’s boot-camp approach to life. David claimed to have worked out a satisfactory antidote, which basically entailed saying yes to whatever he was instructed to do but modifying what he actually did to suit his original plan. James permitted little to upset his apple cart and charmed his way out of most difficulties. Although I believed I possessed elements of both brothers’ worthier characteristics, being much younger I had not yet figured out how to put them into practice. One thing I felt quite sure of, though, was that castle way thinking was in for a drubbing.

  * * *

  Colonel Hislop, a powerfully built, jovial man with a huge moustache and a firm manner, with whom I’d been taking riding lessons since the age of seven, had done his best to bring me up to a standard where I’d be capable of handling two days out with the Galway Blazers. I’d attended the Colonel’s riding school near Bearsted, five miles from Leeds, once a week throughout the previous summer and winter holidays, and by the end of this strict regime he had me clearing jumps in the show-jumping ring practically as high as the top of my pony’s head and cruising round the cross-country course with confidence and a modicum of style. He told me I’d be just fine, especially if I kept myself at a sensible distance from the gentlemen who drank more than one glass of port before the off. It turned out, though, everyone drank more than one glass of port before the off (apart from Granny A who did not drink), which made it difficult to follow that particular piece of advice.

  * * *

  Entering the reception area at Shannon Airport, Ireland, all three of us heard our grandmother before we saw her.

  “Over here, boys, over here!” her melodious yet firm voice rang out across the hall.

  She need not have spoken. Granny A stood out wherever she was. There in Shannon she could have been the Blarney Stone incarnate, such was the manner in which her presence appeared to shrink all those around her into specks of insignificance. She was dressed in her customary long gabardine skirt, dress shirt, waistcoat, tweed jacket, hat, veil, and shiny black boots, and the crowd waiting to meet their friends and family parted like the Red Sea for Moses as she strode towards us with a huge smile.

  “How are you?” she inquired, ignoring the formality of kissing but hugging us all powerfully from a great height and pounding our backs with wild enthusiasm. Greetings dispensed with, she summoned porters with a wave of her riding crop as she sailed off towards the luggage conveyor belt, assuming, quite rightly, that we’d follow. It was just a few moments before our suitcases appeared, one after the other. Granny A instructed our bemused porter how to load his trolley and then, as we headed for the car, exhorted the poor fellow to walk quicker, walk slower, in fact to walk in every possible way except the one of his own choosing. Our conversation was minimal because Granny seemed intent on conducting our exit from the airport as if it were a military exercise: “Left here, right here, mind that dog, follow me, catch up!”

  Fortunately the car ride took only one hour and a bit, so when we arrived outside the walls of Dunguaire Castle and Granny parked her Volkswagen Beetle on the grass verge, James and I were still just about able to manoeuvre our limbs and step enthusiastically out of the back seats into the bracing wind.

  Looking around, it struck me that this was a supreme spot. Whichever bloodthirsty warrior had built the place four hundred odd years ago had known his onions (or potatoes, as the Irish might say). On one side the picturesque Galway Bay, her waters breaking gently against the rocky shoreline; on the other, as far as the eye could see, the famous rolling hills and fields criss-crossed by grey and ragged stone walls. Here, I felt, time really stood still—or used to until Granny A came along! She opened the gate, and we lugged our suitcases across the grassy courtyard. Looking up at the battlements, I was reminded of
some of the best crossbow shoot-outs from my favourite William Tell television programmes.

  The main tower, indeed the only tower, looked strong enough to withstand a direct hit from a meteor. Inside, I had the same impression. Apart from the kitchen, a ground-level extension of the tower, all rooms led off the narrow, solid stone spiral staircase. The castle felt as if it would fit comfortably into the nursery wing at Leeds, and had an ambience more suited to Sparta than to the Rome of Augustus. The thick stone walls were dark grey and gloomy, and the few mullioned windows that there were gave little light. The furniture was in keeping with Granny A’s rugged but tasteful approach: antique, well suited, and, in the case of the chairs, difficult to sit on in comfort for longer than ten minutes.

  The first floor was the drawing room; the second, Granny’s area; the third, and top, our room. Only three floors hauling my case up the narrow, winding stone stairs and I felt as though I’d conquered a straightened-up version of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  “There you are,” said Granny. “What took you so long? Your bed is over there. I was telling the boys that beds must be made before you come down to breakfast. Your drawer is this one.”

  She indicated with her riding crop the bottom of a nice-looking chest of drawers. Then she strode out of the room, instructing us to unpack and report to the kitchen in half an hour for high tea.

  James regarded the ensuing free time as the perfect opportunity for a cigarette. David cautioned against such a move, citing the unopenable windows as reason enough. James decided otherwise. I went over to have a look, and sure enough, there was a terrific view of the bay and not a latch or a handle in sight. Although by no means a keen proponent of icy draughts blowing through my bedroom at night (quite enough of that at school), I was intrigued that Granny, a massive devotee of the great outdoors if ever I knew one, should wish to have her castle sealed up like an Egyptian tomb.

  I was having a quick puff of James’s cigarette when Granny’s voice echoed from below: “I can smell that.” Seconds later she marched into the room: “How dare you smoke in my house?!” I’d never seen anyone look so angry and talk so quietly at the same time. She took the cigarette from James, holding it between her thumb and forefinger as if it were a diseased goat’s testicle, walked into the bathroom, and flushed it down the loo.

  “Don’t ever let me catch you smoking again,” she said and left, leaving the three of us speechless and staring at our feet.

  Oozing guilt, we soon afterwards stepped into the spacious, brightly lit, rectangular kitchen and stood rather sheepishly for a while by a long wooden table awaiting instructions. Granny was peeling potatoes with speed and precision and appeared not to notice us. Standing next to her, deftly slicing a large slab of beef into neat little cubes, was a short and rather wide Irish lady with red hair and a wicked accent. Both talked without pausing for breath and without waiting for the other to finish a sentence.

  “Make yourselves useful,” Granny said over her shoulder, “and lay the table, if you please.”

  Rinsing the potatoes and moving on to the carrots, she informed us with a series of points, nods, inferences, and verbal directions as to where everything was. Her anger was gone. She was smiling and vigorously applying herself to the next important function of the day. Whatever she had meant by high tea at six obviously had little to do with the preparations under way.

  Watching Granny and her cook, whose name was Mary and who happened also to be the woman who came in to clean, chatting away like old friends, was a revelation. How come, I thought, everybody back home was intimidated by Granny A and made allowances for her, and yet this little woman from the local village of Kinvara, who looked half her age, seemed to get on with her as well as I did with Nanny?

  We ate at eight o’clock. The food was excellent, and there was much laughter and gaiety. Granny could be as funny as anybody I knew, and this night she was in full flow. By nine thirty I could stay awake no longer and was allowed to skip clear-up duties and go to bed. Tomorrow we were getting to know our horses, and the day after was the hunt. Something told me I was going to need as much sleep as I could get.

  * * *

  I was improperly dressed. Also, both I and the pony assigned to me were half the size of everybody else. David told me the clothes didn’t matter and I looked very distinguished anyway. Granny told me I sat well in the saddle and my pony would handle the rest. I wanted it all in writing.

  It was ten fifteen on a grey morning, and I was surrounded by fifty or sixty ladies and gentlemen on horseback and perhaps fifty more on foot, most of whom were knocking back glasses of port with abandon. As I had never before attended an equine cocktail party outside a large country house right after breakfast, the humorous side of the event did not elude me entirely. But I was a little concerned that in the heat of the chase, the somewhat excited and inebriated throng might fail to spot me altogether. If anybody needed some port it was I, but with Granny on patrol that was out of the question.

  In keeping with my freshly minted, slightly more outgoing persona, I did my best to look relaxed and in control of the situation as I walked my pony around. I raised my riding hat to a brace of good-looking ladies who may or may not have noticed. Having seen other gentlemen do this and get an enthusiastic response, I surprised myself by brushing aside my shyness and putting in a little practice for the future. Surrounded by a sea of black jackets, black hats, white stocks, and high black boots, I compared my outfit against everybody else’s. My jodhpurs were pretty much all right. It was the tweed jacket, shirt, tie, and short dark brown boots that caused grief. The outfit didn’t look bad, but it didn’t look right either. It was the same old problem; getting stuck with the hand-me-downs. At least nobody appeared to be looking at me strangely.

  I trotted over to Granny, who was talking to a man in a bright red jacket, which for some reason was called pink. I had a feeling he was the local big cheese whose large and very attractive manor house provided the backdrop—and, I daresay, the port—for the enormous gathering. Just then, I heard the yap-yap-yapping of the hounds for the first time, immediately followed by the blare of a hunting horn, expertly blown. Around the corner they came—goodness knows how many hounds—and in the middle of them all their boss, also in a pink jacket and riding a powerful-looking grey.

  “Never overtake the Master; it simply isn’t done,” Granny reminded me with the look of a hanging judge. “Stay close to me,” she went on, “and don’t forget, give your pony his head.”

  This sounded remarkably like “If in doubt take your hands off the wheel,” but I nodded and promised to heed her advice as best I could. If I had been a soldier in the trenches during World War I, I imagined this is how I would have felt just before going over the top. And I was meant to be enjoying myself!

  David and James came up. James looked very smooth. Black horse, black jacket. A touch of devil may care about him. David seemed in his element, immaculate and raring to go. “We’re off,” they both said. And we were.

  A sense of urgency and expectation hung in the air. Heavy clouds and a slight chill provided an ominous additional touch to the proceedings. As we clop-clopped our way down a narrow country lane lined by hedgerow, I noticed my pony’s behaviour had taken on a rather authoritarian air, quite absent up till now. I wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not. His whole demeanour seemed more alert, even aggressive, and when I let the reins hang loosely round his neck, he marched on without missing a beat. Clearly he was not out with the Galway Blazers for the first time.

  For half an hour or more we cantered gently across fields, jumping the occasional wall or gate, or walked and trotted down the lanes as the hounds attempted to pick up the scent of a fox. Up front the Master of Foxhounds led the way, issuing commands and goading his pack to greater efforts in a voice that sounded like the mating call of a hyena. I was riding close behind Granny, admiring her dash and elegance, when suddenly a mighty howl went up from the hounds and I knew the moment of truth had arr
ived.

  The Master’s horn began to wail with a vengeance. I looked around and noticed many riders adjusting their riding crops and making sure their hats were firmly in place. I did the same. My pony broke into a gentle canter without my asking. The whole field was now moving forward inexorably, momentum and speed slowly building like an ocean wave. I heard the crack of whip against rump. The thud of pounding hooves grew louder as each second went by, and the field of riders formed a kind of egg-shaped mass. If it was not exactly like a cavalry charge, I thought it must be close.

  As we were approaching a gallop, I was caught up in the most exciting, hair-raising thing I’d ever done in my life. I was loving it. And I was terrified. The first wall was coming up. It was a big one. Everybody was shouting at their mounts. I wanted to but couldn’t. I tried to focus. Just a few strides now. My God, it looked huge! “C’mon boy!” I called out. Whoosh! We went up. We went over. We made it. No pause, maintain speed. “Yes!” I bellowed at my pony. “Bloody great!” I couldn’t believe the rush. I was near the middle of the field, a bit to the left. I could see D and J and Granny. I felt as though I were surrounded by people possessed. The roar of hooves was now constant. The next wall loomed. I gripped tighter with my knees. “C’mon boy!” I shouted again through clenched teeth. There were huge horses on either side of me. No time for panic. Whoosh! Over. Made it. How can my pony keep up? I wondered. He’s half the size of the rest of the field.

  We were going downhill now, slowing. There was a stream and a wall just beyond. It looked tricky. I watched Granny delicately cross. Four, five strides, up and over the wall. I gave my pony his head and held on tight to the saddle. We slipped a bit in the water. A couple of good kicks, more for my benefit than his, and we cleared the wall. We quickly picked up speed, and again I was struck by how strong my little pony was. Somehow I had made it towards the front of the field. I was close to Granny A once more. She looked stunning galloping side-saddle with grace and breathtaking skill, her face beneath her veil and black top hat a vision of unbridled joy and determination. The fear and the thrill were both so intense I couldn’t tell which one had the upper hand. I saw the next wall. It didn’t look big. We took off a little late. There was a drop, a large drop, on the other side. Too late. I felt myself going. I couldn’t hold on. I went over my pony’s head and landed hard on the grass.