Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle

by Anthony Russell

  Everything became slow motion. Horses thundered by. I couldn’t tell how long I remained on the ground. I felt battered but not in pain. I got up and dusted myself down, happy not to have broken my neck or been kicked or trampled underfoot. There were some hunt followers who’d been standing close by and had witnessed my fall. One of them retrieved my pony, who’d been kind enough not to disappear into the wild blue yonder. I picked up my hat, which had performed its task to perfection, and after warmly thanking my helpers, climbed back atop my trusty steed.

  I caught up with the hunt an hour and a half later. I knew the direction in which to head, but when a very attractive public house appeared before my eyes as I rounded a bend in the road, the opportunity to recharge my batteries with an iced Coca-Cola proved irresistible. The landlord allowed me to tether my pony to a fence at the back, which I found hilarious—just like in a cowboy film. Entering the pub, I removed my hat and was introduced to the landlady and their two daughters, who were about my age and quite pretty.

  They were all very friendly to me. One of the girls brought me a Coca-Cola, and I told them about the hunt and my fall. They thought it was amusing that I should decide to drop in for refreshment before rejoining the other riders. I told them that I had found the whole affair quite scary but also incredibly exhilarating. They taught me how to play poker-dice and for almost an hour we had an enjoyable time chatting away. Saying good-bye, I told them how much I hoped I would see them again, but I never did.

  * * *

  Had I grown up between London and Dunguaire Castle and not between London and Leeds, it is easy to imagine that most of my spoiled habits would have been ground to dust, all the weak spots in my personality whitewashed with marine-like thoroughness, and all my many other imperfections swatted into eternity. Granny A was that kind of person. My contacts with her were limited, however. I went to stay at Dunguaire only twice. Contrary to what I believed as a child, my father and his mother quickly got on each other’s nerves when under the same roof, so Granny A’s visits to see us were infrequent and brief. Granny A also avoided coming to Leeds as much as possible because she and Granny B had as much chance of seeing eye to eye on just about anything as Wellington and Napoleon.

  If my father blamed his mother for inflicting the “Russell baby” stigma on him, he surely had a point. Nevertheless, when he was a child she had proved herself to be an extraordinary mother, considering all she had been obliged to contend with.

  15.

  FRENCH CONNECTION

  Following a now well-established pattern, the court was spending August, and parts of July and September, at Granny B’s villa in Cap-Ferrat. Both my parents routinely were in the South of France for two to three weeks during that time, dutifully soaking up the sun and adhering to the strict timetable of breakfast in bed, morning swims, sunbathing, cocktails, luncheon (sometimes taken with friends on the Cap, Beaulieu, or Èze), afternoon rests, shopping, cards, evening drinks, changing for dinner, and dining on the terrace or with friends on theirs. After that Granny went gambling in Monte Carlo, or to the casino in Beaulieu, accompanied by a small, devoted coterie who shared her enthusiasm for the tables or were merely needed to act as escorts.

  I was shipped off to the Côte d’Azur for another solo spell of Granny, the court, and me because Nanny was on holiday in Bournemouth, David and James had gone off elsewhere together, and I was left dangling like a seven-hour roast for a two-week period in mid-August, my long weekends with Soames and with Steel having come and gone, and nothing else appearing on the horizon until the family returned to the castle to recuperate from it all towards the end of the month.

  My mother and I flew down to Nice on a British European Airways (BEA) Comet, which took off like a Ferrari at Le Mans and had seats as comfortable as our new Jaguar. When the doors opened and we walked down the steps, I reeled from the heat of the afternoon sun and the powerful smell of jet fuel which filled the air. I had felt exactly the same sensations the summer before, when my brothers and I had been invited to stay with Granny and the court at Château Saint-Jean, which she had again rented before finding Castèu Cansoun de la Mar in nearby Villefranche. On that occasion I’d finally learnt to swim in the oval pool and been presented with a pair of goggles as my reward from a glowing Auntie Pops. Peter Lucy had taken us sailing on his and Aunt Audrey’s gorgeous yacht, and David had been bitten by a giant jellyfish just off the rocks by the jetty, necessitating a house call from the doctor and a day in bed.

  Mr. Brewer, a small man of gentle disposition and neat appearance, was waiting for us after we had passed quickly through passport control and customs. He had brought Granny’s Mercedes 600 (driven down from Leeds laden with trunks and suitcases) round to the front of the terminal, and I helped him put Mummy’s two large cases and my smaller one in the trunk. The remarkable scenic drive along the coast I remembered from last time, starting with the panoramic crescent and azure water of Nice’s Baie des Anges and the Promenade des Anglais. My mother told me that it was the English who had first had the good sense to “discover” the South of France as a sophisticated getaway a century ago, which, though less astounding than the much-ballyhooed exploits of Captain Cook and Dr. Livingstone, still struck me as a good thing. As we left Nice behind, the view of the Mediterranean and the town itself was captured for a brief moment from high atop the bluff, a shimmering landscape, gone too fast, but firmly embedded in the mind. Winding our way along the coast, my mother and Mr. Brewer had lots to discuss—“How is Mrs. Brewer? I know she hasn’t been well lately.” “Oh, she’s much better, thank you, Madam. In point of fact she’s…”—so I continued in silence to soak up the vistas and the villas and the bougainvillea-studded hillsides that soared up into a cloudless, incandescently blue sky. With very little traffic in our way (almost unrecognizable as the same stretch of coast today), we soon arrived at Villefranche-sur-Mer, where, way off in the distance, at the mouth of the bay, silent, grey, and still, was a mighty warship. “She’s American. They visit quite often,” my mother explained.

  I was reminded of a similar sighting in Venice a few years previously and volunteered a similar reaction. “Amazing!” Driving around the bay I noticed rowboats with outboard motors and half a dozen small yachts anchored or tied up along the quay, which was lined by colourful houses and full of little shops and a brace of adjoining restaurants, their tables laid for alfresco dining. On the far side, where Granny’s villa stood, adjacent to other houses of similar style and proportion, a number of larger motorboats were moored. Up in the hills to our left, there were villas dotted about, and the old town of Villefranche, passing below us, looked very pretty. There was no time for further inspection. Ignoring the sign to Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, Mr. Brewer turned right; we went down a slight incline, past a couple of gates, and then turned left into Cansoun de la Mar.

  Ah ha! I said to myself, here we go again, taking in the rigid formality of the tree-lined driveway and the looming pink mansion with steps, arches, columns, and balustrades much in evidence, gardeners discreetly gardening in far-flung corners but otherwise not a soul in sight. As soon as our tyres came to a genteel halt on the soft gravel, Borrett and Johnny, accompanied by a young footman whose face was new to me, appeared from nowhere. My mother and I stepped out of the car’s hot interior into the equally warm late-afternoon sun.

  “Good afternoon, Madam; good afternoon, Master Anthony. I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

  “It was fine, thank you, Borrett,” my mother said, as did I, adding a “Mr.” as I had been instructed to do. Amidst a gaggle of pleasantries and general chatter, the three men, all in shirtsleeves, a phenomenon I had never encountered before, whisked our luggage away, and we followed them into the hall.

  Accustomed as I had become to Granny B’s lavish ways, I found myself surveying the opulence of my surroundings with more of a critical than an appreciative eye. The grand, curving staircase, all marble, came straight out of my pictorial history book of tsarist Russia, as di
d the gleaming cut-glass chandelier which hung like a trussed whale high above my head, and the combination was less than welcoming.

  Just then Granny wandered through an archway at the top of the stairs, smoking a cigarette through a long holder, with her hair in curlers and dressed in a towelling bathrobe. First Borrett in shirtsleeves, now Granny practically in a nightie. As Nanny was prone to comment, “Whatever next!”

  “Hello, Mama,” my mother said to Granny, and we went up to greet her.

  “Darling, forgive my appearance. We’re just en famille tonight, and Irene is doing my hair. Hello, Glute, are you well, darling?”

  “Yes thanks, Granny” was all I had time for before she went on. “Darling, when is Geoffrey coming? We have Noël and David coming to dinner next week, and I need him here.”

  “He’s still with Francis [my godfather Sir Francis Peek] in Nassau, Mama. They’re making progress with the hotel, but he’s not sure when he’ll be able to leave.”

  “Oh, how maddening! Glute, darling, I’m afraid I shall need you to help out. Are you familiar with Noël Coward and David Niven?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, never mind. Your mother will tell you what you need to know, and you’ll be fine.”

  “I will?”

  “How old are you now?”

  “I’m just twelve.”

  “Well, there you are.”

  “Really?”

  “Darling, you did say it would be all right for you and Glute to share the twin bedroom? There’s plenty of space.”

  “Of course, Mama.”

  That was an interesting development. Up until then, merely entering one of my parents’ bedrooms had been an irregular occurrence, tolerated if a particular situation called for it (and the hour was not too early) but generally not encouraged. It turned out our room had ample space to accommodate a family of four. We had a view of the terrace and the garden and a bathroom twice the size of any bathroom I had ever seen, with two basins and a loo with its own door. A maid who spoke only French helped us unpack. In my case this was a three-minute affair. For my mother it was a complex undertaking lasting at least one and a half hours, and involving much tissue unfolding and refolding once garments had been removed, great deliberation about their ultimate destination, and careful filling of cupboards, shelves, shoe racks, bathroom drawers, and countertops with soaps, scents, and a dazzling array of makeup and miscellaneous essentials. It was riveting. My mother spoke to the maid all the while in what sounded like an excellent French accent, and I wondered how she had managed to do that.

  “How come your French is so good?” I asked her.

  “Darling, I’m sure I’ve spoken to you about Madame Southier, haven’t I? She was your grandmother’s governess in Paris and became Auntie Pops’s and mine at Leeds, where she lived for many years. She died when you were quite little, but you would have known her.”

  “Perhaps. Were all your lessons in French, then?”

  “Mostly, yes. Auntie Pops didn’t enjoy that, but I thought it was marvellous, and Madame Southier was an absolute dear, although she could be quite severe.”

  “That has to be a better way to learn French than sitting in a classroom with twelve other boys and a bad teacher with a worse accent.”

  “Well, you must make an effort, darling. It’s difficult at first but it will get easier if you really try hard.”

  * * *

  Apparently everyone dined late in the South of France so it was a quarter to nine when we went down to join the party. My mother looked glamorous in a Pucci dress and pearls, and I looked decent enough in cotton long trousers and a white shirt. Surprisingly I’d been allowed to keep my blond hair longer than usual, which I thought made me halfway good-looking, and after a successful cricket season at St Aubyns I had a little more confidence in my step. As we approached the drawing room there was no escaping the familiar voices of Woody and Morg, or the sulphurous tones of Mickey Renshaw.

  They all stood to welcome my mother and acknowledged me with pats on the shoulder or even a handshake. Lady Huntley was there, down from her house in Èze, talking quietly to Grace Dudley. Bert Whitley was on his way from Beaulieu, as was Mary Lasker from the Villa Leopolda, the grandest villa on Cap-Ferrat, which she had taken for the summer. If this was what my grandmother called en famille, then I dreaded to think what lay ahead.

  The first thing I learned as cocktails were refreshed and a Coca-Cola miraculously appeared at my right hand on a silver tray carried by Borrett, was that we were all going to lunch with Mrs. Lasker the next day. Morg showed an interest in hearing about my summer term at boarding school. So did Mickey Renshaw, who archly commented on what young boys got up to when gathered under one roof far from home for extensive periods of time, which earned him a disapproving scowl from Morg. I pondered briefly what Mr. Renshaw was referring to, but Granny interrupted my thoughts by making her entrance, accompanied by Mrs. Lasker and Mr. Whitley, the three of whom must have been ensconced in one of the adjacent sitting rooms having a private pow-wow.

  As did my mother’s secretary in London, Mrs. Lasker looked like a big bird but with even bigger hair and very expensive jewellery. Mr. Whitley was short, balding, and wore the expression of a pug with dash and hauteur. He had on his customary dark red trousers, perfectly pressed, and a navy cashmere smoking jacket. Granny wore a cream silk long dress with sleeves, and a little off-white cardigan on her shoulders to guard against any chill that might have had the temerity to show up.

  Everyone sat on the terrace at one long table, covered in a white linen tablecloth with white linen napkins and off-white candles in glass-encased silver candlesticks. Garden lights cast shadows across honeysuckle and oleander and up into the pins parasols. The sound of water lapping against the quay and breaking gently on the rocks could be clearly heard, and I imagined Woody’s flotilla bobbing like ducks in the bath.

  “Yes, I have a Boston Whaler for morning swims and short excursions, and a Bertram for longer rides with small groups of people,” he told me at dinner as I sat between him and my mother at the opposite end of the table from Granny. “Perhaps you would like to come with Mickey Renshaw and me for a swim tomorrow morning before we go on to lunch with Mrs. Lasker?”

  “Yes I would. Thank you. Mummy, will you come?” My mother explained that she would go in the car with Granny in order to be “ready” for lunch. Woody translated for me, a look of amusement on his face: “The ladies, you see, need to avoid spoiling their carefully prepared hair and makeup and wardrobe, whereas us men can quickly, with no fuss, have a shower and change, comb our hair, and be ready in just a few minutes.”

  “So I should bring swimming trunks, a comb, and my things for lunch?”

  Having never had a shower in my life, not even at St Aubyns, where we had baths, I did not relish the prospect of standing around naked in front of Woody and Mickey Renshaw, or of seeing them and all their bits. “Where does one have a shower at Mrs. Lasker’s house?”

  “There are changing rooms by the pool on the lower level. It’s rather a lovely villa; you’ll see.”

  I went to bed uncertain about the following day’s programme.

  * * *

  At breakfast I sat alone on the terrace, at a round table set for one. Before me lay a fresh linen tablecloth and napkin, an array of marmalades and jams in small glass jars, bread, butter curls in a tiny crystal dish, croissants, milk, and, at Borrett’s insistence, two fried eggs. It was eight o’clock, the sun already warm, and I wondered where the big table had gone. I had approximately three hours to fill by myself, the same as the Nassau routine, so I took my time. My mother hadn’t stirred when I tiptoed out of the bedroom after a quiet visit to the bathroom. That had been odd, too. Having a wee with one’s mother asleep just a few feet away, albeit on the other side of a closed door, was yet another first.

  Before settling down to read, I went down to the jetty to inspect Woody’s boats and test the water. For a villa this size it seemed improbable
that a swimming pool would not exist, but no pool was there. Apparently Granny liked to swim off the rocks—an event I was looking forward to witnessing. In the meantime I sat for a while at the end of the quay and soaked up the warship’s silhouette and the paradisiacal surroundings. If truth be told, I imagined I could very rapidly grow tired of all this, because I would have preferred to be sharing my brothers’ escapades. Or would I? During the Nassau trip I had discovered there was something to be said for enjoying all this luxury, albeit on my own. But the more I experienced the breadth of my grandmother’s empire, the more difficult it was to know what my twelve-year-old self really wanted.

  * * *

  I was reading on a comfy chair in the main drawing room when Woody strolled in wearing a silk dressing gown and slippers and asked me if I was ready. Apparently, despite his appearance, he was and thought I might not be. Leaping to my feet, I responded, “Absolutely,” and picked up my rolled-up beach towel—which housed my luncheon outfit together with a change of swimming trunks—grabbed my goggles, and followed Woody down to the quay. Mickey Renshaw, looking like an emaciated stork in skimpy bathing trunks and nothing else, lay spread-eagled across the Boston Whaler’s back bench.

  “Good morning, Glute, and how might you be today?” he enquired, standing and offering me a hand onto the boat. Swiftly and skillfully Woody stepped on board, started the engine, stepped back on the quay and untied the two ropes from their moorings, and was back on board steering us away from the rocks.