by Peter Corris
The other car, I now noticed, was a Rover. The driver wore a suit and he was mopping his face with a handkerchief. This stopped me from getting a good look at him until he was up close.
'You bloody nearly killed us all,' I said.
'Wouldn't quite say that,' he drawled. 'Are you all right, Grace?'
'Yes, Sir Laurence,' Grace said.
5
Olivier wasn't a big man, say five nine, eleven stone—five inches shorter and a stone lighter than me—10 but he looked bigger than that. He stood very straight and there was something about him that made you feel you were looking up at him rather than down or on a level. He was about ten years younger than me but you wouldn't have known it. I dyed my hair, watched my weight and could always pass for a much younger man. The van driver had called me 'lad', and he wasn't just being friendly. Olivier, on the other hand, was lined and wore glasses and a moustache that made him look older.11
'That's my car you're driving.'
I came very close to swinging a punch at him or calling him a stupid bastard, but I managed to control myself. I took a drag on the cigarette, dropped it and ground it out in the gravel at the side of the road.
'Well,' I said. 'No harm done.'
'This is Mr Brown, Sir Laurence. Mr Finch recommended him as a chauffeur.'
The van driver removed his cap to show proper deference to the titled actor. 'You couldn't have a better man for the job, sir, if I may say so. I never saw a better piece of driving.'
'Right.' Olivier slapped my shoulder harder than he needed to and shook hands with the van driver. 'Well, I have to get on. Duty calls. No harm done, as you say, Brown. You can tell Vivien I'll be back in a day or so, Grace. Cheerio.'
He spun on his heel and strode back to the Rover. The van driver replaced his cap. 'Blimey, I should have got his autograph. My missus'll never let me hear the end of it.'
'You're lucky you didn't end up plastered all over that Rover's front bumper,' I said.
'Richard,' Grace breathed, 'do you think I could please have a cigarette? This gentleman is right—you're a simply wonderful driver!'
Cigarettes all round, leaving me with only one in my packet, as Sir Laurence roared off down the road in his green Rover.
Notley Abbey was a stately pile, built of grey stone with leaded windows and all the other features of medieval architecture—traceries, capitals, spandrels and the like. I heard a lot of talk about them while I was there, but, to this day, I don't know what a spandrel is. It was set on more than seventy acres and had orchards and a three-bedroom caretaker's cottage. The abbey itself (I learned most of this from Grace's nervous chatter as we motored sedately along) comprised twenty-two rooms with three large living rooms, seven bedrooms, a huge dining hall and a staff wing. I had won Grace's admiration, no doubt about that, and Browning's law is—never hesitate to press home an advantage. I put my hand on her knee.
'Staff wing, eh? Is that where you're housed, Gracie?'
A giggle. 'Yes.'
'So that's where I'll be, too.'
She removed my hand and guided it back to the steering wheel. 'No, Richard. I think the chauffeur's quarters are in the caretaker's house. Outside staff, you understand.'
Don't ever let anyone tell you the English class system was knocked about by the First World War and swept away by the Second. I was there, after both conflicts, and believe you me, it was alive and well in 1952.
We rounded a bend, turned in through an imposing set of stone gateposts, swept up the gravel drive and there it was—Notley Abbey, all tiles, turrets and tall trees. There was an imposing area of lawn out front and a certain amount of ivy growing up the walls. It looked big enough to house half a dozen families instead of just one bisexual actor, his dipsomaniac wife and a cluster of servants. I soon learned that the master loved the place as much as the mistress hated it, and that the abbey was a haven for freeloaders, past and present lovers, celebrities on the rise and decline, and schemers of all kinds. I, of course, was one of the schemers.
I dropped Grace off in the front courtyard where I met Mrs Witherspoon, the housekeeper, who directed me to take the car to the garage near the caretaker's cottage, get myself settled in and await further instructions. I complied. The cottage was in fair condition but looked as if it would be cold and draughty when winter settled in. Another good reason to cultivate Gracie. I put my bags in the one unoccupied bedroom and mooched around, inspecting the garage, tool and garden sheds and all the other paraphernalia needed to keep two tennis courts, a swimming pool, a croquet lawn and several acres of flowers, grass and shrubs in good nick.
I lit my last cigarette and smoked it, looking out across the fields to a church steeple in the far distance. I could see a few horses in a paddock, of considerably more interest to me than the steeple. We'd passed a pub on the side of the road about a mile from the entrance to the abbey and I was beginning to feel a late afternoon thirst, as well as an anxiety about running out of cigarettes, when I heard the telephone ringing inside the cottage. I hurried inside and snatched it up.
'Er, Brown, here.'
'This is Mrs Witherspoon, Brown. Could you bring the car to the front. Her Ladyship wants to go into Long Crendon.'
Suits me, I thought. I drove the Rolls back to the courtyard, parked near the steps and waited with my hand on the back door. I hung around there in the rapidly cooling air for twenty minutes before the door opened and she came out.
Of course I'd seen Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind and other things, but nothing had prepared me for the sight of her in the flesh. She was tiny and impossibly fragile-looking, as if a strong wind would blow her away. She was wearing a short fur coat over a silk dress and her walk was slow and graceful. Too slow and graceful. I didn't have to smell her breath to know that she was very, very drunk.
'Brown, is it?'
'Er, yes, madam.'
'God, an American. Whatever could Peter be thinking of? S'pose you know on what side of the road we drive in this country?'
'Of course, madam.'
She swayed a little as she reached the bottom step and I moved forward instinctively to steady her. The look she gave me would have cut glass. 'Why aren't you wearing your uniform?'
'I've just arrived. I haven't . . . ah . . . been fitted for one, madam.'
She got to the car and placed one kid-gloved hand on the highly polished bonnet. I could see that the car was holding her up, but she made it look at if she was just admiring the gloss. She lifted her head and drew in a breath, tightening the skin under her pointed chin. She must have put her make-up on before she got sloshed because it was perfect, if laid on a bit heavily. She was naturally fair-skinned and hadn't tried to hide that, emphasising a smooth pallor that drew attention to her big green eyes and wickedly curving mouth. She was an exquisite-looking woman and I could understand why Finch had lost his head over her.
'Yes, I see,' she said. 'You will have to be fitted. The last driver was rather fat, and you're not, are you, Brown?'
'No, madam.'
She slid along the length of the car to the back door, which I flicked open. Everything works smoothly on a properly maintained Rolls and this one had had tender loving care. I wondered why the last driver had left his post, but Lady V wasn't exactly the right person to ask. I climbed in and set off. I'd noticed the turnoff to Long Crendon on the way in and took it. No sound came from the back of the car; I adjusted the mirror, ostensibly to get better rear vision, but in fact to sneak a look at her. Her Ladyship was fast asleep with her mouth slightly open. She looked nicely settled, as well she might—for someone her size the back of a Rolls is quite big enough for a comfortable sleep.
Long Crendon was a typical quiet little Buckinghamshire village with a short, narrow main street, a church, a couple of pubs, a post office and the usual collection of basic shops. I couldn't see what attraction it would have for Vivien Leigh. My first problem was to wake her up. I drove past the church and braked more abruptly than I needed to outsid
e the Chiltern Arms. She came awake with a slight snort. I stared straight ahead.
'Where are we?'
'Long Crendon, madam.'
'Ah, yes. I want to go to the church. I think you've passed it.'
That was a surprise. I made the turn and cruised up to the church. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a sheet of notepaper. 'I'll be about half an hour. Here's a list of things I want you to buy in the village and here's some money.'
I jumped out, opened the door for her and she walked pretty steadily up the path between the headstones to the door of the church and went inside. She'd given me two ten pound notes, and on the list were a few items from the chemist and stationers and two bottles of gin. I did the errands pronto, getting some gin and a few packets of Senior Service for myself and leaving me with enough time in the Chiltern Arms for a smoke and a couple of scotches. I kept an eye on the church door from a window in the pub.
'Up at Notley?' the publican asked as he poured my second scotch.
'That's right.'
He nodded, a few of the other customers nodded and that's all they seemed to want to know about me. I was contemplating another cigarette when I saw the church door open. I bolted my drink and hurried out. She was shaking hands with a man in a dark suit and clerical collar. A gust of cold wind ruffled her immaculate dark hair and blew his grey wisps about. They exchanged angelic smiles and she came back down the path to the car. I opened the back door but she signalled for me to open the front passenger door. The clergyman lifted his hand and she waved back. Maybe she was showing him her Christian kindness to the lower orders by consenting to sit next to me. The smile stayed on her face as we moved off. I sneaked a look across at her—she looked ten years younger than before. Whatever had happened in the church had done her a power of good.
I'd used her money to buy my own comforts and wrapped her change in the original note. I passed it to her and she dropped it into her coat pocket without a glance. 'Thank you.' Her voice was precise and clipped now, but friendly. 'Tell me, how do you come to know Peter Finch?'
'Er, well, from here and there. I've done a bit of acting and . . .'
'So you're resting between roles, is that it?'
'You might say that, madam.'
'You're an excellent driver. Grace was telling me how you managed to stop my husband from killing himself and everyone else on the road at the time.'
'Grace was exaggerating.'
Her peal of laughter was one of the most thrilling sounds I'd ever heard. I almost lost control of the car. Her laugh seemed to trigger all my senses at once—I smelled her perfume for the first time, my hands sweated and I had to blink to keep my eyes from blurring. Then she touched me, just a light resting of her hand on my arm.
'Is something wrong?'
'No, madam. No, I'm a little tired, that's all, and not quite used to the car yet.'
'I see. It's a good car though?'
'It's a beautiful car, madam. The best I've ever driven.' I knew that what I really wanted to say was something like, You're a beautiful woman. The most beautiful I've ever seen. I clamped my jaw shut and stared straight ahead.
'Don't call me madam. It makes me feel so old. What else would you feel comfortable with?'
I thought of the Hollywood actresses and how they liked to go by their original names, no matter what their ages or how many times they'd been married. 'Miss Leigh,' I said.
Her laugh rang out again and, although I'd heard the quick intake of breath and was ready for it, the sound had almost the same effect on me as the first time. 'Miss Leigh. Yes, I like that. I like it very much. I simply loathed being Mrs anybody and Lady something isn't much better.'
'You could be Dame Vivien Leigh, I guess,' I said. 'But that sounds way too old for you, too.'
'Yes, it does.' She sighed. 'The men have the best of this world, there's no doubt about that. And some men have the best of both worlds.'
I had a pretty good idea of what she meant, but I didn't comment, just kept up my superb driving and the strong, silent manner while she chattered on about this and that, mentioning Finch a few times and letting slip that she loathed Notley. As far as I could tell, she either adored or loathed things, with nothing in between. The light was fading fast as we made it back to the abbey.
'I feel we can be friends,' she said, 'and I can't call you Brown. It's too ridiculous. What's your first name?'
I told her and she laughed again in the way that made my toes curl. 'I'll call you Rich. Then people won't think anything of it. Thank you, Rich, for your help this afternoon. You can give the parcels to Mrs Witherspoon.'
I handed her out of the car. In the dimming light she was stunningly beautiful and it was all I could do to stop myself from doing and saying something outrageous. As it was, I gave her hand the slightest pressure before she favoured me with a smile and went up the steps. I watched every movement of her slender figure until she disappeared inside the house. As the door closed my first impulse was relief that I had the gin and cigarettes and my second was a corrosive mixture of envy and jealousy directed at Peter Finch.
6
The next few weeks were an intense mixture of pain and pleasure. Just to be near Vivien was almost enough to make me happy, to be unable to touch her was a misery. Olivier was seldom at Notley around then. He was working like a dog at the post-production stage of the film of The Beggar's Opera, which he'd put money into, hoping to make some more. Olivier played MacHeath, of course, and did all his own stunts and singing. At forty-five or so he was too old for the stunting and ripped a calf muscle while attempting a tricky jump. He had a pleasing light baritone (I heard him warbling in the garden a few times), but not up to the standard of the other singers in the cast. If you haven't ever seen the film and it comes on television some night, go out—it's a turkey.
People came to stay for weekends and overnight—the Richardsons, Noel Coward, Terence Rattigan, Peter Finch. Only with Finch was Vivien the least bit happy. In his company she walked around the estate, played croquet and tennis and generally had a good time. As far as I could tell, they were keeping it platonic, but there were plenty of touchings and sighings. This was confirmed by Grace Drewe, whose friend I became. My passion for Vivien had put thoughts of other liaisons out of my mind and Grace, it emerged, shared my feelings. As my cruder Hollywood friends would have put it, she was 'queer for Vivien'. Her position was more complicated than mine in that she also fancied Finch. It was a weird household.
When Finch was absent and other people were around, including her husband, Miss Leigh drank.
'What's this "Rich" stuff?' Finch asked me one afternoon. I'd driven the pair of them into Oxford, where Vivien wanted to do some shopping. Finch was a great reader and he'd dragged me into Blackwells bookshop to buy the collected poems of Dylan Thomas. (I heard him reading some of the stuff to Vivien later. It sounded all right but I couldn't make head nor tail of what it was about.)
I was glancing through the latest Agatha Christie, Mrs McGinty's Dead,12 I think it was. 'Just a handle. A bit less stiff than calling me Brown all the time.'
'Brown?'
'That's the name they know me by. I've got no objections. I don't plan to put chauffeuring on my CV.'
'Won't be for long, Dick. Things are going swimmingly. She's wonderful, isn't she? And she's practically stopped drinking.'
That's all you know, I thought, but I just nodded and we left the bookshop to stroll along the Broad back to the car. 'When you say swimmingly, Peter, what exactly do you mean?'
'Larry hates the script of Elephant Walk. He calls it colonialist crap. The truth is, he's too old for the part of the husband. Vivien's pressing for me to get it and I think I'm a certainty. You can practically pack your bags, old son.'
That was good news but it meant I'd have to get myself a passport. I still hadn't bothered to get a driver's licence. The truth was, I spent most of my time day-dreaming about Vivien and dancing attendance on her and I'd let important things slip. I r
esolved to pull myself together and began by reminding Finch that he owed me several weeks' money. He forked it across happily. I hadn't done much to earn it, but he wasn't to know that. He was getting good notices as Mercutio; he was in love with a beautiful woman, and had prospects of a nice, safe affair with her. For someone like Peter, which is to say a romantic egomaniacal optimist, that all added up to happiness.
Someone said, 'Never go to bed with anyone who has more problems than you do.' Wise words, I think. That was one of the things that kept me from making a move on Vivien. Another was a kind of loyalty to Finch, at least as long as he was paying me and holding out the interesting prospect of the trip to Ceylon. Yet another was fear of Olivier. As I say, he wasn't at Notley much and when he was I kept out of his way. Danny Kaye and his wife visited a few times and you'd have had to be deaf, dumb and blind not to see that there was something between the men. They were forever showing off for each other and their tennis and croquet matches usually ended up with one of them draping his arm around the other's shoulders.
Well, some actors are like that whether they're faggots or not, and nobody paid them any attention. Vivien, though, seemed to get more and more miserable, and the unhappier she became the more she drank. She scarcely ate at all so her figure didn't change, but another year of this and she'd be needing her first face-lift. I thought her distress was due to Olivier's involvement with Kaye, but my indoors pal Grace Drewe put me wise.
'He's having an affair with Dorothy Turin.'
'Who is? Finch?'
'No, silly. Sir Laurence. She's in the film. She plays Polly Peachum and she was hopeless until he taught her how to act. And now he's . . . Oh, Vivien's so upset, Richard.'
We were having a quiet smoke together, sheltered from the cold October wind by a greenhouse. 'How did she find out? He's always up in London and she's very seldom there. Was it the old mutual friend routine?'
'No, you won't believe it. The little slut—Dorothy's only twenty-two.'