‘Who’s coming?’
‘I wish you were,’ she muttered obediently. ‘But as I say, it’s not a big party.’ I nodded. Having paid lip service to form, she listed half a dozen names. ‘Princess Dagmar. And the Tremayne brothers, I think, but there may be a problem.’ I bet there will be, I thought. ‘Andrew Summersby and his sister.’ She ticked off these people in her head, although the list carried her mother’s fingerprints, not her own. ‘That’s about it.’
I glanced over to where the lumpen, red-faced Viscount Summersby stood glumly nursing his drink. He had apparently abandoned any efforts at conversation with his neighbours. Their state was no doubt the more blessed. Meanwhile, in front of him, his sister, Annabella, was shrieking and shouting as she tore round the track, a pale and lean companion trembling beside her. Her tight cocktail frock, raided from her mother’s post-war wardrobe, seemed to be bursting at the seams as she wrenched the wheel this way and that. Annabella Warren was not a beauty any more than her brother but, of the two and if forced to choose, I preferred her. Neither was an enticing prospect for an evening’s entertainment, but at least she had a bit of go. Georgina, following my gaze, seemed silently to agree. ‘Well, good luck with it,’ I said.
The dodgem cars had stopped and the drivers and passengers were being forced from their vehicles by the waiting crowd of guests surrounding the track, anxious for their turn. They had a distinctive look, those girls of long ago, racing across the metal, bolted floor to squeeze into the dirty and dented cars awaiting them, part 1950s Dior, part 1960s Carnaby Street, acknowledging the modern world but not yet quite capitulating to it. In the forty years that followed, that decade has been hijacked by the voice of the Liberal Tyranny. Theirs is the Woodstock version of the period – ‘if you can remember the Sixties, you weren’t really there,’ run the smug and self-regarding phrases – and they have no conscience in holding up the values of the pop revolution as the whole truth, but they are either deceiving or deceived. What was genuinely unusual about the era for those of us who were around at the time was not a bunch of guitar players smoking dope and wearing embarrassing hats with feathers, and leather singlets lined with sheepskin. What marked it apart from the other periods I have lived through was that, like Janus, it faced both ways.
One part of the culture was indeed about pop and drugs and happenings, and Marianne Faithfull and Mars Bars and free love, but the other, if anything far larger, section of the community was still looking back to the 1950s, back towards a traditional England, where behaviour was laid down according to the practice of, if not many centuries, at least the century immediately before, where everything from clothes to sexual morality was rigidly determined and, if we did not always obey the rules, we knew what they were. It was, after all, less than ten years previously that this code had reigned supreme. The girls who wouldn’t kiss on a first date, the boys who were not dressed without a tie, those mothers who only left the house in hat and gloves, those fathers wearing bowlers on their way to the city. These were all as much a part of the sixties as the side of it so constantly revived by television retrospectives. The difference being that they were customs on the way out, while the new, deconstructed culture was on the way in. It would, of course, prove to be the winner and as with anything it is the winner who writes history.
A great fashion then was for adding false hair, in ringlets and falls, to dramatise a hairstyle. They were intended to look real but only with the reality of a costume in a play, that could be discarded the following day with no loss of face. So a girl might appear on Monday night with curls to her shoulders and at Tuesday lunch with an Eton crop. The idea was really to use hair like a series of hats. In this one disguise, perhaps alone among their habits and unlike the wig wearers of today, there was no intention to deceive. The vogue was further enhanced by the practice of depositing these ‘pieces’ at the hairdresser’s a day or two in advance, where they would be rollered and treated and even sewn with flowers or beads, before the whole elaborate coiffure would be pinned to the owner’s head in the afternoon before a party. The style reached its apogee when the dances began, but even in the early stages, during the first cocktail parties, it seemed a parable of the unreality we were all participating in, as the debs would alter their appearance almost completely, twice or three times a week. Partygoers would see a stranger approach, only to discover, as they drew near, the face of an old friend peeping out. So it was, on this particular evening, that I suddenly recognised the sedate highness in transit, riding in the seat next to Damian, was none other than Serena Gresham, who climbed out of the car, as cool as a cucumber, and walked over to where I was standing. ‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Hello. How are you getting on?’
‘I’m shaken to pieces. I feel like a cocktail ready to be poured.’
‘I was going to ask if you wanted another go, with me.’
‘Not likely,’ said Serena. ‘What I do want is another drink.’ She looked around and had secured a new glass of champagne before the offer to help her was even out of my mouth.
Leaving her surrounded by would-be gallants, I wandered over to the Dodgem track, where the cars were already fully occupied. Then I heard my name called and I looked round to see Lucy Dalton waving at me. I walked over. ‘What is it?’ I said.
‘For Christ’s sake get in.’ Lucy patted the battered, leather seat beside her. ‘Philip Rawnsley-Price is coming this way and my bottom will be quite bruised enough without that.’ Behind me I could hear the man shouting for us to clear the track. ‘Get in!’ she hissed. So I did. It wasn’t a complete reprieve. Before we could set off, Philip, ignoring the shouts of the operator, had strolled across between the now moving cars – in those days, you understand, ‘Health and safety,’ as a phrase, had yet to be invented.
‘If you’re avoiding me, you can give up now,’ he said to Lucy with a leer that I assume was supposed to be sexy. ‘We’re destined to be together.’ Before she could think of a suitable wisecrack, there was a harsh and sudden jolt. We had been hit broadside by one of the Tremayne brothers with his cackling companion beside him and, with dislocated backs, we were flung into the tangled maelstrom. Philip laughed and moved lazily back to the edge.
Lucy Dalton will figure at some length in these pages and deserves an introduction, although she was not essentially, I think, a complicated character. Like Serena, she was the recipient, unearned, of most of this world’s blessings but at a (slightly) more modest level, which had divorced her a little less from the ordinary human experience. It is always hard for outsiders to perceive the differences in status and possession within an envied, privileged group, but these distinctions exist, whichever ivory tower one is dealing with. Champion footballers, all richer than Midas, know well who, within their crowd, merits envy and who should be pitied. Film stars can easily distinguish among themselves the careers that are going nowhere and the ones that have years more to run. Of course, to most of the public the very suggestion that this millionaire is less to be envied than that one seems pretentious and isolationist, but the gradations are meaningful to the members of these clubs and, if one is to attempt to understand what makes any world tick, they have a part to play in that. So it was with us. The Season in the 1960s, even if the concept was already embattled, still involved a narrower group than it would do today, if anyone were foolish enough to attempt its revival. Looking back, we were a halfway house between the genuinely exclusive group of the pre-war years and the anything-goes world of the 1980s and after. There were certainly girls included who would not have made the grade in the days of Presentation, but they were still made to feel it and the inner crowd was mostly drawn from the more traditional recruiting grounds. Within this set, then, the different levels of good fortune were clear to see and to appreciate.
Lucy Dalton was the younger daughter of a baronet, Sir Marmaduke Dalton, whose ancestor had received his title in the early nineteenth century, as a reward for pretty routine service to the Crown. The family wa
s still possessed of a substantial estate in Suffolk but the house itself was let in the 1930s and had been a girls’ prep school since the war. I would say the Daltons themselves were fairly happy in the dower house, from which, above the trees, they could just about glimpse the scene of their former splendour, albeit surrounded by prefabricated classrooms and pitches for the playing of lacrosse. In other words, it wasn’t ideal.
As a citizen of the modern world, I am now, in late middle age, fully aware that Lucy’s upbringing was privileged to an extreme degree. But most humans only compare themselves with people in similar circumstances to their own and I would ask the reader’s tolerance when I say that, given the times, to our gang her origins did not seem so remarkable. Her family, with its minor title, in their pleasant dower house, lived much as we all lived, in our rectories and manors and farmhouses, and the important distinction, or so it seemed to us, was between those who lived normally and those who lived as our people had lived before the war. These survivors were our battle pennants, our emblems of a better day, our acknowledged social leaders. With their footmen and their stately drawing rooms, they seemed in magic contrast to our own lives, with our working fathers and our mothers who had learned to cook… a bit. We were the normal ones, they were the rich ones, and it was many years before I questioned this. In my defence, it’s a rare individual who grasps that their own way of life is extravagant or sybaritic. It is always those much richer than oneself who deserve these sobriquets, and I would say that Lucy never thought of herself as much more than reasonably lucky.
At any rate, to me she was a cheerful soul, pretty but not beautiful, funny but not fascinating. We’d met when we found ourselves in the same party for a charity ball the year before and so, when the Season started and we discovered we were both to be part of it, we naturally gravitated towards each other as one is drawn to any friendly, familiar face in a new and faintly challenging environment. To be honest, I believe I might have been rather keen on her if I had been more careful at the start, but as it was I missed my chance if there was one, by allowing us to become friends – almost invariably the antidote to any real thoughts of romance.
‘Who is this fellow you’ve wished on us all?’ she said, steering wildly to avoid another merry prang from Lord Richard.
‘I don’t know that I’ve wished him on anybody.’
‘Oh, but you have. I saw four girls writing down his address before he’d been here twenty minutes. I assume he’s not sponsored by Mr Townend?’
‘Hardly. I took him along to one of Peter’s things last week and I thought for a moment we were going to be thrown out.’
‘Why did you “take him along?” Why have you become his promoter? ’
‘I don’t think I knew that I had.’
She looked at me with a rather pitying smile.
Probably it was a half-subconscious desire to bury my lie to Georgina by making it true that prompted me to organise a group for dinner as the party began to thin out, and later that evening about eight of us were climbing down the treacherous basement stairs of Haddy’s, then a popular spot on a corner of the Old Brompton Road, where one could dine after a fashion as well as dance the night away, and all for about thirty shillings a head. We often used to spend whole evenings there, eating, talking, dancing, although it is hard to imagine what the modern equivalent of this sort of place might be, since to manage all three in a single location seems impossible now, given the ferocious, really savage, volume that music is played at today anywhere one might be expected to dance. I suppose it must have begun to get louder in the discotheques after I had ceased to go to them, but I was not aware of the new fashion until perfectly normal people in their forties and fifties adopted it and started to give parties that must rank among the worst in history. Often I hear the notion of the nightclub, where you sat and chatted while the music played, spoken of as belonging to the generation before mine, men and women in evening clothes sitting around the Mirabelle in the 1930s and ’40s, dancing to Snake Hips Johnson and his orchestra while they sipped White Ladies, but like so many truisms this is not true. The opportunity to eat, talk and dance was available to us and I enjoyed it.
Haddy’s did not really qualify as a nightclub. It was more for people who couldn’t afford to go to proper nightclubs. These places, Haddy’s, Angelique’s, the Garrison, forgotten names now but full every night then, provided a simple service, but as with all successful innovations they filled a need. The dinner would belong to the recently arrived style of paysanne cooking, but this predictable repast would be combined with the comparatively new invention of dancing, publicly, not to a band but to records, presided over by some sort of disc jockey, a job description then only in its infancy. The wine was rarely more than plonk, certainly when we young ones were paying, but the bonus was that the owners did not expect to sell the table much more than once throughout the evening. Having eaten, we sat drinking and banging on about what preoccupied our adolescent troubled minds into the small hours, night after night, without, as far as I remember, the smallest problem with the management. They cannot really have been businessmen, I’m afraid. No wonder their establishments did not stand the test of time.
That particular evening, for some strange reason, Serena Gresham had joined us among the rest, tagging along when I told her where we were going. I was surprised because usually she would listen politely to the plan, make a little moue of regret with her mouth and wish aloud she could have come. But this time she thought for a moment and said ‘all right. Why not?’ It may not seem a very enthusiastic response, but at the sound of her words songbirds rose in flight in my heart. Lucy was there, trying and failing to escape Philip, her nemesis, who had proposed himself after her car had left. Damian came, of course, and a new girl, whom I had not met before that evening, a ravishing, Hollywood-style blonde with little to say for herself, Joanna Langley. I say I did not know her, but I had heard of her as being very rich, one of the richest girls of the year, if part of the new post-Presentation crop. Her father had founded a sales catalogue for casual clothing or something similar, and while the money ensured that no one was rude to her face, things were not quite so pleasant behind her back. Personally, I liked her from the start. She was sitting on my left.
‘Are you enjoying it?’ she asked as I sloshed some wine into her glass.
I wasn’t sure if she meant the dinner or the Season, but I assumed the latter. ‘I think so. I haven’t done much yet, but it seems a nice crowd.’
‘Are you?’ This came from Damian, further down the table. I could see he was already training his headlamp glare on to Joanna. Like me, he clearly knew who she was.
She was a little startled, but she nodded. ‘So far. What about you?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, I’m not part of it. Ask him.’ He indicated me with a jocular flick of his chin.
‘You’re here, aren’t you?’ I replied rather crisply. ‘What other qualification do you think we have?’ Which was dishonest, but I didn’t worry much, as I knew nothing would dampen his ardour.
‘Don’t let him mislead you.’ Damian had brought his gaze back to Joanna. ‘I’m a perfectly ordinary boy from a perfectly ordinary home. I thought it would be fun to see it for myself, but I’m not part of this world at all.’ It was carefully measured, like everything he said, and I can understand now what it was intended to achieve. It meant that every girl at that table would at once feel protective of him and none of them, or their friends, would ever be allowed to accuse him of pretending to be something he was not. His apparent modesty would give him permission to take and take, but never to feel any responsibility to a world he had declared he did not belong to and to which he owed nothing. Above all, it washed over their defences. From then on they were not afraid of being used by such a man. How could they be when he said himself he had no ambition? We had not even ordered before he was writing down his address for Joanna and two of the other girls present.
I note I have stated that Damian was ‘of
course’ with us. Why was it so understood that he would be? At this early stage of his London career? Perhaps because I had begun to reckon his gifts. I looked down the table to where he sat, with Serena on one side and Lucy on the other, making them both listen and laugh but never overplaying his hand with either, and I understood then that he was one of those rare beings who can fit seamlessly into a new group until, before much time has passed, they seem to be an integral, a founder, member of it. He joked and ribbed, but frowned a little, too. He took them seriously and nodded with concern, like someone who knew them well, but not too well. In all the time I knew him, he never made the classic parvenu mistake of lapsing into over-familiarity. Not long ago I was talking to a man before a shoot. We had got on well at dinner the night before and he, supposing, I imagine, that we were now friends, began to poke me jocularly in the stomach as he joshed me about my weight. He smiled as he said it and looked into my eyes, but what he saw there cannot have encouraged him as I had decided, on that instant, I would never seek his company again. Damian made no such error. His approach was relaxed and easy but never egregious or impertinent. In short, it was carefully thought out and well delivered, and that evening gave me one of my first opportunities to witness the skill with which he would land his quarry.
The dinner was finished, the girls’ uneaten stew had been carried away, the lights had been lowered a few degrees and couples around the room were beginning to take to the floor. Nobody from our group had ventured forth yet, but we were nearly there and, during a slight lull in the conversation, I heard Damian turn to Serena. ‘Do you want to dance?’ he suggested, almost in the tone of a shared joke, a funny secret only fully understood by the two of them. It was beautifully done. They were playing some record we all liked, was it Flowers in the Rain? I forget now. At any rate, after a fractional pause she nodded and they stood. But next came the wonder. As they passed by my end of the table I heard him remark quite casually: ‘I feel such a fool. I know you’re called Serena and I remember where we first met, but I never got your surname. If I leave it much longer it’ll be too late to ask.’ Like a conman or a courtier he waited, just for a second, to see if his ploy would work. Did he breathe more easily when she gave no indication that she knew what he was up to?
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