Maureen also gave me a tour of her cupboards. I was transfixed by the rainbowlike array of her shoes—a mix of silk, satin, and leather—which were mostly from Rayne, a leading brand. Cuckoo about sweaters from Courrèges, Maureen was the first to point out the importance of the French designer’s white embroidered insignia. She also showed me all her dresses and coats from Hardy Amies—the Queen’s favorite designer. Naturally, there were jewels. I never saw her evening pieces, which must have blinked with diamonds. But during the day, she always wore three chokers formed with baroque pearls. One time when we’d gone to the cinema, she lost a choker. A panic arose until a nice American student came forward and said, “Are these your beads?” The baroque pearls were that large.
The American-born Caroline Gruber was my other kind and reliable friend. She, Susanna, and I were the Modest 1, 2, and 3 gang. The name was due to our shyness about taking our clothes off in front of our classmates. Not that Caroline had anything to hide. From the age of five she wanted to be a ballerina, and to see her in a leotard was to witness the perfect width of shoulder, height of waist, and extended stretch of leg and arms. I am happy to recount that she was snapped up by White Lodge, the Royal Ballet School, and became renowned for her extremely high jetés when joining ballet companies in the Netherlands and Canada. A funny aside, but the ballet world was then the dream of privileged English schoolgirls, as much as becoming an actress and/or fashion model. It was probably because of Margot Fonteyn, the British-born prima ballerina. A household name, she was today’s equivalent of Audrey Hepburn. There was also a craze for Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes. The novel concerned the three adopted sisters Pauline, Petrova, and Posy Fossil, their missing guardian, and their adventures within ballet.
Elinor, Caroline’s mother, owned and ran the Upstairs Shop on Pimlico Road. Cath Kidston in style, but thirty-five years earlier, it was a thriving lifestyle boutique that sold all types of toiletry bags, Kleenex box covers, plastic trays, padded coat hangers, and other items for the home covered in a choice of attractive cotton prints. The bright candy colors—not dissimilar to Lilly Pulitzer prints—eclipsed the British equivalent that were miserable-looking and often made of nylon, the period’s practical fabric.
Elinor had acquired her taste and strong commercial sense from working in New York fashion during the 1950s. Her friends included Richard Avedon, Dorian Leigh, and Diana Vreeland. Skinny Elinor wore large tortoiseshell glasses and was often in the New Yorker uniform of charcoal-gray sweater and matching pants. Watching her in action fascinated because she was outspoken yet had warmth.
Outside of work, she gave everything that she had to Caroline and her younger sister, Juliette. No doubt because when they were young, Elinor and her sister, Carol Saroyan Matthau, wife of the actor Walter Matthau, were put in a series of foster homes. That was until Elinor was six and her mother married Charles Marcus, an executive with the Bendix Aviation Corporation, who adopted both girls.
The Grubers lived in a large apartment building that had a doorman. This was fairly unusual in my circle. They also showed Hollywood movies—Barefoot in the Park and The Way We Were—at their birthday parties and served Kentucky Fried Chicken; the franchise had just arrived in London. It was through Caroline that I discovered American movie stars of the late 1960s and early 1970s. I had never seen anyone as blond and appealing as Robert Redford.
The Grubers were the first children I encountered who wore jeans. Then a rare commodity, they had to be purchased in the United States. My brothers and I were dressed in corduroy trousers from Marks & Spencer during the winter and the cotton equivalent in the summer. They suited my brothers’ skinny frames but looked awful on me. Unless it was an expensive party dress from The White House or Harrods, clothes for teenage-proportioned ten-year-olds were pretty unattractive.
Regarding my size there were bizarre episodes. Like the time my mother invited novelist Jean Rhys over for a cup of tea. They were friendly but not close. Heaven knows why, but my mother insisted that I do ballet exercises for Jean, a noted balletomane. So the reportedly anorexic Jean, who arrived in a cocktail hat with net and needed a stick to walk, had to tolerate a baby elephant massacre one of her favorite arts. Even when I was bending my knees, I did wonder if it wasn’t quite mad. But smart Mum made me write about it later. “Although she [Jean] was old, she was still beautiful,” I scribbled. Miss Rhys was in her early eighties.
What I didn’t pen was my experience with V. S. Naipaul and his then wife, Pat, who were my mother’s contemporaries at Oxford University. Even though that was the early 1950s, Mum had always recognized Vidia’s literary brilliance. Still, he was one of those “famous writooors” who made no effort with Antonia’s kin. That was until a niece arrived in London. We were the same age, and I was roped into a Royal Tournament evening at Earl’s Court. The world’s largest military pageant, the Royal Tournament was popular in the 1970s and consisted of soldiers in uniforms on horses trotting up and down. Very boys-only entertainment and absolutely everything I couldn’t stand. One uniform was fine, but two hours of it? Anyway, we went, and all Vidia did was groan and see fault. His behavior made me uneasy. Privately, I wished he would leave. Instead he stayed, perhaps viewing me as a potential toady who would laugh at everything he said. There was a slight problem—he used words that “Tasha who still has not finished Villette” did not understand. After a few missed witticisms, I could see that there was an adjustment in his behavior. A sort of discovery that I was the non-smart-aleck of the family. Fat too! It was at that moment that I perversely started enjoying myself.
04 Holiday Home
It was difficult not to be hit by the romance of Eilean Aigas, our home in the Scottish Highlands. Meaning Island of Aigas in Gaelic, it was a rocky islet in the middle of the River Beauly that was surrounded by black melancholy water. On the north side, there were dramatically rugged cliffs covered with pine trees hanging at all angles, casting a strange reflection on the water. On the south side—where my mother chose to write—it was peaceful and calm. Wearing a Texan cowboy hat and a Fraser tartan wool rug over her legs, she would type away in a wooden hut overlooking the river.
Inland, Eilean Aigas was then rife with azalea bushes, tall lichen-covered beech trees, a monkey puzzle tree, and roe deer intent on destroying the annual plantation of firs. Since it measured three-quarters of a mile in length and one mile and a quarter in circumference, it was possible to walk around and note the contrasting landscape and vegetation.
Our house, a nineteenth-century hunting lodge, was a testament to my mother’s unique sense of the Highlands. A broken golden harp greeted guests in the hallway; David Hicks’s tartan chintz covered the book room’s walls and windows; nineteenth-century prints of cows hung on William Morris wallpaper; caps were thrown on a framed pair of stag’s antlers; and a pink Fraser dress tartan carpet ebbed along the two staircases and spilled into the hallways. Somehow it all worked, creating a welcoming, bohemian atmosphere. Except for uncouth behavior, drugs, peacock feathers, and thirteen at the table (both my parents were extremely superstitious), anything went in our household.
My mother, our nanny, and whoever did not drive with my father would take the sleeper train from London. Not pleasant; I disliked Euston Station. Concrete gray and harshly lit, it had a humidity that most British train stations seem to have. A humidity that soaks through to the bone and causes mild discomfort if you’re female. It also gave me a horror of traveling with others. Nothing went wrong. Trains weren’t missed, suitcases weren’t lost, little children weren’t abandoned, but I felt roughed up by the unspoken panic. Nor did I help matters with my flotilla of plastic bags.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed the sleeper train compartment. The sheets of the bunk bed were starched and pulled drum-tight. It was fun breaking into them. The sink was well designed even if the porcelain chamber pot was to be avoided with the shakiness of the train. The pièce de résistance was the Schweppes glass bottle o
f still water that had its own separate wooden cabinet. Bottled water was a rarity then. I liked hearing the crack of the seal opening and didn’t mind that it rattled throughout the night.
My favorite time in Scotland was the Christmas holidays. No doubt it was because my mother poured her whimsy and imagination into it. A massive pine tree, cut from my cousin’s forest, would stand in the hall and my mother, aided by my elder sisters, would decorate it with gusto. There was none of that restrained “only silver and blue” or “only gold and green” or “only white” business. They believed that more was more and used every single decoration that they could get their hands on, craftily using the broken ones for the back. The range included cloth angels with blond ringlets, turbanlike glass spirals, and a thick mass of furry tinsel. When it was finished, all the wrapped Christmas presents were placed under the tree. On every level, it was my idea of magnificent. When seeing Ingmar Bergman’s masterpiece Fanny and Alexander, I was reminded of our imperfect but captivating trees.
Mum also injected her impish sense of humor when filling our red-and-white Santa stockings that came from Bloomingdale’s and had our names written in gold glitter. More exciting than any Christmas present—she took months preparing them—they were crammed with monogrammed pencils, inscribed mugs, witty jokes, and surprises such as newspapers with fake headlines claiming that Natasha Fraser had streaked across London.
Just as the post-Christmas season would begin to lull in atmosphere—a case of too much television, too many Quality Street caramels, and too many petty fights among siblings—my parents’ guests would arrive. Eilean Aigas was one of those houses that became better when filled. It was built to entertain, since there were two large reception rooms, a fair-sized dining room, and a rabbit warren of bedrooms.
A long lunch tended to be followed by an energetic walk. In fact, in the warmer months, there would be picnics up the glen beside Honeymoon Isle, a picturesque spot where my paternal grandparents spent their first nights together. Picnics meant Scotch eggs, sausage rolls (pigs in a blanket), and sitting on Fraser rugs. Afterward, there would be excursions to explore the surrounding scenery. Whatever the outcome of the afternoon, there was always tea—my preferred moment,the dining room table covered with homemade scones, pancakes, sponge cakes, and chocolate biscuit cake. Everyone would then peel off for a bath, or rather my mother and guests did.
Regarding the hot-water situation, there was never enough. And in the winter, pipes would even freeze. (“Choose your bush,” guests were occasionally told.) My father attempted to install an Eilean Aigas rule that family members should hold back and not have baths every day. But my older sisters would always sneak off to the nursery bathroom and disobey his orders. It drove him mad. I can still hear him knocking on bathroom doors, searching for the hot-water hogs.
Before dinner, an event that everyone was expected to dress up for, family and guests would gather in all their finery in the drawing room. The transformation was something to behold. Skin glowed, jewels twinkled, and there was the individuality of styles. I can still remember the full wool skirts of novelist Alison Lurie, the neat ankles and lacy hose of novelist Edna O’Brien, and the long scarves of playwright Tom Stoppard.
After dinner, there was often a game of charades that was totally lawless and highly entertaining. In what resembled amateur dramatics, the team in question would run to the dress-up cupboard halfway up the stairs and then reappear—often in my mother’s leftovers—and act out the word either in one scene or in several. “In the manner of the word” was another favorite. Someone would leave the room and the rest of us would choose an adverb. Then the person would return and ask us to act out commands, such as “Lift that vase in the manner of the word,” and he’d try to guess the adverb.
When the guests left, I always felt rather low: a result of missing all the group activities. In many ways, I was one of those solitary kids who were at their best when surrounded yet essentially left alone. Tremendous fun was to be had with my good-natured family. Rehearsing plays that were written and directed by, and seemed to also star, my two sisters. Having major sing-alongs in our “yellow submarine”—the name for our yellow Vauxhall car. Attempting not to fall at Twister with my brothers. But at mealtimes, in the company of my parents, my siblings made me feel inadequate. It was equivalent to watching an intellectual tennis match: the tales were recounted with panache, as were the quick barbs and jokes. But I was incapable. Or rather, if I tried, I belly flopped.
I now understand the fascination with large, clever families. Since there’s competitiveness with an urge to shine and score, it can make for exhilarating company. However, having been the weaker link, I view other large families with a jaundiced eye and secretly wonder about the dynamics that lie beneath. (Ha! And I’m rarely wrong.) As for eating, food was wolfed down. Thinking back, I believe only my little brother Orlando ever actually chewed a morsel.
Meanwhile, my dream excursion was taking the local bus into Inverness, our main town, having lunch at the Wimpy bar—the sight of the red-and-white sign, sandwiched between a hamburger bun, always welcomed—then watching Disney’s Bambi at the local cinema. It didn’t matter that the seat of the bus scratched; that the meat of the hamburger was flat, chewy, and tasteless; that the chips were frozen; that the chocolate milk shake lacked thickness; and that Bambi was decades old. That magical afternoon remained carved in my memory and gave me an inkling of how I planned to live my life. Whooping it up in the metropolis!
Going through my mother’s British Vogues became a favorite holiday ritual. Having been a contributing editor, she had kept all the issues from the 1960s onward. The collection was kept in the drawing room. When alone, I would listen to the sound track of American Graffiti on the gramophone—“Step by Step,” “Stay,” I still love those 1950s songs—and go through piles and piles of the magazines. I was never bored; it was an enticing world filled with beauties who had luxuriant hair, gardens that had lily ponds, and smiling models whose lithe bodies seemed to sprint across the page. Several years later, when Susanna’s cousin Rachel Ward, a model, came to stay, I was beside myself. That holiday, she was the cover girl of both Vogue and Harpers & Queen. Summing up male fantasy with her exquisite face, glossy hair, and curves, Rachel managed to be a tomboyish gypsy. Silver bangles jangled on her wrists, tight jeans were tucked into burgundy leather boots, and a masculine pinstripe jacket was teamed with a Sutherland tartan kilt and teetering heels.
Another holiday ritual was watching The Banana Splits Adventure Hour in the morning. The American TV show was irresistible. Or rather, the gaggle of young girls playing the Sour Grapes were. Defining my female ideal, they wore short purple tunics and knee-high boots and would arrive dancing and shaking their nonexistent hips. Considering my size, it was pretty masochistic to idolize them, but I did nurse intentions that, one day, I would be thin—as I chomped through bags of lemon sherbets or strawberry toffee bonbons, secret batches of candies that had been delivered by Don the Postman, who arrived with the mail and Scottish newspapers.
In the late afternoon, I watched Elvis films. Just one sighting of the King made me hooked. The fall of his hair, the shape of his nose, and the pout: I still cannot think of any other musical performer whose Greek-coin beauty and presence compares. After seeing all his films, I can only dimly remember a few titles. But he became important to my life in Scotland.
As did all our six Fraser first cousins. Their father was Shimi Lovat, the chief of our clan and famous D-Day hero in Normandy. (Peter Lawford played him in the film The Longest Day.) Although he and my father were close, I was a little too cheeky for Uncle Shimi, who did demand respect.
Instead, I was more at ease with three of his children—a winning mix of daring and droll—who consisted of Tessa Reay, Andrew Fraser, and Simon, the Master of Lovat, who lived at Beaufort Castle with his young wife, Virginia.
We were never out of Beaufort or Braulen Lodge, another hou
se that belonged to Simon. Braulen was up the glen and the place of many a picnic before Simon would take fearless guests up on a long afternoon jaunt. Since a fair amount of Bloody Mary, whiskey, and wine were consumed, not everyone was either wise or well equipped for the hike that included steep hills, rocks, and streams. On one occasion, I wore soft leather shoes that one hardy cousin described as “dancing slippers.” Yet considering the conditions, there were very few accidents. One involved my lovely godmother Marigold Johnson, who fell and snapped her ankle in several places. My father carried her all the way down the hill: a St. Christopher–like image that I personally treasure.
Still, there were dramas. To everyone’s horror, a deadly adder snake bit the leg of Rupert Wolfe-Murray, the son of dear family friends. My father rushed him to Raigmore, the local hospital, about an hour away. On arrival, a Pakistani doctor looked at Rupert’s severely swollen leg and informed that it was a scorpion sting. His country of origin was certainly known for scorpions, but Scotland was not. “Inverness is too cold for scorpions,” my father tried. But the Pakistani doctor was insistent. Another remarkable tale concerned my friend Dominique Lacloche, who was haunted by a ghost when staying at Braulen. The man, in 1950s cloak and top hat, was so evil that she threw herself through her bedroom window on the second floor, cutting her knees to ribbons. I made her repeat the ghoulish story endlessly.
In the month of August—a popular time to go to Scotland—tragedies always seem to occur. My first experience was in 1969 and concerned Catherine, my mother’s youngest sister, who was a twenty-three-year-old journalist. Benjie and I were watching the eight-o’clock news, when they suddenly showed her photograph—referring to “her” as the Earl of Longford’s youngest daughter—and announced that she’d been killed in a car accident. We rushed into the dining room and told our mother. At first, she thought that it was a far-fetched practical joke. But it turned out that the telephone lines were down and no one could call in. A few weeks later, I asked my mother if Catherine was ever going to come back. According to a family friend, my large eyes were welling with tears. But Mum just shook her head. Saying anything was too painful. My parents planted a tree in Catherine’s memory, and my grandparents created the Catherine Pakenham Award to encourage young women journalists. “When you lose a child, you lose something of yourself,” Granny would later say. Wisdom that still makes me sad.
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