After Andy

by Natasha Fraser-Cavassoni

  On a much lighter note, August 1971 was when Andy Cameron, the garage mechanic, hacked off my hair with oily shears. It happened in Beauly, the nearest town. Having just seen Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, starring Gene Wilder, my little brother Damian dared me to chew ten Bazookas in a row and then stick them behind my ear. Veruca Salt had been his inspiration. I did, and my long hair quickly stuck to the sugary pink bubble gum. I don’t know whose idea it was to cut my mane there and then. Was my father distracted, again? But Andy, who was mildly walleyed, got out his shears and did major damage. Having had waist-length hair, suddenly I had a bob. Well, sort of.

  Elvis keeled over in August 1977. The photographs in the newspapers after his death were a shock. He had morphed into a bloated blob wearing white embroidered outfits and vast sunglasses. Then there was the IRA assassination of Lord Mountbatten and his grandson that happened on my mother’s birthday—August 27, 1979. My father had known the royal cousin, a renowned navy dignitary and former viceroy of India.

  During the 1970s, Andy Warhol became keen to do the Shah of Iran’s portrait. A much-criticized commission, it finally happened in 1976. Oddly enough, my family and I would entertain the Shah’s children in Scotland in 1974. They had arrived at my cousin’s castle—protected by a team of Scotland Yard detectives and snipers in the bushes—with the intention of seeing the Loch Ness Monster, the local legend. Not an easy task, because no one knows whether the dinosaurlike animal—nicknamed Nessie—actually exists. I lucked out because the Shah’s daughter Farahnaz was almost my twin. Up for an adventure, I had charmed her away to a sneaky swim during a picnic. When the stream got choppy, a handsome Scotland Yard detective heard our cries. With Samson-like strength, he pulled her out but left me there, struggling. So I like to think that my adventures in Warhol Land began then. “Really up there.” Not.

  05 The Bells of St. Mary’s Ascot

  To my considerable excitement, two tickets were organized to see the Tutankhamen exhibition in 1972. I’d had a crush on the boy king for several years, and it was the hit show at the British Museum. In fact, no attendance has been bettered there since. Over a million and a half visitors went, seven thousand a day, and it required patience. Queuing lasted as long as eight hours.

  I remember the interminable wait. I remember looking at people who had brought foldout chairs. I remember huge disappointment. I had cut out so many photographs of Tutankhamen’s gold and blue funerary mask and stuck them all over my bedroom. But somehow the color of the snaps was a lot better than the real thing. When walking into the room where the mask was, I was struck by its size—it seemed smaller—and how it was a lot less magnificent than I’d imagined. I suffered this terrible sinking feeling. Had I been honest, I would have expressed it. Instead, I realized, or rather remembered, the protocol: having to be grateful to my nanny and having to lie and pretend how pleased I was to my mother.

  My need to lie came under the heading of playing the role of the good girl in my family. Or so it seemed. In fact, I began to have this double life that would eventually consist of a shoplifting session at Biba, smoking my father’s Hamlet cigarillos, and fooling around with the friends of my brother Benjie when they came to our house for their school’s “play practice.”

  “Nicholasing” was the code name for my shoplifting activities (nick being the operative English slang for stealing). Never daring to go alone, I was always with Elsa. She lived about ten minutes away and had divorced parents who were on terrible terms. Her mother was an Australian architect; chic with tanned skin and a mass of dark hair, she clanked with bangles and lived in slinky clothes that were either black or olive.

  Elsa, on the other hand, resembled a Pre-Raphaelite angel. At one of my fancy-dress parties, she came as a butterfly and won first prize. Her long Titian-blond hair almost touched her behind, and her full mouth pouted more than it smiled. I cannot remember any tremendous verbal exchanges. Instead, we sucked (never chewed!) quite a lot of Pez candies together and had a shared love of ransacking Biba.

  In 1973, Biba moved to the Derry & Toms building on Kensington High Street. And Barbara Hulanicki, the fashion brand’s founder, went all out emphasizing the Art Deco architecture. Spectacular, it was like stepping into a Hollywood movie set that had a link to the Jazz Age with a lineup of breathtaking-looking broads as sales assistants. Boutiques come and go, but nothing can be compared to Biba. It was a retail phenomenon, and radical chic New Yorkers would move to London in the summer with the sole intention of shopping there on a daily basis. Thanks to my sisters, my only appealing preteen dress was from Biba. A signature style on every level, it was made of chocolate-brown crepe and had an empire waistline and leg-of-mutton sleeves. Using my mother’s money, they paid for it. I was witness to the fact. Just as I was witness to the fact that few others did.

  Imagine a fashion feast—as tempting as a candy store—boasting a multicolored range of flirty outfits, platform shoes, makeup, and countless accessories. And imagine a shoplifting phenomenon because none of the sales assistants—chosen for their physical charms—were on duty. The thieving became so prevalent among privately educated schoolgirls that the likes of Helen Brigstocke, the headmistress of St. Paul’s Girls’ School, one of London’s top establishments, was forced to make a morning announcement that shoplifting at Biba had to stop.

  Even though Biba flowed onto several floors, including a roof garden, Elsa and I stuck to the main hall. Pale gold in decor, it had leopard-print sofas lining the walls, palm tree–like lights, and a shiny chocolate-brown area in the middle, where earrings, bracelets, and necklaces were sold. The room’s problem was the lighting. There was none. This was obviously of a distinct advantage to all the tramps snoring on the sofas. I am not exaggerating. It also helped two ten-year-old schoolgirls—Elsa and me. Wearing Lady Eden’s boaters, blazers, and white gloves—our private school was ten minutes away—we would grab fistfuls of earrings and put them into our satchels.

  Terrified that my two Biba-fanatic sisters would recognize the merchandise, I would leave all my booty at Elsa’s house. Our shoplifting activity might have led to our eventual arrest if it hadn’t been for Biba’s food department and Elsa’s mother. Each time we raided, Elsa would give her a pair of earrings. After the third time, she said, “Elsa, I do hope you two aren’t shoplifting.” I can still hear her distinct Australian accent. Elsa and I caught each other’s eyes. “Shoplifting” sounded different from “Nicholasing.” It was a bit scary. And I believe we merrily talked about our need to stop . . . on our way to Biba. However, it was after graduating to the food department in the basement—I was determined to have a can of baked beans with Biba’s Deco packaging—that we finally did. It was spelled out in the store’s brown and gold signature colors: SHOPLIFTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Elsa and I turned on our heels, and like little piggies—well, in my case—ran squealing all along Kensington Church Street, all the way home.

  Shoplifting was one issue, but fumbling upstairs in the nursery loo was another. In spite of being “painted suicide yellow”—as described by Prosper Keating, one of Benjie’s best friends—it did not stop major amounts of snogging and innocent groping. Put bluntly, every Friday, his friends came for “play practice” and since I was the only girl around, well. Actually, I rather liked the attention.

  Nevertheless, I was relieved to change schools—put a grinding halt to all activities—and attend a boarding school. St. Mary’s Ascot was a convent school in Berkshire that my mother had attended. In 1974, she was probably their most famous old girl. I was happy to follow in her footsteps until a nun called Sister Alered (nicknamed Stale Bread) informed that my Common Entrance exam had been disastrous. “You were only accepted because of your mother,” she said, with a certain glee.

  In those days, I had a peaches-and-cream complexion, long reddish hair, as well as thick bangs. And I remember looking up at her face, noticing her bout of eczema, and thinking, God is good.

>   Otherwise, St. Mary’s saved me. I was spirited and determined but with no structure or discipline. No adult had taken the time to calmly sit me down and explain things. In some ways, this was liberating. I was completely independent. And my thoughts—both outlandish and wise—had nothing to do with anyone else. However, when adolescence hits, with all those hormones raging, personal order is fundamental and I discovered such powers via the nuns.

  St. Mary’s was child-oriented. My home hadn’t been. It was exhilarating and fun, and there was a stalwart work ethic, but life was arranged around my parents. Typical for that period, we had to fit in and suit their schedule. At St. Mary’s, the pupils were the stars. True, the nuns were married to God, but being from the order of IBVM—the Institute of the Blessed Virgin Mary—they were also devoted to their teaching vocation.

  Although I’d been a total TV addict, I didn’t miss watching the box once. Indeed, there was enough dialogue or activity between the classes, games, sports, and meals to make up for all the detective series and comedians. Nor did I miss my family. I never cried, unless I had been naughty and caught out on something. At night in the dormitory, sniffling and sobbing surrounded me—some girls were desperately homesick—but I never was. I hid the fact, naturally. I also pretended to dislike St. Mary’s, like many. But the reality was that I eased into a relaxed and content state. I felt protected, looked after, and relieved that there would be loo paper in the bathrooms. For some reason, the “suicide yellow” loo never had any. Being at boarding school also began my lifelong love of stationery. Notebooks, stickers, pens, different-colored inks, and writing paper that might have envelopes to match—my mother had found sets at Harrods that had our first-name initials raised and illuminated—or blocks of paper decorated with Witchiepoo and other funny characters.

  I also admired the nun’s habit. Since it was flawless and since it was individually fitted on each woman, it was my first taste of haute couture. Privately, I marveled at the details, ranging from the starched white wimple fixed to the head to the short cape covering the bodice to the flow of the veil and skirt. It also appealed that there was a button at the back that allowed the nuns to hitch up their skirts when whizzing down the stairs or running alongside the hockey field.

  The tunic that was part of our winter uniform flattered and smoothed my figure. That kind of strict line tends to be forgiving. And hideous as the nylon-striped shirts were—they were hell for those who perspired a lot—it was a weekly thrill collecting them fresh from the laundry. After my previous experience of thoughtless Scottish cows turning my pink ballet clothes gray and other embarrassments, I worshipped at the feet of the laundry nuns. They did such an excellent job of cleaning clothes and folding everything immaculately.

  It would be terrific to take this further and reveal that suddenly my thoughts cleared and I became top of the form. That never happened. I usually ranked eighth or ninth out of fifteen. That said, I was always good at French, occasionally excelled with my essays in history and poems in English, discovered a love of acting, became the youngest member of the choir organized by the wonderful Mother Ancilla—her spit flew when pronouncing “royal and rich.” Yet best of all, I began to read. An interest ignited via peer pressure.

  Going to the library was key to St. Mary’s. It was an event that was done with friends. And I didn’t want to miss out on the social action. Choosing books or joining the waiting list for an in-demand book was nifty. After lights-out, reading under the covers with a flashlight was also considered “nifty.” And being caught reading was probably the niftiest. I never did that, sensing that it was bad for my eyes. Still, the joy of turning the page and dipping into a different world furthered my inner contentment.

  06 When Harold Met Antonia

  I first met Harold Pinter at the beginning of 1975. He was sitting in our drawing room. Mum insisted that I show him an example of my italic handwriting. Calligraphy was the one subject that I always excelled at, often coming first in my class. Smiling, Harold looked at my work and said it was very beautiful. I wondered who he was. His name meant nothing. Yet the atmosphere was charged. I felt uncomfortable. Call it a case of encountering something that didn’t feel quite right but was being presented as normal.

  Although Harold always wore thick-framed glasses, I don’t remember them on that occasion. Instead, it was his apparel. In London, suits on men tended to be the norm in my experience. However, he dressed casually, in a sports jacket, open-necked shirt, and wool pants. His legs were crossed in an eye-catching, confident manner. The pose was virile. Not that I knew the word then. Indeed, until Harold became really sick in 2008, he always exuded a certain virility. Although one of the great men of the theater, he was a keen sportsman. Proud of being a champion sprinter at his grammar school, he enjoyed playing squash and tennis and was captain of his own cricket team.

  I thought nothing more of the meeting. Or rather, I pushed it right to the back of my mind, hoping that it wasn’t serious. Then suddenly, in July 1975, I was confronted with Harold’s picture, six months after the event, blasted all over national newspapers. With his dark hair and long sideburns, he looked both dramatic and distinctive. I was reminded of the singer Tom Jones. Harold was billed as the “famous Jewish playwright” with “working-class origins” or “modest background,” and his wife, the renowned actress Vivien Merchant, was divorcing him and exposing my mother as the co-respondent. Her words were, “I am specifically naming Antonia because if she wants to play silly games with my husband, I am prepared to do the same to her.” It must have been a fairly dull summer for newsworthy items, because the gutter press, or “grub street,” went a little nuts and continued in that vein for the entire summer holiday.

  The harassment—and it became a harassment—began with a few paparazzi lurking outside our house. I recall the photographers going great guns when my father arrived. Cornered by the flash of their cameras, first he covered his face and then lashed out and hit one of the men. Shocked by the experience and then horrified by his reaction, he went out to apologize. After all, the man was just doing his job.

  It must have been about five p.m., still daylight in London, and yet all the curtains in our house had been closed, sending a warning sign. Mum arrived home in a taxi, but she sped off when she saw the curtains and then the cameras. Naturally, a few pictures were snapped, but all they got was her back.

  A few hours later, she returned by the garden’s back entrance—equivalent to a heroine’s return, or so it seemed. Mum looked extraordinarily beautiful. I was unaware that she was madly in love. But since she was in a good mood, I asked what exactly was happening. “Oh, it’s because I’m so wonderful.” Then Mum cantered on about a woman who was “wildly jealous” and “saying horrible things.” There was a brief pause before she continued: “But what she’s saying is all lies.” There were no names, which was odd, but I went along with the “evil queen” and “all lies” scenario even if we, the four youngest children of her brood, were being packed off to Scotland three days earlier than planned.

  We’d been instructed not to look at newspapers. Naturally I did, and saw separate pictures of my mother, Harold, and his wife, who was spilling the beans. Vivien’s behavior and quotes exemplified the expression “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” Yet, weird as it will sound, I still convinced myself that it was all lies.

  Sophie, the daughter of my godmother Marigold Johnson, was staying with us. Ever frank and speaking for her household, she did say, “Oh well, your parents haven’t been getting on for some time.” But I still didn’t believe it. Talk about the power of denial!

  Then the press turned vicious, goaded by Nigel Dempster, the Daily Mail’s gossip columnist. His goal was to have power, and he soon earned it, becoming the British equivalent of Walter Winchell, a powerful American columnist from the 1920s into the 1960s. Dempster had targets before my mother. Infidelities revealed in his columns in 1974 had children crying ho
me from school. Fergie, the Duchess of York, claims to have first heard about her parents’ divorce via Dempster. True, some Daily Mail readers were rather horrified, and then there were those who lapped it up and could not have enough.

  Sharklike Dempster had being circling around my mother for some time. I wonder if he didn’t watch my mother from a distance: the blondness, the batting of the eyelashes, the bestselling books, the dignified husband, the public allusiveness, and, since he couldn’t be part of it, he wanted to blow it up and smash it to smithereens. Anyway, the moment came.

  I remember taking the newspaper and sitting on the main stairs. Dempster’s article was called “The Romantic Life Style of Lady Antonia Fraser.” I looked at all the names and photographs. To be honest, I was both horrified and strangely fascinated. Why her? Then my survival instinct kicked in. What was I going to say about this at school? That was my world, and it was all I cared about. Indeed, my main concern was, “How am I going to deal and explain this to my friends?”

  Unfortunately, Dempster’s column led to a “Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war” situation. Suddenly the Daily Express, the Daily Mirror, and all the other scandal sheets started to point fingers at my mother’s private life. There were also cruel cartoons in magazines. Within the second week, the television stand-up comedians began on my mother. It was ugly; the ugly side of fame and the ugly side of England. Of course, it made an impact. It gave lucidity. I realized that the press and popular opinion were fickle and couldn’t be trusted. Nor was either going to hold me back, ever. Not bad lessons to learn early in life.