by James Spada
PETER LAWFORD’S UNCONVENTIONAL upbringing, under any circumstances, would have created a number of personality confusions in a young boy. The added element of his mother’s emotional instability left him with virtually no defenses. As he grew older, May drank more and more heavily, and he could never be sure what kind of day it would be or at what point during a bout of drinking his mother’s personality would change. The woman careered between smothering attention and chilly indifference to him. In her cups, effusive, she would coddle him, dress him as a girl, and play with him as though he were a doll; at other times she ignored him and foisted him off on the servants, often for months at a time.
Peter learned at an early age not to anger his mother, and his life revolved around keeping her happy and calm. After May passed out on her bed during a particularly bad drinking binge when Peter was seven, he frantically searched for a way to help her. Finally, he soaked the edges of her pillow with her favorite eau de cologne in the hope that that would please her. Then he stood by her bed for two hours softly telling her all the children’s stories he knew — just to make her feel better.
Sometimes May was indifferent to Peter for so long that the only way he could get her attention was to misbehave. May “believed in the hair brush,” as she put it, and Peter began to enjoy this form of motherly heed so much that he would engage in all kinds of contrived mischief to achieve it. Once, he pasted the pages of a spelling book together and waited for her to summon him. When she did, the usual scene was played out. “We had a little talk,” May later said, “at the end of which he frankly admitted he had done wrong. Then, without too many protestations, he bent over my knee and I applied the corrective treatment where it would do the most good. . . . I still insist, and Peter agrees, that the spankings did more than anything else to fit him for his present role.”
When Peter was five, and living with his parents in a Paris hotel, he surprised a burglar clambering into his bedroom window: “I saw a man with a sharp, evil face, carrying a weighted stick.” He cried out, and May ran into his room with Sir Sydney’s revolver. When she saw the man she shot him, and he fell backward out the window. “I was perfectly justified in killing him,” May said. “No charges were filed against me.”
Peter was so shocked and frightened, he later said, that he could no longer sleep if he was alone. He shared the same bed with his parents until he was eleven — a practice that may have been more a result of his need for parental closeness than his terror at a burglar.
Not long after Peter’s seventh birthday, May discovered him smoking the cigarette butts and drinking the alcohol left behind by her guests after a party. She watched him down glass after glass. “I waited for him to get tipsy or something,” she said. “He must have an iron digestive tract! It didn’t faze him.”
May wasn’t much bothered by this until one of the servants told her that the behavior was frequent and he feared that “Master Peter is becoming an alcoholic.” Rather than take the hairbrush to him this time, May waited until her next gathering and instructed the servants to put emetic tablets in all the glasses that still contained alcohol after the party ended. Before long, she heard Peter become violently ill. “Such terrible heaving!” she recalled. It broke him of the habit.
BEGINNING IN 1928, MAY SET OUT to reestablish her reputation in the British Isles. Her chief weapon in the battle was a series of dispatches she wrote for London newspapers from various cities throughout Europe, which became very popular.
Bylined “Noted traveler and writer Lady Lawford,” the columns, published chiefly in the Evening News and Daily Express, offered May’s impressions of the various countries she’d lived in and visited, and gave advice to women about health, the proper use of perfume, interior decorating, how to find a good flat in London, and how to keep one’s figure after forty. She described the latest Paris fashions in one column; in another she declared that “the best scrambled eggs I ever tasted were made at a picnic in the hills of India by a young subaltern over a fire of sticks under three stones.”
May’s writing was always interesting, sometimes vivid. In a column about her sojourn in Peshawar, Pakistan, she described invading Afghan tribesmen: “They have faces like a bit of hewn rock and eyes like a hungry panther; their long restless fingers are forever caressing the triggers of their rifles.”
Several of her dispatches concerned Peter. One was entitled “My Son Teaches Me: Our Children Are True Mirrors of Ourselves” and told of seven-year-old Peter’s admonishment of her when she spoke ill of a friend after an argument. “Mummy,” he said to her. “You didn’t really mean that she was a horrid woman, did you? Because you must love her.”
“Why?” May bristled, still indignant.
“Well, you called her ‘my enemy,’ and you know you’ve got to love your enemies.”
“That remark,” May wrote, “gave me food for thought and took a great deal of the resentment and sting out of my real or imagined wrongs.”
The columns stood May in good stead when the Lawfords were forced, after six years abroad, to return to London in 1930 because of the worldwide depression precipitated by the international stock market crashes of October 1929. Sir Sydney’s investment income suffered badly. He wasn’t wiped out, but the family had to economize; they could no longer afford to travel or rent lavish villas in France and Monaco. They moved back into their London flat and commuted to their country home in Toddington, both of which Sir Sydney owned outright.
May worried about their reception in London, but six years had passed since the publicity of their divorces; other, fresher scandals occupied London society. Few remembered the details of the Lawford-Aylen imbroglio, and fewer cared. The Lawfords, although still shunned by the prissier members of society, were welcomed back by most, especially those who had become fans of May’s columns.
In fact, it wasn’t long before May’s outspokenness and strongly conservative political views won her a position in the United Empire
Party, a fringe group headed by Lords Beaverbrook and Rothermere, Britain’s two most powerful newspaper barons. She was again in her element, cheered by crowds as she expressed her opinions, able to hold her own among the members of the old-boy network of British politicians — and match them pint for pint of ale. May delivered fiery speeches warning against the dissolution of the British Empire, and she reveled in the attention. She was, she bragged, followed and admired by thousands.
Audiences loved her outrageous retorts to hecklers; once, after an Irish woman asked her why she was wearing a Paris hat instead of one made in England, she shot back, “Because such a goose as you can’t make them as good!”
But May’s latest enthusiasm kept her away from her family so much that Peter’s tutor saw a need to reproach her. “What about the general?” he asked her. “He never sees you in the mornings, you occasionally lunch with him, and in the evenings you see him mainly at dinners and parties attended by large numbers.”
Nothing was said about Peter, who saw his mother now even less than Sir Sydney did. He continued to live in his own little fantasy world, shutting himself in his room for hours with a Gramophone to practice dance steps and imitate Charlie Chaplin.
Despite Peter’s antiwar recitation when he was three, Sir Sydney still harbored hope deep in his military soul that his son would straighten up and follow him through Wellington and Sandhurst and into the Royal Fusiliers. But he abandoned the notion by the time Peter was seven, when it became even clearer that the boy’s aptitudes were far from regimental. Peter later recalled that his father was not one of those who demanded, “Follow in my footsteps, boy!” — because Sydney could see that any attempt to force his son to do so would be futile.
Which isn’t to say that the general was pleased by Peter’s theatrical interests. His attitude toward show business was not far removed from Frank Bunny’s (the general and May’s father, it should be remembered, were of the same generation). According to May, Sir Sydney’s reaction to the first hint that Pet
er wanted to be a performer was bilious: “My son a common jester with a cap and bells, dancing and prancing around in front of people!”
May, of course, was far more enthusiastic about it. Her girlhood ambitions, the theatricals she had done, gave her a deep empathy for her son’s fascination with the theater. Although she would never admit it to Sir Sydney, she harbored her own hopes that Peter might have an acting career. She knew that with the worldwide popularity of Jackie Coogan, child actors were much in demand. Peter — a handsome, photogenic, self-possessed boy enthralled by performing — might easily win film work and contribute to the family’s finances.
It was one of May’s Empire Party associates who opened the door for Peter to make his professional acting debut. Sir Thomas Paulson owned a major interest in Elstree, a film production complex in Borehamwood, north of London. One of the centers of the fledgling British film industry, Elstree was owned by British International Films and had several movies in production at all times.
In January 1931, Peter visited his mother at the Empire Party offices in London. Aware of Sir Thomas’s ties to Elstree, Peter wrangled his way into Paulson’s office and sat in front of his desk. After a few pleasantries, Paulson asked him, “Have you decided what regiment you’re going into when you grow up?”
Peter replied, “None, sir. I’m not going to be a soldier. I’m going to be an actor.”
“Good Lord, son!” Paulson gasped. “Don’t ever say such a thing in front of your father, for God’s sake.”
Peter ignored the comment and said, “I hear, sir, that you have an interest in Elstree.”
“Why yes,” Paulson replied, amused. “I have a few shares.”
“I wonder, sir, if you could give me a letter to the studio manager — so I can find out if I’m an actor or not.”
“You mean you want to visit Elstree, son? Well, I think that can be arranged. I’ll give them an order to show you through. How about tomorrow?”
The next morning May and Peter boarded a train to Borehamwood. He could barely sit still as he stared out of the railway coach and watched scenes of the English countryside slip past the windows like frames of a movie. His mind wandered, and he imagined himself up on a giant silver screen, the light and shadow that flickered past his mind’s eye more real to him than the lonely reality of his life.
1 May’s marriage to Aylen was eventually annulled. A proud man, he let family and friends believe that Peter was indeed his son, and several times during the boy’s childhood May and Peter met for lunch with Ernest so that Aylen could see him. Aylen retired from the army a lieutenant colonel, and he never remarried. On October 12, 1947, at the age of seventy, he learned that he had cancer of the larynx. He returned from his doctor’s office to his rooms at the Three Crowns Hotel at Angmering-on-Sea, Sussex, removed a cache of barbiturates from a dresser drawer, gave a handful to his dog, and then ingested a lethal dose himself.
THREE
Peter’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he and May were escorted around Elstree. Called “the British Hollywood,” the studio was only a few years old and was completely equipped for sound production. “Lady Lawford and Master Peter” toured prop rooms with Roman columns and Louis XIV chaises loungues, costume rooms with World War I soldiers’ uniforms and Victorian bustles. In the makeup rooms they watched actors apply their greasepaint, and Peter was intoxicated. “I’ll never forget the smell,” he said.
Then he set foot on his first soundstage. Peter’s stare widened at the sight of arc lights, scaffolding, sound booms, cameras. After a few moments he and his mother were told to be as quiet as possible — a scene was about to be shot. The production was one of the first British talkies, Poor Old Bill, starring the portly low comedian Leslie Fuller, and Peter watched with rapt attention as the director, Monty Banks, orchestrated a scene in which a small boy puts his father’s clothes on his dog.
It was not going well. The dog was doing fine, but the young actor playing the boy repeatedly botched his lines. “It’s no good!” the mercurial Banks cried over and over. “Do it again!” He was ready to walk off the set when he spotted Peter standing next to his mother on the sidelines. The right age, angelically pretty, Peter seemed the answer to the director’s prayers. “That’s the type of boy I want!” Banks exclaimed, pointing at Peter. “Come here!”
May brought Peter over to Banks, who spoke with him for a few minutes. He then asked May if he could audition the boy in his office that afternoon. She agreed, and Banks shut down production for the rest of the day.
After a lunch at which the excited Peter barely touched his food, he and May were escorted into Banks’s office. As May sat in a corner chair, Peter stood in front of the director’s desk and asked, “Would you like me to recite in English, Spanish, or French?” May thought to herself, Poor man, he’s really in for it.
Peter recited a bit of child’s nonsense called “Tony Goes to War,” then danced and did imitations for the director — who was very pleased. “Wonderful, perfect, he’s in,” Banks told May. “Let’s sign the contracts.”
May wasn’t prepared for such abrupt success. “Now, wait just a minute,” she stammered. “I’ll have to talk to his father.” Banks handed the telephone to May and she, with some trepidation, dialed Sir Sydney.
The general was not pleased. “Are you insane, my dear?” he asked May. “I think you’d better come home.” May told Banks that she would have to discuss the matter with her husband and would let him know the next day. All the way home, Peter pleaded with May to persuade his father to let him take the job. “He must let me do it!” Peter cried over and over. “He must!”
At home, things did not go well. The general refused to allow Peter to accept Banks’s offer, despite hours of pleading by May and Peter’s tearful refusal to eat dinner that evening. But the next morning, as Peter’s hunger strike continued through breakfast, Sir Sydney softened. May convinced him that this would be only a one-time event, and that in fact Peter’s appearance in a film might “get such nonsense out of his system.” With the caveat “Just this one picture,” the general agreed.
May signed a contract for Peter, who was paid ten pounds a day for what amounted to five days’ work. He, of course, cared nothing about the money. What he loved was the atmosphere of the soundstage, the frenetic activity, the warmth of the lights, the glamorous actors and costumes and sets. He felt immediately at home on a soundstage, and he took to acting as though it were encoded in his genes. He remembered his lines perfectly and performed the scene with the dog with a naturalism that thrilled Banks. The director got what he wanted in just two takes.
The best part of it all for Peter was that while he was acting he was the center of attention, not just an occasional addendum to the world in which his mother was the vortex. It gave him an exhilarating feeling of freedom — and for the first time, a real sense of self-esteem.
That self-esteem was heightened by the publication of a major profile of him in the London Sunday Dispatch on April 26, 1931. Jackie Coogan’s worldwide success had created an inordinate interest in fledgling child actors, and the article, titled “Wise Little English Film Star,” dubbed Peter “Britain’s Jackie Coogan.” The unnamed author of the piece described Peter as “the stuff that stars are made of” and quoted him on his opposition to a military career: “It would be very nice to be like Daddy, but it would take too long to be a general. I could become a film star at once. I would rather a profession where I can start at the top.” Then he added, “Besides, think of being in that war.” The writer then editorialized, “So a rational attitude towards the stupidity of war has succeeded the child’s hero-worshipping ‘What did you do in the war, Daddy?’”
The profile went on to describe Peter as “quite unselfconscious and at the same time quite unspoilt by his success. He can dance with a savage vigour and rhythm which would not be out of place in Harlem, and he has even picked up tap-dancing. He can already play the ukelele with technical efficiency.”
It was heady stuff for such a small boy — and so too were his admiring reviews once Poor Old Bill was released. But when Peter saw himself on-screen for the first time, he squirmed with embarrassment. “I really thought I looked like a bloody fool,” he said. Still, the acting bug had bitten him, and he nagged at his parents to let him do another role.
They refused, because by now there was mounting hostility toward the idea from both sides of his family. Peter’s quotes in the Sunday Dispatch had angered May’s father, now in his early seventies, who telephoned her and bellowed, “Do you think nothing of putting your only child into hell?” And Sydney’s sister Ethel, a widowed millionairess, threatened to disinherit Peter, to whom she had planned to leave her entire estate, unless he “got over this nonsense once and for all!”2
That didn’t seem likely. Peter’s vague, childish dreams of acting were cemented by the joy he felt at appearing in Poor Old Bill; he talked constantly about making more films and pleaded with his parents to allow it. May managed to persuade Sir Sydney to let Peter do one more film, A Gentleman of Paris, before they returned to France in 1932. There, Peter appeared in several films during the next twelve months, but his fledgling career didn’t have any more of a chance in France than it had in Britain: in 1933, Peter was once again uprooted.
Sir Sydney’s financial picture had improved through a moderate inheritance, and he decided that the family should travel — as much to get Peter away from soundstages as to fulfill his own desire to see more of the world. Over the next five years, the Lawford family would not live in any one region of the earth for more than nine months at a time.