One Hundred Summers

by Vanessa Branson

  ‘My darling Clare,’ I said, bending down to kiss her through the clouds of cigar smoke and brushing a dog away, ‘I’m so sorry to hear about Gerard.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ she replied.

  I thought perhaps I should bring up the subject later. ‘How about a cuppa?’ I suggested.

  ‘Lovely, darling – I never say no to a cuppa.’

  As a family, we had always revered Clare, with her forthright, no-nonsense approach to life. Her fine features were defined by a strong jawline and high cheekbones, that would in the latter part of her life become entrenched with deep crevasses, emphasised by years of nicotine deposits lining their depths. She was quick to condemn but equally quick to laugh, an infectious intake of breath that conveyed sheer joy.

  After Gerard died, I took to visiting Clare three or four times a year. I would take the train from London and be met by cousin Robert, then endure an hour or two sitting with her in a fug of cigar smoke, batting off her dogs Poppy and Blue, who crawled on my lap, licking my face and taking opportunistic nibbles at my lunch. Clare’s life had shrunk over the years and she now did little more than walk from her bedroom to her conservatory. Her interests had been reduced to watching her bird table and scanning her right-wing newspapers. No longer did she wander around her once-well-tended garden, and nor did she watch TV, listen to the radio or call anyone. She steered clear of anything that might touch her emotions.

  How did this highly educated, well-read, funny lady become so brittle? And how could her outlook differ so from Mum’s, her sister who was ten years her senior? She never forgot her early years of loneliness. She never forgot being sent away to boarding school, and she never forgot the years she spent hanging around at Thurlestone Golf Club, waiting for her parents to finish their round. And the sad truth is that adult life never allowed this clever, beautiful spirit to fly.

  After leaving school, Clare joined the Foreign Office, where she met handsome, laconic, resourceful and kind – but also weak-willed and indulged – Gerard. They were just twenty-one when they married. Gerard had contracted tuberculosis during the war and, to everyone’s horror, Clare contracted the disease on their honeymoon.

  His family, wealthy distant cousins of the Hoare banking dynasty, gave them the Mill House as a wedding present. An exquisite Georgian village house, it looked over a millpond, with views across the water and over the meadows beyond that which resembled a painting by John Constable. The house had been immaculately furnished with block-print wallpapers and silk curtains, but once Clare and Gerard had moved in, they could barely afford food let alone for refurbishment, and their once-dazzling interior gradually faded before their eyes. The kitchen utensils became buckled with use, the curtains threadbare and shredded, the carpets worn and the walls crusted with the continuous onslaught that the two committed smokers inflicted on the house.

  Their lives together had started well enough. Gerard and Clare were celebrated on the Norfolk social circuit, but after years of partying, drink played an increasingly central role. Gerard found it difficult to hold down a decent job, and their pain was exacerbated by the realisation that, after contracting TB, it was unlikely that Clare would ever be able to get pregnant.

  The final shred of respect that Clare had for Gerard vanished when an adoption agency declared them unsuitable as parents, on the grounds of Gerard’s excessive drinking. Clare realised that she could no longer rely on Gerard and started Black Sheep Knitwear. She’d been building a flock of Black Welsh Mountain sheep for years and now began employing ladies from the village of Ingworth to knit their beautiful brown wool into jumpers.

  The family entrepreneurial spirit kicked in and Black Sheep grew into a successful business. Her biggest export market was the Japanese, who couldn’t buy enough of her cable-knit chunky sweaters. She talked to me about the thrill of flying to Japan to meet suppliers and retail outlets. However, on her second or third trip to Tokyo, Gerard, back at home, drank with such suicidal fervour that he was taken by ambulance to the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. Clare took to locking the drinks cupboard whenever she left the house, but no lock could prevent Gerard from drinking himself into oblivion if Clare left him alone overnight.

  It’s no wonder that Clare’s bitterness grew into a hardened ball that, while well disguised during our family visits, was perfectly apparent to local friends and acquaintances. Their relationship spiralled downwards, and sweet Gerard lost his confidence to such an extent that he soon refused to travel further from the house than to the off-licence in their local market town of Aylsham, just three miles away. Clare’s barely suppressed anger was a constant reminder of his weakness, and she expressed it in increasingly eccentric behaviour that would have been humorous to witness if it wasn’t so tragic.

  ‘We couldn’t get divorced in our time,’ Clare muttered on my arrival following Gerard’s death. ‘It just wasn’t the done thing.’

  ‘You had some happy times though, didn’t you?’ I asked hopefully. ‘Some times of laughter in the early days?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘but he was never really my friend – not like Douglas.’

  Time plays such tricks with our memories of past loves. Douglas Bader had been brash and rude, and he’d been a notorious bully to his juniors. I doubt Clare would have been any happier if she had ended up marrying him, but she could dream.

  ‘Well, I remember some very happy times with you two,’ I said firmly. ‘Do you remember his collection of wind-up toys? The pleasure he took at setting them off!’ Clare rolled her eyes.

  ‘What shall we do for his funeral, Clare? It’s probably time we started giving it some thought.’

  She looked me straight in the eye. ‘Oh, we’re not having a funeral,’ she said.

  I waited until Gerard’s youngest sister Rosie arrived before broaching the subject again. Rosie was eighteen years younger than Gerard and had adored her big brother. She was also fond of, and very patient with, her sister-in-law.

  ‘It would be lovely to do a little something for Gerard, Clare,’ Rosie said gently. ‘Nothing fancy – just a little ritual as the family gather to say goodbye.’

  But Clare sat bolt upright, not budging on her refusal to hold a send-off for Gerard. We tried humour, we exerted moral pressure and we let her sleep on it, but she refused to budge. The following morning, Rosie and I put some concrete proposals to Clare.

  ‘We could ask someone to write and say some words about Gerard,’ we suggested optimistically.

  ‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Maybe a simple poem then?’ She shook her head.

  ‘How about just a little music?’

  At this, Clare threw her hands in the air, covered her ears and shouted. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t like music!’

  Years of suppressing her emotions were at risk of being released, but she had managed to keep the lid firmly screwed down and had no intention of exposing a hint of vulnerability. In the end, the family reached a compromise of sorts, reading one poem and singing one hymn. Clare was driven to the crematorium by Robert Hoare and sat upright throughout the service. She refused to stay for a drink in the pub afterwards.

  When I last visited Clare a few months ago, I asked her what the happiest time of her life had been. She leant towards her packet of cigars, slotted one between her painfully contorted fingers, lit it and took a deep draw of the acrid smoke. As she slowly exhaled, she said, ‘Now, I think – I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.’

  Mum rings me every hour, asking why her sister, nine years her junior, has died. She’s not sad exactly, but rather incredulous that a death could have happened. There’s always been a shortage of sentimentality in our family, and grief and disappointment are put into the same basket. I’m taken back to an eventful family holiday in Menorca, in August 1997 when the call came through that Granny Dock had died while we were partying on the terrace. Mum relayed the news to us all. Granny had reached ninety-nine, a
nd the quality of her active life had been much reduced, due to a stroke that had overwhelmed her as she was about to board a cruise ship in Cairo two years previously. Her death was a blessing, but the news still momentarily took my breath away. My father caught my expression and rushed to my side, not with a consoling arm but with a stern admonishment.

  ‘Don’t even think about crying, Vanessa,’ he said. ‘Your grandmother lived well. To cry is just thinking about yourself.’

  ‘Please, Daddy, just give me ten minutes to let the news sink in, then I’ll be fine,’ I replied.

  Half an hour later, my son Noah, then aged ten, rowed us back across the harbour to Vanessa’s Folly, our old houseboat where we were staying. When we were safely away from the house, he dropped the oars and we wept in each other’s arms.

  How best to send Clare off? Who would come to wish her well on her onward travels? I knew what she wanted: no fuss, no religion, no music and no poetry. But we couldn’t resist.

  I officiated at her funeral, which was attended by a surprising number of well-wishers. Gerard’s sister Clemency read a fitting poem celebrating man’s love of dogs. We sang ‘Jerusalem’, of course, and I gave the address, praising the eccentricity and stoicism of that remarkable generation. Mum had come up to Norfolk by train flanked by three of my children, Louis, Florence and Ivo. As always, she was the star, dressed in a cashmere suit topped with a fur stole, her hair coiffed, nails polished and skin glowing. I looked down at her from while I was reading the address, suddenly all too aware of the different lives that she and Clare had led. After pushing the button to send her sister towards the furnace, I caught Mum’s eye and we gave each other a simultaneous wink.

  7

  TWO SLIGHTLY DISTORTED GUITARS

  My enthusiasm for university withered on the vine. Neither Mum, Dad, nor any teacher had even hinted that it might be a possibility. My parents had been serious when trying to convince Richard of the importance of a good education and of gaining some sort of professional qualification, but they had become more relaxed when the time came to encourage their daughters to continue their studies. Dad’s fear of academia and Mum’s conviction that life was for living meant that higher education just wasn’t on our agenda.

  Once Nabeel had left Box Hill, I decided that my boarding school days were over too. I spent a glorious year at St Mary’s Tutorial College in Guildford, better known as ‘Hobbs Crammer’. It was a tumbledown establishment run by a headmistress whose interest was clearly directed at encouraging a steady stream of students through her doors rather than concerning herself with the quality of their education. There were plenty of students there who, like me, had outgrown conventional school life. We were a motley lot and would bond over a ciggie on the pavement before entering the draughty Victorian building each morning. I turned up for classes covering my chosen subjects, and felt grown-up and free. My time at the college was unremarkable except for the fact that that I met two lifelong friends there, Sarah Batwell and Hamish Dewar, and that I was taught biology by Hugh Cornwell, who played in the local pubs at night with his band, The Stranglers.

  Sarah would zip around the Surrey countryside and pick me up from Shamley Green in her white Triumph Herald convertible. She would later teach me how to drive, and with only one proper lesson, I passed my test two weeks after my seventeenth birthday. Then, thanks to Mum loaning me her Mini, I too had the freedom of the open road.

  Hamish and I met for lunch every Friday and would sit in the gardens of the Jolly Farmer pub beside the River Wey. Hamish was quietly spoken, a youngest son with two older sisters. I was immediately struck by his kindness and gentle curiosity, an unusual quality after the boisterous atmosphere of Tanyards, where everyone talked over each other while hammering their points home. Hamish had been expelled from Sherborne School, having been caught flogging weed to his fellow sixth formers. He was quietly ambitious and stretched Hobbs’s academic capabilities by being the first ever student to attempt an Oxbridge exam there.

  Hamish’s mother had recently received a breast cancer diagnosis, and he had been coming to terms with this when his father suffered a devastating stroke, rendering him virtually speechless – all he could say was ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘damn’, ‘bloody’ and ‘blast’. Over enormous plates of jacket potatoes and baked beans, Hamish and I would try to make sense of what his family were going through.

  Aside from the challenge of his home life, Hamish had another conundrum: once he had passed his Oxbridge exams, he would need a reference from the Sherborne headmaster. Knowing this wouldn’t be forthcoming, he asked his old drama master if he would write him a reference on Sherborne headed paper, hoping the university wouldn’t notice the difference. This kindly teacher agreed, on the condition that Hamish never took any drugs again.

  The freedom I experienced at this time is hard to describe. My home life was filled with student lodgers during the week and Richard and Lindy, plus their partners and friends, at the weekends – our kitchen table seemed able to expand to accommodate any number of people.

  I would observe my sister closely with the blind love of a younger sibling. With her full Branson smile, perfect teeth, wide eyes, high cheekbones, glossy auburn hair and flawless skin, she was undeniably beautiful, but I learned that being so attractive can be a mixed blessing. The combination of having gone to girls’ schools and the effect she had on men meant that it was difficult for her to have platonic friendships with them. The power she exerted over men was exhilarating, but could also be a handicap.

  Lindy was living in a one-bedroomed first-floor flat on Ifield Road, on the Chelsea–Fulham border, which Mum and Dad had recently purchased as a London bolthole. Although she was a talented artist, her friends tended to be focused less on culture and more on business. She also had a penchant for racing drivers and spent a good deal of her weekends at Brands Hatch, but her heart eventually settled on Robert Abel Smith, a smooth-talking old Etonian who ran a furniture removals company. We all adored Bertie: his relaxed charm and easy nature more than compensated for his presumption that dirty dishes miraculously washed themselves and flew back onto the dresser.

  Even at the time, I was aware of the advantages of being the youngest member of the family. Richard and Lindy were so much older than me that they were almost like a second set of parents, but unlike the more cautious role that parents feel they have to take, they broadened my vision. My wonderful siblings took risks on my behalf and pushed boundaries, and I worshipped them both. They were exemplary role models, even if, having witnessed the paths they took, I chose to walk down different roads.

  Lindy and Bertie were soon engaged to be married. Feeling somewhat uneasy after attending their wedding rehearsal on the eve of their big day, I went to see her that night.

  ‘Lindy, do you mind if I say something?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she hummed, carried away on a cloud of joy as tomorrow’s nuptials drew near.

  ‘It’s just, well, I’m not sure…’ I tentatively started.

  ‘Not sure about what?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you really want to say “love and obey” in your vows?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she swooned. ‘I think men should be the ones to wear the trousers in a relationship.’

  I thought about the generations who had worn our family wedding dress, including our strong-minded granny and great granny. I also thought about our mighty mother and about how I wanted my future relationships to play out – and decided to say no more.

  Until this point, the world at large rarely encroached on my adolescent life. The Three-Day Week and the power cuts of the early 1970s had provided cosy candlelit nights by the fire. In our house, the only suggestion that we might be personally affected by the threat of conflict was that the shelves in Mum and Dad’s wardrobe would sag a little lower under more tins of baked beans and sacks of muesli. The news affected other people’s lives, but not mine. But then, one Saturday night in October 1974, everything changed.

  Ten or twent
y of us were having a party at our friend Pete’s house. It was the usual stuff of Saturday nights – the odd swig of illicit vodka with JJ Cale on the stereo, furtive smoking and enthusiastic snogging. I think Pete and I were under a blanket when his parents walked in and turned the lights on and the music off.

  We scrambled upright.

  ‘Something really quite terrible has happened,’ his mother told us quietly.

  We stood blinking in the light, more concerned about being busted than whatever they were about to tell us.

  ‘No one should be alarmed, but we want you to line up behind the telephone in the hall and ring home to let your parents know that you’re alright. The Horse and Groom pub in Guildford has been bombed, and many people have been killed and injured. The Seven Stars was bombed too, but the people inside had been tipped off and no one was hurt.’

  ‘Bramley, three one double three,’ came my father’s slow, clear voice as he picked up the phone.

  ‘Hi Dad, it’s Ness – we’ve just been told about the bombs in Guildford.’

  ‘Oh Lordy,’ he replied. ‘Not very nice, but I wouldn’t let them worry you.’

  The IRA bombings became a fact of life from then on, but it became a point of honour not to adjust our behaviour in any manner; I have the same attitude to terrorism to this day. Sadly, the Guildford pub bombings resulted in the passing of the Prevention of Terrorism Act, which was used by the Metropolitan Police to force false confessions from a group of innocent men. The Guildford Four, as they became known, were convicted and jailed for over fifteen years before their convictions were quashed.

  After leaving Hobbs, I spent a happy but fruitless year doing a bilingual secretarial course at Guildford Technical College. I couldn’t spell in English, let alone in Spanish, so the idea of getting a job as a secretary was ridiculous, but I did learn a few important lessons. There were thirty girls in Miss McKenzie’s class, and we would sit in rows behind enormous electric typewriters, transcribing our shorthand dictation. We were taught how to use carbon paper in triplicate, and I was forever Tippexing out mistakes and accidentally sticking all three sheets of paper together in the process.