One Hundred Summers

by Vanessa Branson

  Two days later, Yalda called again. ‘She didn’t make it,’ she said. For a while her words didn’t sink in and were scrambled in my head: ‘Sorry, Yalda, but what are you talking about?’ And then I sat on the stairs, and Yalda and I wept silently into our phones.

  Responsibility for the Biennale was squarely on my shoulders, but knowing that it’s always best to leave when people still want you to stay, I stepped down as president and handed the baton over to Amine Kabbaj – it was time for Morocco to own the event. In truth, I was exhausted and it was bankrupting me. As an organisation without state funding, we’d always been on the financial back foot. Key sponsors are always nervous about backing a major event unless it will definitely be ongoing, which we couldn’t guarantee. Still, Amine was optimistic.

  In 2016, twelve years after its inception, the Biennale was overseen by Reem Fadda, a Palestinian curator seconded from the Guggenheim in New York. The town was hopping with events in fifty-two venues, including an energetic programme of street performance, and all the exhibits were free. The Biennale had come of age. That year it was dedicated to Leila.

  ***

  The story of El Fenn has been just as eventful and no less challenging. Jess Bannister was working in Marrakech for the Biennale in December 2009, when she called me from the hotel. ‘Ness, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news,’ she said, ‘but the staff here haven’t been paid for two months.’

  ‘What do you mean? Frederic hasn’t told us of any problems.’

  ‘Ness, listen to me – Frederic is the problem.’

  Howell and I kick ourselves now – we’d had so much faith in Frederic, but we’d underestimated the pressure he’d been under and should have recognised the stress of designing, building and running El Fenn. We’d been given the odd indication that things were amiss – there were recurring issues with the plumbing that weren’t being addressed, and he’d forgotten to arrange a pick-up for us from the airport – but instead of facing up to the impending meltdown, we chose to ignore the clues and hope they would disappear.

  Gushing compliments are far easier to relay than negative reports, and even though many people had noticed a slippage at El Fenn, no one apart from Jess had had the courage to inform us. Howell and I flew out to encounter chaos: Frederic, having been overwhelmed by addiction, had had an almighty breakdown.

  It was the week leading up to Christmas and the hotel was fully booked with high-profile guests including Kristin Scott Thomas. On the flight from London, we wondered what we were facing. After a tragic showdown with Frederic, Howell had to return to work in London, leaving me to assess the damage, reassign signatories for the bank accounts, change the locks and generally clean up the mess. To compound our difficulties, a member of the kitchen staff was agitating to start a union; instead of working together as a team, I was facing the nightmare of having the staff turn against us. Our haven of peace was sinking into a vision of hell and I had no one to turn to. I was the grown-up now.

  I called a staff meeting, and all fifty of the team turned up. A semi-circle of expectant faces were looking up at me as I sat up on a bar stool in front of them. I noticed the four or five agitators standing at the back. I had no idea what I was going to say, but before I knew it, I realised that I was falling back on the mantras I had been brought up with. Mum’s words pumped me up. ‘Nessie, stop thinking about yourself. To be a good leader, you can’t be popular with everyone.’

  And with that I looked them in the eye and told them exactly what was going on. Thanking them all for holding El Fenn together under such difficult circumstances, I stated as clearly as I could that unless we hung together the future wouldn’t be bright.

  ‘I hear that a few of you have been gathering support for a union,’ I said. ‘But as you can imagine, a union would mean that every aspect of your working life would be regulated – no flexibility of rotas, no unexpected bonuses, no unofficial compassionate leave and threats rather than discussion.’

  No one replied and then I said, ‘Now, if you were the owner of El Fenn, what would you do in this situation?’ The atmosphere in the room immediately became more relaxed and trust returned.

  Two days before the holiday season began, we promoted Ahmed to head waiter, Housain to head of food and beverages, our receptionist Rushdi to temporary hotel manager and Fatima, one of the cleaners, to head of housekeeping. Jess and the other Biennale director, Clare Azzougarh and her rapper husband Tarik, a member of the Wu-Tang Clan, agreed to become temporary managers.

  Howell and I had to find huge sums to cover the missing wages and had no choice but to borrow more money against our London homes. And then, just as we were beginning to think we could start breathing again, the gods threw another spanner in the works.

  It was April 2010 and Jess and I were working on the Biennale in London. An item popped up on her Facebook news feed. ‘Ness, there’s been an explosion in the Argana café on Jemaa el-Fna.’

  My phone rang. It was our new manager, Adrian Campbell-Howard. ‘They think it’s just some gas bottles exploding,’ he said somewhat optimistically.

  I went to Hyde Park, where a crowd of half a million people were watching Prince William’s wedding to Kate Middleton. The little girls were all up dressed as fairy-tale princesses, while the older ones chorused, ‘Over here, Harry!’ whenever he appeared on the screen.

  I returned home to the shocking news that twenty-six people had been killed by a bomb planted in the iconic Argana café. The impact this would have on El Fenn was instantly clear, a feeling confirmed when Handelsbanken, who had lent us the money to buy the properties next to El Fenn, got cold feet about investing in Morocco and refused to refinance our loan. The one positive of Frederic leaving and the collapse in visitor numbers after the bomb, was the realisation that Howell and I could no longer consider ourselves accidental hoteliers: we needed to up our game. First we arranged for Julia Spence, Navin’s partner and my good friend, to handle our PR and then we hired Peter Chittick, who had previously worked for the Soho House, as our finance director. Peter was clear that ‘if you can’t measure it, you can’t manage it’ – we finally had goals and budgets and knew the size of the beast we had to tame.

  Then came the Arab Spring. Although the countries concerned were thousands of miles away from Morocco, it was easy for the tourists to confuse Morocco with the embattled places they’d seen on their television screens. One after another North African regimes were toppled: the Tunisian revolution began in 17 December 2010, followed by Egypt in January, Libya in October and Syria soon after that. There were protests in Morocco but they were peaceful affairs that were quickly brought to an end by constitutional reform instituted by the king. All was going to be OK, insha’Allah.

  ***

  In the following few years I was going to have to draw on the inner strength I’d first needed when I called the knacker’s yard all those years before, a resilience that had grown when I walked into that Brighton clinic, when I faced Robert’s betrayal and upon Shelagh’s courageous death. I was attempting not to slip into toughness though – it protects emotional vulnerability but also closes your heart to the joy of birdsong.

  Life was flashing by at a fearsome pace, and the four children were fast becoming adults. I was not only living my own life but theirs too, sending them off on gap years and to university, organising endless birthday parties and driving up and down the M4 to school and back. The house in Notting Hill had become ‘Youth Central’ and I took pleasure in cooking mounds of spaghetti and chicken casseroles for ever-hungry teenagers.

  The pressure was beginning to take its toll, but I was incapable of saying no to new requests and ideas. Was I fearful of having time to think, or did I feel too unworthy to take the time to look after myself? So many people were depending on me for their livelihoods at El Fenn and the Biennale, and I was also running TEDx Marrakech and managing The Farm and Eilean Shona. My parents and children also needed more of my time, while my relationship with Robert was less
than supportive. There was a risk that I would sink, but I doggedly sailed on, right into the eye of the storm.

  3

  NEVERLAND FOUND

  It was March 2011 when Lindy, Mum, Dad, Matthew, Joe and Jess Bannister, Navin and Julia, Robert, Mark and Amanda Tandy and Clare and I gathered in the theatre at Marlborough College to watch Ivo play John Proctor in The Crucible by Arthur Miller. He lit up the stage and the audience was enthralled. Knowing how much it meant to his youngest grandchild, Dad had drawn on all his remaining strength, determined to be there. Aged ninety-three, he found it an effort to get dressed, let alone drive in a car for two hours and sit through a long play. After the show he shook hands with Ivo, who bent down and kissed his grandfather’s cheek. Feeling overwhelmed by the number of people swarming around, I gave Dad a cursory kiss and waved him off.

  The following weekend I flew to Marrakech to take part in a panel that was selecting artists for a residency programme. Before dashing out to work, I called home for a quick chat with Dad. Unusually, his housekeeper Beverly answered.

  ‘They’re just carrying the body downstairs now Vanessa,’ she said softly. I let the phone flop away from my ear. My mind struggled to make sense of her words.

  ‘Thank you, Beverly. Sorry, could I call you back in a minute? There’s someone at the door?’ I lied, unable to continue talking.

  I sat on the side of the bed, trying to clear my head. ‘OK, Ness,’ I said under my breath, ‘pull yourself together.’

  I rang the hotel reception. ‘Fatima, please could you get me on the first flight to London?’ My words sounded strange. ‘I think my father may have died.’

  I sank back on the bed, grateful for the sanctuary of my cool room. A discordant cacophony of voices swirled around as holy men tuned their voices for morning prayers before the imam at the Katoubia began his loud incantation, releasing a city-wide crescendo of song: ‘Allahu Akbar.’

  And then there was a knock on the door, and the El Fenn staff filed in to pay their respects, quietly holding my hands in theirs and looking me in the eye, as they each said, ‘Madam, I am so sorry to hear of your loss.’ And with these words the fact is gently driven home: it is true. My father is dead.

  That afternoon I joined the artist Yto Barrada, who was also on the selection panel. She didn’t raise her voice above a whisper as we wallowed in a shaded pool, the quiet hours provided a soothing balm as I took my first steps in the foothills of grief.

  A car arrived to take me to the airport. ‘Yto, thank you so much for understanding my need for quiet this afternoon,’ I said. ‘I’m really touched by your thoughtfulness.’

  ‘Actually Vanessa,’ she whispered, ‘it’s just that I’ve lost my voice.’ I gave her a hearty hug before getting in the car to begin my journey home. How that would have made Dad chuckle.

  ***

  We organised a simple funeral service at Chichester Crematorium. I drove there with Navin and Julia via the funeral director’s, where we adorned my father’s wicker coffin with the spring flowers we’d picked that morning. I found the notion of his lifeless body being only two inches from my hands almost impossible to fathom.

  Driving to the funeral, Navin broke the silence. ‘Did you know that Chichester Crematorium is one of the best in the country?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied, somewhat surprised.

  ‘Yes, it’s the crème de la crème,’ he said. We were still giggling as we got out of the car, ready to give Dad a fitting send-off.

  Following the service and gathering at Cakeham, a few of us walked down to the beach. I sat detached in grief but surrounded by kindness as we all watched Navin, Richard and Theo Oulton walk tentatively over the shingle before plunging into the sea, their whoops mingling with the sound of crashing waves for a mere two minutes before they hobbled back towards us, clutching their freezing balls.

  Dad would have been horrified to think of his death causing us misery. I wanted to respect his spirit and not allow the numbness to last too long, but I didn’t realise then that his death would trigger a sequence of trials that would test my health and sanity. It would be another five years before I began writing this book, and it would take me until I finished this final chapter to acknowledge the powerful forces that had been both my undoing and my redemption.

  The following year, the blows that rained down on me were almost biblical in their ferocity. One of our boys became unwell, the Great House on Necker burnt down and my car was written off by someone running a traffic light. I’d steadily borrowed eye-watering sums against my house over the years, and the banks began putting pressure on me to pay off my debts. Climate change was also wreaking havoc: after three months of drought, the tinder-dry undergrowth on Eilean Shona caught fire, and two-thirds of the island was engulfed in flames, before a hurricane felled swathes of ancient woodland. To compound the stress, the finances of the Biennale were out of control, and I felt responsible for the debts. The onslaught felt comical in its relentlessness so, when I received the call that The Farm had suffered a serious flood, I could do nothing but laugh.

  The following summer we were holidaying on Eilean Shona. After a picnic on Gortchen Sands, my mind set upon an epic swim. ‘I’m not sure this is a good idea, Ness,’ Robert said, cutting the engine and bringing the rib to a shuddering stop. Shoe Bay was deserted, with not a footprint in the fine sand.

  Wine from our lunch on the mainland had lightened the mood among our landing party. The dogs leapt ashore and chased each other in circles. Ivo carried the anchor onto higher ground while we rolled out of the boat.

  ‘Come on, let’s give it a go,’ I said. ‘If we don’t do it today, we never will.’ The familiar sensation of changing gear from random idea to stubborn plan took over, as Robert shook his head.

  Three of our party silently paddled up beside us in kayaks as a dozen seagulls fussed over a scrap of fish, their whiteness catching a ray of sun, brilliant against the grey sky. Matthew became agitated, his visceral fear of the sea caught in his throat as he tried to intervene. ‘Chaps, let’s just go home on the boat – I really don’t like this at all.’

  ‘The tide is with us,’ I persisted. ‘That’ll give us a sporting chance.’

  ‘I know, Ness,’ Robert replied, ‘but the wind is whipping the waves in this direction – it’s going to be a horrible swim.’

  By now it was late afternoon and there was no time to dither. ‘Come on, Rob. Don’t be such a spoilsport,’ I said. The idea of wading into the choppy water and swimming the two miles home made me feel sick with apprehension, but something was driving me on. Something buried deep inside me wanted to prove that I was worthy of Robert, that I was unbreakable – even if it killed me.

  We were no strangers to swimming in Scottish waters, which are a maximum twelve degrees Celsius even at the height of the summer. We understood that once you’re in the water it takes a minute to calm your panicked breathing, two minutes for the pain to disappear and then a further five minutes before the sensation of well-being washes over you. But we’d never embarked on a swim this ambitious before.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Navin cursed, removing his sweater. Florence joined in the chorus of nervous laughter as she stripped down too. ‘Yikes, Mum – this is insane.’

  Navin, Robert, Flo and I tiptoed into the water and hopped from one foot to the other before running, whooping and diving in. We emerged, punching the air, and then put our heads down and set off.

  Being a strong swimmer I knew that the cold, rather than exhaustion, was going to be my enemy and that I’d have to dig deep to overcome its effects. Bloody hell, it was cold. A turbo-charge of adrenalin shot into my system, my vision narrowed and I found my rhythm. Kick, kick, crawl, breathe.

  I lost sight of the others. Pete, my designated minder, paddled beside me, though we didn’t talk. I focused on the jetty. Kick, kick, crawl, breathe. A curious seal bobbed up in front of me. I ploughed on.

  After about half an hour I noticed my fingers begin to
curl, forming a fist rather than a paddle, as every spare drop of blood retreated to my core. This was clearly not good, but I told myself to keep calm. Panic at your peril.

  ‘Are you ok, Ness?’

  I attempted a cheery thumbs up and pushed on, but it crossed my mind that even if I needed rescuing, the air temperature wasn’t going to warm me up and we hadn’t thought to bring any extra clothes. In any case, the likelihood of me toppling Pete into the water while clambering onto his kayak was high. There was always the RIB, I reassured myself. Kick, kick, crawl, breathe.

  ‘Robert has given up,’ Pete said, encouraging me on. ‘Ivo has taken him back to the house. The others are a little behind but still going strong. You’re well over halfway.’

  I tried to answer Pete, but my tongue wouldn’t work and I gurgled like a stroke victim. There was no rescue boat now, but no fear. I had no thought but to reach the jetty, and no idea how far I had left to go. And then the effort was just too great. I stopped swimming and felt a peace flood my being. I just wanted to sleep. No more struggle.

  They say that your entire life flashes before you just before you drown. Not so with me. I just remembered the Tanyards pool, with Lindy wrapping me in a warm towel, and as I closed my eyes I saw the smiling faces of each of my children.

  Pete yelling from the jetty, fifty metres away, woke me. ‘Come on Ness, you’re nearly there. You’re going to do it – don’t stop swimming.’ I kicked on, doing what I was told, strength arriving from nowhere. Pete hauled me onto the jetty and I sat for a second on the concrete before passing out. Then Flo swam in, youth on her side. Her quick thinking saved my life, I’m sure of it now. She ran up to the house, shouting to Robert to run a hot bath while Pete carried me close behind, my head slumped and limbs floppy.