I lay in the bath, aware of Flo on top of me shouting, ‘Come back Mummy – don’t leave us. Wake up.’ I was floating down through a dark green, velvet-lined tunnel.
Robert was adding more hot water to the bath, as our frozen bodies rapidly cooled the water down. He made me some porridge and tea, in order to get some heat into my core. My blood surged, and my heart pounded once again. I was as sick as a dog and then fell asleep, waking a little stunned but very much alive. I’d managed the swim unbroken.
When stress mounts incrementally, many of us don’t act to lessen the load until it’s too late. Everything had been crumbling around me, but after the swim I realised I had to turn my life around. The way to do this was not only to stop battling upstream, but to get out of the water altogether.
To achieve this would take all the effort I could muster, but once I was committed to a change of direction, nothing could get in my path. There was no room for emotion to distract me from my course – I simply had to get from this breaking point to a place of peace.
Robert and I were ‘talked out’ – there was nothing more to say and we were unable to reconcile our conflicting narratives: I was still hurt, smarting with a sense of injustice, and he was still angry at my inability to understand. My blood pressure became dangerously high after Mum broke her hip and the replacement hip became infected with a superbug. I could literally hear my surging blood pressure, the whooshing pulses resembling a washing machine churning in my ear.
My first job was to sell the London house and pay off my debts. Robert felt the family house had been the glue that held us together. It was time to let him go free. Oh, how we both struggled, but I could allow no empathy for Robert’s plight without tearing my own heart out in the process. When we moved out, I drove in one direction while he drove off in another. Within months he had a new girlfriend in South Africa. An era had come to an end.
Before the new owner’s demolition cranes moved in, Florence formed the Ladbroke Terrace Collective, and for a fortnight in September our rambling family home of twenty years was turned into a gloriously chaotic stage for artists, musicians, writers and poets. The madness of creativity exorcised dark memories from the grand Georgian terrace and momentarily returned the now genteel area of bankerdom to the vibrant and creative Notting Hill of my youth.
But still the demons hovered, their ugly chants asking ‘Where did you go wrong?’, ‘How could you have failed your children like that?’ and ‘If only you’d done that differently…’ Cruel words from the past played out over and over again.
Moving into a new house with the children, along with Bodley, of course, continued the healing process. You can choose the memories you carry with you, and I dumped a skip’s worth in the recycling bins, but still those damned voices chanted on – I just couldn’t throw them off: ‘You’ve failed, Vanessa. Without a man by your side you are nothing. If you’d done things differently, just imagine how your family would be today…’
The children and I talked about the past and how we were all dealing with our new situation. No one would have realised how much effort we were making to come to terms with where we found ourselves and how to move forward.
***
A fitting memorial for Dad was in order, and my friend and colleague Lauren and I did him proud by organising a gathering at the Royal Geographical Society. Navin yet again stepped up to the challenge, throwing himself into presenting a kind of ‘This Is Your Life’ that would capture Dad’s joyous twinkle and entertain the audience. The grandchildren contributed by showing films or giving readings. Richard spoke about how he had telephoned Dad almost every day for advice and how much pleasure he took in every minute he spent with him. And of course, we all celebrated his easy, deep, contagious laugh. Then Peter Gabriel sat down at the piano and moved us all to tears with the song that he had written after his own father’s death, ‘Father, Son’.
And then we partied, raising glass after glass of gin and tonic to that extraordinary man and toasting his oft-quoted catchphrase: ‘Isn’t life wonderful.’
***
After taking over the presidency of the Marrakech Biennale, Amine Kabbaj called me to say that something remarkable had happened but I was to keep it a secret. He’d received a call from Mohammed VI’s palace – we were to receive the king’s medal for our services to the arts. I was to be made an Officer of the Order of Ouissam Alaouite. Clive Alderton, the British Ambassador, called to congratulate me.
‘Thank you, Clive,’ I replied, ‘but I’m sure it’s no big deal.’
‘Come now, Vanessa,’ he said. ‘This is a very big honour indeed, the equivalent of receiving a knighthood in the UK. It’s a sign of real respect and gratitude from the nation.’
I flew to Rabat the following day. Amine and I had lunch and then walked to the new Museum of Contemporary Art, where we were greeted by Clive. While we were waiting in the gallery, I looked around and noticed how many of the works in the collection had been commissioned by me, during the Biennale. Then trumpets sounded and the king’s guard entered, chanting a mesmeric incantation before reaching an astonishing whooshing climax, and then in walked the man himself. I almost fainted as I walked up the red carpet, filmed for national TV as members of the Moroccan government and the museum staff looked on.
I caught Clive’s eye and he nodded, encouraging me to step before the king.
‘Miss Branson,’ the king said. ‘May I take this opportunity to thank you for all you have done for this country?’
‘Thank you, Your Highness. I am most honoured.’
‘I am afraid I may rip your shirt as I pin on this heavy medal,’ he said as he picked up the gold star from its velvet box, which was held by an assistant.
‘Your Highness, it would give me great pleasure to have my shirt ripped by you,’ I replied, before realising what I’d said. He caught my eye and smiled.
To lighten my burden, more unexpected help landed in front of Howell and me just when we needed it, when Willem Smit agreed to take over the role of manager at El Fenn. I was a little wary of how his Dutch tell-it-as-it-is personality would play out with the spiritual Moroccans. However, after a succession of notes had been slipped under my door by disgruntled staff, Willem transformed El Fenn into the elegant hotel it is today, thanks to his enduring humour, his attention to detail and his understanding of how a hotel should be run.
The final weight was lifted from my shoulders when Graham Head and Madeline Weinrib bought into El Fenn, giving Howell and me the opportunity to recoup our initial investment and give Willem some equity in the business. I hadn’t realised how rewarding it would be to build an entity strong enough to interest others in investing in it. El Fenn now has the necessary thirty suites and over one hundred attentive staff to manage them. The restaurant, bar and terraces are the best place in town to hang out and our store is a retail sensation; maybe all our work has been worth it after all.
***
Eilean Shona, January 2018
Bebe, my little black cocker spaniel, sat between Navin and myself as we sprinted up the length of the country to Eilean Shona in our rattling rental van. With my proceeds from the sale of our El Fenn shares, I’m buying Robert out of his half of the island. Navin is cataloguing and removing Robert’s library while I’m finishing writing this book. Poetry is being carried on the breeze and infiltrating our thoughts.
We’re staying in Tioram Cottage overlooking Loch Moidart, the tides ebbing and flowing as the blue moon exerts its powerful will. The weather rolls in over the Atlantic, a gale one day and snow the next, followed by periods of still, bright cold or blustery rain.
Robert predicted that our children, having experienced such trauma during their childhood, would grow up to become artists. He was correct, although I’m not sure he imagined their work would tackle their conflicted lives so directly. Louis has spent the last two years making a film initially called The Great Rift Walk, that set out to follow Robert on a heroic 5,500-kilometre walk along the R
ift Valley, but soon evolved into The Rift, the story of a father and son confronting their relationship. By addressing the past, he has transformed his unhappiness into something quite beautiful, a film of courage and honesty.
The day is clear, blue and cold. I crunch my way up the snowy woodland path to the village hall, the island’s very own version of an internet café, and settle down to read my emails.
Dear Ness,
I want to try to keep this short and clear. I accept sole and complete responsibility for ending our marriage.
For over twenty years I have allowed my attempts to explain and understand what happened to obscure the truth. Which is that whatever the circumstances of our relationship and whatever my state of mind it was me that jumped ship, shattered my marriage vows and reneged on my commitments to those that I love most. It was my actions for which I take sole responsibility that caused such a mountain of pain and suffering to you and to our children.
Sorry is a completely inadequate word in the circumstances but sorry I am – deeply, deeply. You have every right to be angry and to want me to be entirely absent from your life. It is pathetic that it has taken me this time, and watching myself in Louis’s film, to come to this realisation. If I could wind back the clock and behave differently I would. I would pay more attention, be more caring of our relationship, be more aware of mine and of your feelings and not enter into an extra-marital affair.
But these words amount to nothing. I don’t know what I can do apart from leave you in peace and respect whatever boundaries you care to set.
Rx
I shut the computer and close my eyes. We have been released.
***
The story is drawing to a close. The last year I’ve spent writing this book has been magical. Friends and family have taken on a new significance as I’ve mapped out how their lives interwove through mine. Some potent spells have been at play, as locked doors concealing unexplored mysteries have opened as I’ve approached each chapter.
When I began writing, I had no idea where this book was going to lead me. I simply clawed my fingers through the sediment of the river of my past, disrupting deep-buried air pockets of memories and catching the bubbles as they wobbled their way to the surface. But a year of reflection is enough; it’s time to get on with living.
This story started with the birth of my father in 1918 and ends with the joyous news of the impending birth of our first grandchild – for Noah and his wife Honor are expecting a baby boy in June 2018, almost exactly one hundred years later.
In the evenings, Navin and I sit by the fire and listen to music, drink wine and talk of love and loyalty, history and adventure. We also talk of the next generation – of how capable they are and how happy we are to be handing the baton over to them. We discuss the influences of past generations and the forces that have taken us along the roads we travel on today and we speculate about the adventures that the coming years hold in store. We are grateful for our experiences, taking pleasure in the simple memories of walks, nature and friends.
‘Do you think you’re any wiser, one year on?’ asked Navin, referring to our anxious day spent sitting by the Buddha.
‘I don’t know about wiser, but one thing’s for sure – I’ve certainly learned a lot. It’s wonderful to realise that almost every person you meet will have some significance later on in your life.’
Navin nods.
The truth is, I think to myself, absentmindedly stroking Bebe behind her ear, I do still kick myself for past mistakes, but with acceptance now. I’m beginning to understand that the secret to living in harmony comes from knowing when to battle against the elements and when to sail with the wind.
I top up our wine glasses, while Navin empties the last of the coal onto the dwindling fire. ‘So what do you reckon are the ingredients needed for a life well lived?’
My clever friend then pauses before summing up our conversation. ‘I think the Beatles had the answer,’ he says. ‘Amor est omnia quibus cares. All You Need is Love.’
‘Och, you’re a cunning linguist, Navin.’ We chuckle. The old jokes are the best.
Flo, who has embraced the myth that those born in the caul possess witchy powers, tells me that when you reach fifty-eight, your Saturn returns. I believe her: change in the air.
I can already feel another chapter beginning, for, as Mum is often heard to say, and I’m never sure if it’s a threat or a promise: ‘You live for an awfully long time!’
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Front cover photograph
Me, Menorca, 1967.
‘Sloe Gin’, here.
Ted Branson, Eilean Shona, c 2006.
‘Mysteries Solved’, here.
Mona Branson, Invergloy House, Loch Lochy, c 1905.
‘Museum of Curiosities’, here.
The Branson family, c 1900: my grandfather George (third from left) with his brothers, holding their sister Olive aloft.
‘Ted’s War’, here.
My father, Ted Branson, 1939.
‘Deepest Darkest Devon’, here.
My mother, Eve Huntley-Flindt, c 1930.
‘Mother Courage’, here.
My mother in her ENSA uniform, c 1946.
‘Love Is the Devil’, here.
My parents, Eve and Ted Branson, 1949.
‘Pear Drops, Robots and Budgerigars’, here.
With Mum, Richard and Lindy, Guildford, 1959.
‘Peafucks and Roebucks’, here.
With Richard and Lindy, 1966.
‘For Better, For Worse’, here.
With Mum, 1967.
‘Trunks, Kicks and Shoplifting’, here.
With Lindy, Menorca, 1966.
‘Dusk Over Fields’, here.
With Nabeel Ali, 1974.
‘Aunt Clare’s Story’, here.
My aunt, Clare Hoare, with Douglas Bader, c 1946.
‘Two Slightly Distorted Guitars’, here.
‘Froggy Went A-Courting’ by Mike Oldfield, Virgin Records, 1974.
‘Finding Beauty’, here.
The Annunication by Simone Martini and Lippo Memmi, 1333.
‘Working Girl’, here.
Me at my pre-wedding lunch, 1983.
‘Portobello’, here.
Responsible Hedonism by William Kentridge, 1986.
‘Necker Island Dreaming’, here.
With Robert, 1988.
‘Great Storms, Life and Death’, here.
Robert and Louis, 1991.
‘Wannabe’, here.
The Devereux Family, 1995. © Catherine Yass and courtesy of Alison Jacques Gallery, London.
‘Monument to the Midlife Crisis’, here.
Monument to the Midlife Crisis by Grayson Perry, 1999.
‘And All the Men and Women Merely Players’, here.
With Shelagh Macleod, 2000.
‘The Rose City’, here.
Noah, Florence, Louis and Ivo for our family Christmas card (with apologies to Gillian Wearing), 1999.
‘My Arab Spring’, here.
With Dad in Marrakech, 2006.
‘Neverland Found’, here.
With Lindy, Richard and Mum, Eilean Shona, 2014. © Jack Brockway.
‘My Little Devils’, here.
Self-portrait, 2015.
MY LITTLE DEVILS
To my wonderful friends and family, who have led me into temptation, thank you.
Jack Abel Smith, Ned Abel Smith, Louis Adamakoh, Ucef Adel, Joe Addison, Michael Addison, Wendy Addison, Ajaz Ahmed, Meryl Ainslie, Lhoussaine Ait Oufkir, Sultan bin Salman Al Saud, Basma Al Sulaiman, Christine Alaoui, Faycal Alaoui, Leila Alaoui, Yalda Alaoui, Morten Albeck, Catriona Alderton, Clive Alderton, Alia Ali, Nabeel Ali, France Aline, Sarah Allan, Josh Allot, Renato Arruda, Chris Ayling, André Azoulay, Ahmed Azzeroi, Clare Azzougarh, Tarik Azzougarh, Angie Bailey, Beezy Bailey, Jessica Bannister, Joseph Bannister, Matthew Bannister, Raffaella Barker, Carolyn Barker-Mill, Yto Barrada, Steve Barron, Kate Barton, Niall Barton, Taïs Bean, Patr
ick Benjaminsson, Zizou Bennis, Elaine Bentley, Omar Berrada, Ken Berry, Jane Birt, Neil Blake, Sandra Blake, Milly Boath, Anne Bonavero, Yves Bonavero, Katrine Boorman, John Booth, Kitty Bowler, Don Boyd, Hilary Boyd, Jimmy Boyle, Alice Bragg, Eve Branson, Holly Branson, Joan Branson, Lindy Branson, Mona Branson, Richard Branson, Sam Branson, Ted Branson, Ludo Brockway, Milo Brockway, Otto Brockway, Annabel Brooks, Elizabeth Brooks, Rory Brooks, Louisa Buck, Andrea Bury, Mohamed Bzizi, Nanette Capapas, Carson Chan, Paul-Gordon Chandler, India Chaplin, Richard Charkin, Consuelo Child-Villiers, Penelope Chilvers, Peter Chittick, Alexandra Chong, Yu-Chee Chong, Jonathan Church, Ulrik Christensen, Helen Clarke, Benedicte Clarkson, Carol Cocks, Michelle Cohen, Brenda Coleman, Mat Collishaw, Brendan Cox, Geraldine Cox, Peter Crawford, Ed Cross, Suhaila Cross, Abel Damoussi, Thomas Dane, Sally Davey, Janie Davis, Charlotte de Klee, Lara de Klee, Rupert de Klee, James Dearden, Gaby Dellal, Hamish Dewar, Barbara Devereux, Clare Devereux, Florence Devereux, Honor Devereux, Ivo Devereux, Louis Devereux, Noah Devereux, Robert Devereux, Lauren Dorman, Simon Draper, Mags Dyce, Pep Duran Esteva, Patrick Eakin Young, Jim Edmondson, Touria El Glaoui, Louise Elms, Jeremiah Emmanuel, Tracey Emin, Brian Eno, Delfina Entrecanales, Garth Evans, Kos Evans, Annabel Evans, Poppy Evans, Tim Evans, Reem Fadda, Catherine Faulks, Veronica Faulks, Charmaine Faulker, Eric Fellner, Juliet Fellows, Portia Fellows, Sarah Fenwick, Ed Fidoe, Christiana Figures, Wendy Fisher, Gill Fitzhugh, Matthew Flowers, Peter Gabriel, Carmen Galofre, Frances Galloway, Pablo Ganguli, Adrienne Garrard, Michael Gentle, Gini Godwin, Brenda Goldblatt, Michael Gollner, Mary Gordon Lennox, Antony Gormley, Jill Gosney, Luke Gottelier, Gail Gower, Taymour Grahne, Linda Grant, Jill Green, Viv Guinness, Hassan Hajjaj, Sue Hale, Louise Hallett, Niall Hamilton, Belinda Hancock, Laura Harris, Orlando Harris, Charlotte Harrison, Cynthia Harrison, Simon Hawksley, Graham Head, Lisa Hendricks, Steve Hendricks, Juliet Hill, Clare Hoare, David Hoare, Gerard Hoare, Jammy Hoare, Ro Hoare, Robert Hoare, Marion Hollis, Tim Hollis, Trevor Hopkins, Anthony Horowitz, Colin Hosking, Jill Hosking, Sarah Howgate, Nick Humphrey, Margaret Hunter, Doc Huntley Flindt, Rupert Huntley Flindt, Said Jabaoui, Lee Jaffe, Howell James, Khurram Jamil, Dede Johnston, Sasha Jones, Amine Kabbaj, Abdellah Karroum, Dillie Keane, William Kentridge, Tarka Kings, Paul Kindersley, Sigrid Kirk, Clare Kirkman, Joe Knatchbull, Philip Knatchbull, Kevin Krausert, Meja Kullersten, Fiona L’Estrange, Eddie Lawrence, Othman Lazraq, Kate Lee, Wolfe Lenkiewicz, Annie Lennox, Ian Lewis, Marie Lewis, Hal Lindes, Amy Liptrot, Jonathan Lloyd, Robert Loder, Cas Lokko, Karl Lokko, Megan Lloyd Davies, Jenni Lomax, Rose Lord, Meryanne Loum-Martin, Eric Lundgren, Kate MacGarry, Lorna Macleod, Tala Madani, Sue Manning, Kenza Melehi, Curt Marcus, Peggy Markel, Amanda Marmot, Gary Martin, Sandra Masur, Dan May, Mourad Mazouz, Bridget McCrum, Hugo Macdonald, Lorna Macleod, Shelagh Macleod, Kate MccGwire, Joann McPike, Mouna Mekouar, Kenza Melehi, Vincent Melehi, Nachson Mimran, Miles Moreland, Natasha Moreland, Polly Morgan, Lucy Morris, Michael Morris, Paul Moss, Kate Mosse, Danny Moynihan, Carlos Moysie, Nuria Moysie, Valeria Napoleone, Jon Nash, Stephen Navin, Alice Neel, Hartley Neel, Phil Nevin, Annie Newell, Chris Newell, Hilary Newiss-Bazalgette, Jerona Noonan, Anthea Norman-Taylor, Peter Norris, Essie North, Freya North, Prue O’Day, Andrew O’Hagan, Emma O’Hea, Hermione O’Hea, Angie O’Rourke, Jean Oelwang, Deedy Ogden, David Ogilvy, Ben Okri, Colleen Olianti, Anatol Orient, Joanna Oulton, Richard Oulton, Romey Oulton, Theo Oulton, Kirsten Ovstaas, Vicken Parsons, Priti Paul, Nina Pawlowsky, Holly Peppe, Grayson Perry, Philippa Perry, Jacquie Perryman, Phoebe Pershouse, Fred Pollock, Madeleine Ponsonby, Nik Powell, Alexandra Pringle, Simon Prosser, Richard Reed, Pascale Revert, Anneka Rice, Bels Rice, Fatima Rim, Penny Robinson, James Rodrigues, Sukie Roessel, Tara Rowse, Sarah Rugheimer, Bodley Ryle, Sallie Ryle, Nadim Samman, Catherine Samy, Zina Saro-Wiwa, Faith Savage Gollner, Frederic Scholl, Alya Sebti, Czaee Shah, Elizabeth Sheinkman, Alex Smilansky, Willem Smit, Penny Smith, Ginny Snape, Andrew Soloman, Scott Spector, Camilla Spence, Julia Spence, Pidge Spencer, Roman St Clair, Guy Staight, Katie Staight, Susannah Stapleton, Nico Stead, Octavia Stead, Richard Stead, Charlie Stebbings, Anna Steiger, Caro Stewart, James Stevens, Charles Sturridge, Monika Sulakova, Mark Tandy, Napper Tandy, Paddy Tandy, Dominique Taylor, Pennie Taylor, David Teiger, Yvonne Thomson, Caragh Thuring, Guy Tillim, Kristen Tomassi, Hans Ulrich Obrist, Francis Upritchard, Eric Van Hove, Stefan Van Raay, Hughena Waddington, Paul Waddington, Mats Wahlstrom, Philippa Walker, John Walsh, Ruby Wax, Eilean Webber, Georgie Weedon, Madeline Weinrib, Suzy Wells, Carinthia West, Louise Wheeler, Peter Wheeler, Clare Whitaker, Hilary Whitehall, Jack Whitehall, Fiona Whitney, John Whitney, Roma Whitney, Andrew Williams, Kate Winslet, Alan Yentob, Louisa Young, Osman Yousefzada, Jochen Zeitz, Robin Zendell, Fatima Zour.
One Hundred Summers Page 32