by Shane Briant
There wasn't much violence in Kew, nor Richmond. If there was a murder in London it was headline news. Whatever drugs were to be had, they weren't easily available to the average young boy or girl, so drug abuse wasn't rampant. Generally, Richmond and Kew were safe to grow up in.
My mother had to watch every penny, though I never felt deprived of anything other than a father's affection. We ate well, even though mum would often cook up delicious dishes, then days later would divulge the ingredients. 'Heart stew.' 'Tripe à la mode du Caen.' Ugh!
We'd holiday at Deal in Kent for a week each year. That was great. I loved the seaside. As did Dermot. So I was doubly delighted when my mum told me that my father had asked if I'd like to spend a few days with him at Bognor Regis. Dermot was still at boarding school so couldn't join me.
Since Keith had access to me in the divorce settlement there wasn't much mum could do about it, so she asked me if I would like to go or would prefer 'to have nothing to do with that cruel man.' I replied I'd take my chances with 'the cruel man.'
My visit to Bognor proved to be my debut as a cabaret singer! At the time I was a huge fan of Lonnie Donnegan and his skiffle group. I'd learned to play the guitar and had formed my own skiffle group at Kings House. I took the Underground to Kensington where my father was now living, and when he met me and saw I was carrying a guitar, he suggested he might ask the manager of the 'Royal Norfolk Hotel' whether I might 'jam' with the three tuxedoed middle-aged musicians who played 'musak' every night in the formal dining room.
When we arrived in Bognor, Keith was true to his word and the manager thought it a great idea. I met with the three musicians and we played some songs; 'Cumberland Gap,' and 'Puttin' on the Style,' amongst others The professional musicians were good sports and up for anything, so we had a ball, despite their knowing diddlysquat about rock and roll, or skiffle. After an hour or so the manager of the hotel joined us and suggested I might like to sing in the dining room that evening with the band! I was ecstatic! The
people. I wasn't in the least nervous, immediately insisting my father buy me some green fluro socks to match my green shortsleeved shirt and khaki shorts.
"Bright green socks? What on earth do you think you'll look like?" my father objected.
"It's what all cool people are wearing," I replied.
That night I played my first 'gig,' and felt like a real rock star. Many years later Bob Fosse would let me know how good I was as both a singer and a dancer – but that embarrassing episode comes later.
The interesting thing about my French play, 'Le Café Crème' was that all these years later I still can recite the exact lines, and it's proven very useful throughout my career when casting directors ask me how fluent my French is. Instead of lying by stating I'm fluent, I simply launch into my long childhood speech as 'Le Chef.' Invariably, the casting director waves a hand after five sentences, quite satisfied. It's a good tip – learn a short passage in French, Italian and German. Incidentally, it was my fist 'drag' role – it wouldn't be my last!
PUBLIC SCHOOL AND MORE THEATRE.
Of course as a child a career on the boards and in television and film were far from my thoughts; everyone was telling me I should do something sensible, such as become a lawyer since my father had studied law and was a member of the Middle Temple. But as it happened, the next school I attended was, like Kings House, well known for its school theatre productions. It even hosted European tours of Shakespeare.
The school was Haileybury & Imperial Service College. My father had been to school there, my brother was there already, yet I'd been concentrating so much on skiffle and sport, that I actually failed my Common Entrance exam.
Much to my mother's chagrin, this gave my father the perfect opportunity to suggest to the Family Court judge that a public school education would be wasted on a dullard such as me and
that I should go to a secondary modern school instead. He argued his case in court. "Shane's not very bright," he said in court. "Coombe House secondary modern would suit him well," My mother was furious. A State School? No way!
In the fifties, England was incredibly class conscious. When I was thirteen it was expected that upper-middle class children would, as a matter of course, go to public schools rather than mingle with the hoi polloi at State Schools – this was unthinkable to my mother and grandmother. Grammar Schools were kind of okay because it proved the child in question was 'brainy.' However, since my father was thinking of remarrying, the prospect of saving on public school fees was uppermost in his mind.
However, my steadfast mum wouldn't have a bar of this. The judge summed up mum's case as follows. "The father went to Haileybury. Shane's brother Dermot is currently studying at Haileybury, so providing the boy can pass the Common Entrance at his second attempt, he will go there too!"
And while on the subject of English snobbery I can admit now that one of the chief reasons I chose to live in Australia was to escape this ghastly English trait.
As it turned out, when she heard of my plight, Kit Adeane, the wife of my mother's childhood friend Sir Robert Adeane, offered to pay all my school fees. This was a huge relief for mum. Kit thought I'd make a good friend for her son, James, who was three years younger than me and needed someone to bond with since his elder sister, Rose Mary Poppy (everyone called her Dobbie) was his senior by almost five years.
During the following eight years I spent most of my holidays with the Adeane family in their beautiful estate in Essex named 'Quendon.' Also at their huge farm in Bawdsey, Suffolk. To me, both estates were somewhat akin to Alain Fournier's 'Lost Domain,' the best thing was that I was no longer on the front line as far as family problems were concerned.
It was the most wonderful altruistic maternal gesture of mum to virtually 'lose' me to Kit for all my holidays from then on – she always thought of my welfare first. I know how much she missed me during the following few years even though I went home every now and then to check on her.
Adeane's, despite having two fine horses in their stables, didn't care to hunt. But I certainly fished on the Spey in Scotland, and shot pheasant and partridge in Suffolk and Essex, as well as duck at Hickling Broad in Norfolk.
The shooting parties often included the finest shots in England, such as Aubrey Buxton, the Duke of Edinburgh, Angus Ogilvy and Charles, Prince of Wales – then aged twelve.
My first salmon caught on the Spey in Scotland. 1959.
On the Queen Mary. L to R. Bruce, Dobbie, Phillip Adeane, Lady Broughshane, Kit Adeane, Judith, me, James.
However, while I was being looked after and pampered by very rich people in lovely surroundings, my brother Dermot was not so lucky. I constantly felt guilty about this but could do nothing. Dermot never appeared jealous. Yet I was living the life of Riley and he was struggling to make ends meet.
Of course there was no reason that Kit should have looked after my brother as well as me. Besides, I was thirteen and the right age to be a friend to James while Dermot was seventeen. So my elder brother was left to look after mum, and consequently his holidays were not exactly the same as mine. I'd take the Queen Mary to New York, first class, and then on to their mansion in Barbados, waited upon hand and foot by George the Barbadian butler and the two Barbadian girls Mary and Pearline.
Dermot would simply mooch around Richmond, and in the evening prop up the bar at the Three Pidgeons pub in Richmond.
During the years 1960 to 1968 Dobbie, James and I had such happy holidays. Quite often James and I would be joined by Francoise Gilot's children, Claude and Paloma Picasso. Claude was
came to sophistication. He chained smoked, drank wine, and looked super cool the way he handled cigarettes – very adult. Paloma was a sweetheart, aged ten to my thirteen. Quiet yet fun. Very dark and striking.
Playing vingt-et-un with Paloma, aged 10 in Scotland.
On one occasion I was sent by Kit to visit Francoise and her children in Neuilly – to brush up on my French. I can't recall why James didn't join me.
> It was the week before Christmas and Claude and I were chatting in his room when the postman called at the door. Claude returned with an annoyed face and a huge envelope. "It's from Papa," he told me. "I told him. I want a bicycle, and this is what he gives me." I apologize to Claude if the exact words are not correct, but I've never forgotten this incident because he then slit open the envelope and pulled out a Christmas card. It was a gouache of a Santa Claus with 'Claude' and the date at the top, and signed at the bottom – not 'Papa' but 'Picasso.' He tossed it into a corner. I wanted SO much to do a 'deal, 'a bicycle for the card' was my idea, but I realized it was soooooo incorrect to suggest such a thing.
Before I left on this trip Kit had given me money to buy some tortoiseshell combs. She told me to buy twelve – she never did things by halves. I was handed a wad of fivers because these
special combs cost around one hundred and ten pounds each at the time. Imagine what they cost today. Before I returned home to London I visited the upscale shop in the Rue de Rivoli where I'd been told to go and asked the stitched-up salesman how much a Morabito comb might cost. He looked down at me – I was thirteen – and smiled the most horribly patronizing smile.
"Six mille francs, Monsieur," he told me and looked away and yawned.
I stared at him for three seconds.
"Alors…J'acheterai douze, s'il vous plait, Monsieur," I replied.
I'll take twelve then.
I pulled out my wad of notes and began riffling through them. You should have seen the man's expression as he wrapped the combs. He would have liked to throttle me. I was thrilled. The best fun I'd had for many years! I'm not sure I'm exact about how many francs – but it was a total of well over a thousand pounds.
Over the years, I've seen less and less of Claude and Paloma. I miss them both. But that's the way the world revolves.
Years later, Claude took Wendy and me out to a fabulous restaurant in Paris, a swimming pool that had reinvented itself as a restaurant. I shall never forget the pâté de fois gras I was served that night. The slab was five inches by four, and half an inch thick. I no longer eat goose liver because of the cruel force-feeding, but back then I thought little about it. To my shame. Now Claude spends much of his time at his Place Vendôme offices where he works tirelessly on organizing, collating and looking after his father's works worldwide. If you have to work, try to find an office in the Place Vendôme!
As most people know, Paloma became New York's society queen and a magnificent designer of jewellery!
The last time I met her was when she came to Australia to showcase a new parfum. She was only fifteen when I'd last seen her, and now that she was close to forty, I had no idea what to expect.
She was staying in a suite at the Sebel Townhouse in Sydney. A butler opened the door and asked me if I'd care for a drink while I awaited Mademoiselle Picasso. I had a gin and tonic. When she walked in from the bedroom I was stunned by the look of her. She was darkly very beautiful and her wide intense eyes were magic! Though I don't know much about couture clothes, her exquisite dark green dress had to have been a Coco Chanel vintage classic. All the jewellery she wore was of course designed by herself. Was this the young girl I'd played rummy with in Scotland when she was ten? We sat and talked for about an hour. It was like talking to a childhood pal; Paloma had no airs and graces whatsoever. Finally, she told me she had to go to some television studio to be interviewed. She handed me several different bottles of the new 'Paloma' scent to give to Wendy, who happened to be working that day and couldn't join us. Then I left. I haven't seen her since. I hope I will again soon.
PUBLIC SCHOOL DAYS, TOURING EUROPE.
Haileybury is a very different institution now to what it was when I went there in 1960. Thankfully there were no longer cold baths, but it certainly had an austere atmosphere, and the senior prefects still thrashed the new boys as and when they felt like it. These were still the days of 'fagging' – the younger boys shone the shoes of the senior boys and made their beds, as well as cooking them breakfast, fetching them goodies from the tuck-shop, and generally waiting on them hand and foot. I was determined not to be humiliated by any casual thrashing, so kept my nose very clean indeed. I didn't enjoy my first year there at all. I couldn't come to terms with other boys treating me like an unpaid servant, yet I didn't rebel for fear of the cane. The worst thing about Haileybury as far as I was concerned was that none of the lavatories had doors. Staff members who professed to know a thing or two about 'young boys' were of the opinion that they'd get up to mischief anywhere they could lock themselves away from the prying eyes of masters and prefects.
There was a vast lavatory block in those days called 'The White City', called that because it contained about a hundred white Twyford's lavatory stalls – all without doors. I was so embarrassed by this lack of privacy that I took a heap of Imodium tablets and ended up very uncomfortably bunged-up for the best part of a week!
The best part of the day was after sports when we had an hour
tea in someone's rooms.
Teatime at Haileybury & I.S.C. 1960.
The school had a rich theatre tradition, and each year a Shakespearean production would be mounted. During my first year the chosen play was Shakespeare's 'Richard II.'
It was the first Shakespeare play I had ever taken part in and Dermot gave me a great deal of coaching as to how to speak the lines properly.
We took the school play to Sweden and Denmark. Stockholm and Alkmaar were my favourites as I stayed with some stunningly beautiful girls there. On one occasion I stayed with a family who owned a milk farm an hour from the theatre. I would spend the day on the farm with the cows, then return to play Queen Eleanor.
Dermot, a naturally talented actor as well as being ten times cleverer than I was, was cast as Richard and I was cast as his queen – Eleanor. Looking back, I am amazed at the quality of these productions. All the students took the theatre very seriously, as did the master in charge.
The tours abroad served to introduce us school boys to other languages and cultures. One year, just for a change, we took the Mikado to Denmark. As my voice was very strong and hadn't yet broken I played Dame Carruthers. This wasn't the last time I dressed in women's clothes – as an actor, I might add! Two up and going strong.
"The Yeoman of the Guard." That's me in the dress as Dame Carruthers.
Aged sixteen, at Haileybury, a house prefect entered my study
during 'prep' and told me that Mr. Harris, my housemaster, wanted to see me. This was a summons similar to being told 'Granny's on the roof,' so I knew something was up. On entering Mr. Harris' study, he looked up, met my eyes, and said: "I am afraid I have some bad news for you, Briant. Your father died last night."
I stared back at him, unsure what I should say or do. You have to realize I had seen my father only twice in the previous ten years, so I simply had an empty feeling. Yet clearly some tears were expected. Or perhaps a tiny internal shriek?
Harris waited some moments then asked me if I needed some time alone in his study, or might prefer to go back to my studies. I chose the second option.
"Jolly good show, Briant," he replied, beaming.
A week later Dermot came to take me to my father's funeral. Arriving on a Saturday at midday he was informed by Harris that it'd be appropriate to stay and watch the school rugger match before leaving for the Finchley crematorium. "Haileyburians should support their school team," he observed, and this was, after all, the 'Uppingham match.' "Besides, the funeral isn't until four, is it? You should have plenty of time to get there," he observed kindly.
THE SIXTIES AND TRANSITIONS.
For me, the sixties were even headier than the fifties – if that were possible. When I wasn't at Quendon or at school I'd be in Carnaby Street buying skin-tight velvet jeans, walking around Soho looking at photos of semi-nude girls outside the Raymond Revue Bar and listening to the best music in town at the Marquee Club or at Ronnie Scott's jazz club.
I'd found I quite lik
ed alcohol. Mostly anything that was either sweet, such as cider, or could be sweetened, such as gin and lime juice. I was hardly a binge drinker – kids weren't in the sixties, but I did get pissed occasionally and always threw up. I was unaware of 'binge drinking'. Back then if you drank a bit and smoked cigarettes one felt rather adult. (I actually hated smoking but forced myself into the habit – one I would find almost impossible to kick fortyfive years later. The folly of youth!) But if you could persuade