The Mad Boy, Lord Berners, My Grandmother, and Me

by Sofka Zinovieff

  Robert had no problem progressing with these new younger sets from the excesses of the 1930s to those of the Swinging Sixties. If parties were now fuelled by amyl nitrate rather than cocktails from silver shakers, and the music was the Rolling Stones rather than Cole Porter, the fundamentals had not changed so much. Nancy Mitford considered that the young people of the 1960s were ‘sobriety itself’ in comparison to the wilder hedonism of her own youth.453 The Mad Boy was naturally attracted to the younger generation and in several cases, the children of his or Gerald’s friends continued the tradition by returning to Faringdon and establishing their own friendships with Robert. One of these was Constant Lambert’s son, Kit, who described Robert as his godfather, though there are doubts as to whether there had actually been a ceremony. By the time Kit went to Oxford in the mid-1950s, he had inherited his father’s traits of intelligence, charm and a propensity to drink. Both shared a self-destructive tendency that would end their lives prematurely; Constant had died only a few years earlier, when sustained alcohol abuse combined with undiagnosed diabetes killed him two days before his forty-sixth birthday. Unlike his father, Kit was homosexual, though he was not always open about it, despite what many recognised as gay manners and decadent ways. After a stay at Faringdon in 1957, he signed himself into the visitors’ book as ‘Kit Lambert, Life Member of the Society for the Extermination (painful) of American Debutantes’.

  Following university, Kit led the life of an often perilously impecunious, diminutively sized playboy. But everything changed when he decided to make a film about English rock and roll. He came across a band (‘ugly in the extreme’) called the High Numbers and became their manager. Taking a loan from Robert and another from his paternal grandmother, he shaped them into a ground-breaking rock band and changed their name to the Who. Kit quickly made lots of money, which enabled him to party to an even more outrageous extent; he took as many drugs, if not more, than the band. He still dressed in dark suits and cut his hair short, and managed, despite the riotous behaviour, to have a huge impact on the music and style of the group. Predictably, he failed to take care of the accounts properly, something that would later catch up with him, but not before he encouraged and nurtured Pete Townshend through creating the innovative and later legendary rock-opera Tommy.454

  According to Robert, Kit never paid back his original investment in the Who, but offered him holidays at the exquisitely lovely Palazzo Dario, a Renaissance palace on Venice’s Grand Canal that he bought in 1971. The partying continued at a dizzying pace and the use of drugs increased. In 1973, Kit’s entry in the Faringdon visitors’ book looks like that of an addict: ‘I have lost all my skin, you are lucky to have not lost your – skin. Me, me, me.’ Like his namesake, the painter Christopher Wood, Kit had a fatal tendency to fly too high. Robert himself drank excessively and knew about losing control, but even he realised that Kit was in trouble, taking heroin as well as other drugs and alcohol, and eventually sacked by the Who for massive financial incompetence.455 Robert tried to help, though there was little that could be done by this stage; Kit’s physical deterioration and self-abuse followed a similar path to that of his father’s, and he died thirty years after Constant, in 1981.

  UGHIE’S PERIODIC BANISHMENT by Robert eventually became permanent exile; in the late 1960s, he moved into Waterfall Cottage, a small, thatched house near Uffington. Friends described him as heartbroken, his days devoid of meaning, the war wound in his leg keeping him awake at night.456 Typically for Robert, once his partner had left he proved generous, providing him with wood and driving over to the cottage with supplies of wine. But deprived of Robert and his beloved Faringdon, Hugh died some years later of a heart attack, lonely and rejected.

  As Robert got older, he surrounded himself with increasing numbers of women friends of different ages. Though he was still active sexually with men, the relationships grew more perfunctory and impersonal; he was unafraid of ‘real rough trade’, commented one friend. However, for company and travel, he far preferred vivacious, worldly women. Some of these were from a younger generation, like Camilla Fry and Joy Skinner, whose husband, James, said that he and Camilla’s second husband John Fairbairn ‘trailed along’, tolerated by Robert so he could maintain his friendships with their wives. Others had known the Mad Boy since his arrival at Faringdon as a boy of twenty, with windswept hair and pink cheeks, like Gerald’s fictional Millie. Daphne Fielding and Diana Mosley both continued to visit, and to write about their memories of Faringdon and Gerald in various publications. Diana was utterly unrepentant about her past, and astonished people by continuing to insist on how nice Hitler had been and how Mosley had got it right all along. As a child, Candida Betjeman was so appalled by her ‘still banging on about Hitler’, that she threatened to her parents, ‘I’m going to pick my nose at Lady Mosley!’ The Mad Boy, however, loved Diana’s kind of unconventionality and cherished her, not only for her friendship, beauty and intelligence, but her willingness to go against the tide and not care what the world said.

  Another loyal companion was Coote Lygon, who had known Faringdon since the early 1930s. Coote had been very fond of Gerald, but she idolised Robert; some say she had always been in love with him. In the intervening years, she had farmed in Gloucestershire, worked as a governess in Istanbul and lived in Athens, becoming Social Secretary at the British Embassy.457 Later, she worked as an archivist for Christie’s and lived in a houseboat on the Thames. She had never married, and she remained as pudding-faced and plump as she had been when young. While her beautiful sister Maimie always managed to look stylish, even if she’d had too much to drink, Coote appeared awkward, her clothes unflattering and her thick spectacles unfortunate. Back in the pre-war days, Coote had gone to a fancy-dress ball where both she and Diana Cooper were dressed as nuns. Robert had remarked then that ‘Diana looked like an actress playing a nun, Coote looked like a nun.’458 But age sometimes works in favour of the less attractive, whose other qualities can shine brighter than those who have lost their looks. Coote had always been astute, considerate and an intrepid traveller and she was a successful addition to Robert’s house parties and travels. A keen horsewoman who hunted side-saddle, she often accompanied Robert out on the horses. Above all, she was a steadfast friend in whose normally discerning eyes Robert could do no wrong.

  During the 1960s, Lady Primrose Cadogan was another close friend to Robert, putting him up in London, visiting Faringdon and accompanying him on many trips abroad. She had a penchant for Dom Perignon, which she called ‘bottled sunshine’, and her nickname for Robert was ‘Shoe’ (or was it ‘Chou’, as in mon petit?). They went gambling together, betting in opposite ways in roulette, so if he won she lost and vice-versa, and if they weren’t exactly lovers, evidence suggests that they ended up in bed together at least once. Robert’s liking for Africa was increasing and the pair travelled to several destinations on the Dark Continent together. For many years, he also went almost annually, though alone, to Tanzania to stay with a doctor friend, Andrew Crowden, in his small flat in Dar-es-Salaam. Robert’s wild claims about what he got up to with young, handsome African men probably had at least an element of truth to them. ‘It was very easy there if you had money,’ commented one friend. Once at a dinner someone said something racist to Robert about Africans to which Robert replied, ‘You’re so wrong. They may be a bit boring sometimes at breakfast, but they’re wonderful.’459 His defence against racism was not exactly politically correct.

  As Robert got older, he became more confident about honouring Gerald’s legacy. For a long time, he had tended to ignore enquiries about Lord Berners by people interested in his music, writing or painting. Letters went unanswered: ‘I didn’t reply because I knew I’d give a wrong reply. That’s slightly worse than giving none.’460 In 1972, however, there was a concert of Berners’s music at the Purcell Room, organised by the composers Peter Dickinson and Philip Lane. John Betjeman gave readings from his old friend’s work and Robert collaborated, sending a van with p
ictures and furniture from Faringdon to lend atmosphere. It was the first sign that a revival might take place of a composer who had been sidelined in the twenty-two years since his death.

  When Primrose Cadogan became ill with cancer, Robert took care of her loyally; on holiday in Jamaica, he had given her a huge diamond ring, which she insisted on returning to him when she knew she was dying. Afterwards, he ‘wore it in his button-hole instead of a carnation at parties’, said Laura, Duchess of Marlborough, the person who largely replaced Primrose as Robert’s bosom friend. Laura Marlborough had been briefly married to the 10th Duke, though she had already been Viscountess Long, Countess of Dudley and Mrs Canfield during previous marriages. As she grew older, she was much happier dashing around the world on bibulous trips with Robert and playing backgammon (to a competitive level) with him. Both she and her sister Ann (who was married to Ian Fleming) were among his closest friends. When Laura tried to commit suicide with whisky and sleeping pills, it was Robert who made her turn the corner, arriving with so many beautiful lilies that they extinguished the smell of the elderly and incontinent which normally pervaded the nursing home. He went further:

  Then he apparently told a number of people he wanted to marry me. He declared this at a dinner party, which caused Diana Cooper to telephone me saying what lovely news it was, to which I replied, ‘What news?’ She said, ‘I hear you are to marry the “mad boy”. I said I knew of no such news, but nevertheless it gave me the boost I needed; for once I didn’t care if the William Hickey column picked up this daydream, which of course they did.461

  A few years younger than Robert, both Laura Marlborough and Ann Fleming had been photographed by Cecil Beaton as young society beauties of the 1930s. Although Robert and Cecil had never got along, their mutual loathing was to reach new heights at a late stage in their lives when Cecil published another volume of his diaries in 1972 that covered the period of Gerald’s last illness: ‘Pathetic Gerald! When he returned to Faringdon life was made no easier for him. He was not even allowed his breakfast in bed. It was not long before, in desperation, he turned his face to the wall.’462 Robert was outraged and deeply unhappy about the accusation that he had not cared for Gerald in his final illness, and the implication that his inheritance had disappointed the Berners family. The Mad Boy considered and then decided against suing Cecil; friends from the old days knew it wasn’t true, but to be portrayed as opportunistic and cruel violated Robert’s sense of honour and wounded him deeply. Two years later, the chance for revenge arrived.

  In March 1974, both Robert and Cecil were invited to a birthday party at the Cheyne Row house of their old friend Peter Quennell. There were lots of familiar faces, including Laura Marlborough, Cyril Connolly and John Betjeman (now quite openly involved with Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, though not divorced from Penelope). Robert came face-to-face with Cecil as the latter was leaving and followed him to the front door wearing what Cecil called ‘his asinine grin’. Without warning, Robert punched the eminent seventy-year-old photographer on the chin. According to shocked witnesses, Cecil stumbled down the three front doorsteps and fell, hitting his head against a car. Cecil’s subsequent diary entry makes claims that observers (and Beaton’s biographer) believe are untrue, but that indicate how violated he felt.463 He recorded that Robert tried to kick him in the balls, and continued beating him with a ‘maniacal fury’ while taunting, ‘Now run! Now run!’464 In fact, it was Robert who ran off into the wet London night; Cecil was helped back into Peter Quennell’s house, dizzy, sore-faced, but with nothing broken.

  THE OLD MAD BOY, HORNED AND READY FOR A PARTY

  Martin Webb had driven Robert up to the party and, once he had discovered what had happened, ‘drove round and round London trying to find him. It was pouring with rain and there were police cars everywhere because it was the night someone had tried to shoot Princess Anne. I couldn’t find him anywhere and decided to go home, but then I spotted him outside Harrods. He was quite drunk (he always had a few drinks when he went to a party), but said he felt much better having hit Cecil Beaton on the nose.’465 Cecil, on the other hand, felt worse the next day. He was cold, shivery and shocked, and undecided as to whether he should sue his ‘lifelong enemy’. The incident was the talk of London and Cecil’s phone rang all day with sympathy callers and others wanting to hear the titillating tale first hand.466 It was only a few months after the horrifying murder by stabbing of James Pope-Hennessy, Cecil’s old friend, and it seemed as though London’s ageing, artistic high society was under serious attack.

  On his lawyer’s advice, Cecil didn’t start legal proceedings, but he was no doubt pleased when George Weidenfeld quipped, ‘The TV and newspapers are full of violence, thuggery, and people who behave like Robert Heber Percy.’467 Cecil’s friends thought his stroke, one month later, was a direct consequence of the attack.468 Robert was unrepentant, laughing and declaring that Cecil deserved it. Cecil lived nearly another six years, but miserable, weak and without the use of his right hand, so unable to take photographs, draw or write. Despite visits from loyal friends like Clarissa (now Lady Avon), and one from Greta Garbo, he became increasingly disillusioned and isolated. When Cecil died aged seventy-four, there were many who believed that the Mad Boy had killed him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Robert’s Folly

  OT LONG AFTER MY FIRST VISIT to Faringdon in 1979, Robert invited me back. I asked if I could bring the same boyfriend, Jeremy Newick, a designer and a keen sailor and boat-builder. Now eighteen, I had already left home by default as my father and stepmother had moved to the remote Scottish island where we had always holidayed. They had no telephone and the only means of contacting them was by letter. During term time, I was lodging in Oxford and attending my final year of school, but at weekends and holidays I stayed with Jeremy in his decrepit but elegant Georgian terraced house at the top of a hill in Bristol. I learned how to sand floors and paint banisters, I wrote my essays and played the piano with fingerless gloves against the cold, and I hardly noticed some of Jeremy’s friends’ quizzical looks at this rangy thirty-one-year-old taking up with a schoolgirl.

  My mother, with whom I had not lived since the age of eleven, was now a follower of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, an Indian mystic who had dozens of Rolls-Royces and was called the ‘Sex Guru’ by the tabloids. Her latest boyfriend was a sannyasin, and she had joined the many thousands who dressed in orange or shades of red and pink, wore a mandala with a picture of Bhagwan around their necks, and were given new names by their leader. She spent weeks or months away visiting ashrams in California and Oregon. Her comrades-in-orange all called her Gala, her middle name, which had appealed to Bhagwan when he bestowed her new identity. I sometimes went to stay with my mother in London, where both my brothers lived in a house that was often filled with ‘orange people’. There was lots of dancing, hugging and meditating, and rumours filtered back about the incredible orgies in Oregon, though Bhagwan ordered the use of rubber gloves in addition to condoms, predicting that AIDS was going to decimate the world. Victoria still claims she has never been happier than at this time.

  Throughout the early 1980s, Robert kept inviting me to stay, and once or twice a year Jeremy and I went to Faringdon for a weekend. But there was no closeness in the relationship with my grandfather, no sense of complicity in the fact that we were related. I suspect he liked adding me into a weekend house party as a wild card: a surprise element that might entertain the other guests. There were regularly people who reacted with astonishment at meeting me. Some didn’t even know that Robert had a child, let alone a grandchild. Others assumed he was exclusively gay. I enjoyed playing along with his game. The place and the people I met were so different from the rest of my life and it was exhilarating to feel as though I was someone else for a couple of days.

  The house was always perfectly set up on a Friday to receive guests. Gravel was raked, flowerbeds weeded and Des, the gardener, brought in whatever was agreed in the way of vegetables, cut flowers and hothouse
plants. A collection of pots was placed beneath the double staircase so that the heady scent from stephanotis blossoms or the bell-like blooms of daturas wafted about as you passed through, just as they had in Gerald’s day. Rosa arranged flowers in tall vases for the drawing room and dining room and smaller ones for the bedrooms, and every piece of silver and brass glistened, newly cleaned.

  Guests were usually instructed to arrive in time for pre-lunch drinks on Saturday, or sometimes for Friday evening. It was like walking into a production where you had to play a part, with nice clothes and funny stories ready. Often there were a few people invited just for drinks who were expected to know to leave before the music boxes in the hall chimed their tunes and the rest of the guests were summoned to the dining room by Rosa. Robert would have worked out a placement in advance, calculating who the most senior woman was and inviting her to sit on his right. He always occupied the same chair at the large round table, within reach of an electric bell underneath; it took me some time to work out how Rosa knew exactly when to reappear after one course and clear away the plates and bring in another. There were white linen napkins and tablecloths, supple from years of washing, and crystal glasses, quickly filled with a golden, nectar-like Mosel that was Robert’s habitual wine (neither he nor Gerald had ever been wine buffs who made a fuss about domains and vintages). The dining room contained furniture, pictures and ornaments that must have been from the old days – an articulated silver-gilt fish the size of a salmon and painted blackamoors on columns – but there were also some more modern touches like a flashing-light sculpture by the Greek artist Takis.