The Wandering Years (1922-39)

by Cecil Beaton

September 8th

  Reggie and I helped down with Father’s luggage: apparently it was still too early for the servants to appear. At Waterloo it was almost as good as being in New York to see all these sumptuous millionaires and their families going back after their holiday in London. Most of the women wore orchids and some were taking home a perfect dog. The men immaculate and nonchalantly self-possessed. Daddy, hanging out of the window looked so human and appealing with his kind blue eyes full of fondness for us, his comparatively meagre family of well-wishers.

  At last the train went off, full of sumptuousness. One American girl remained on the platform. She was very pretty and small. As she waved, she slowly wriggled her body all the way down; it struck me as being terrifically sexual!

  EASTER AT BOURNEMOUTH

  April 12th 1924

  Packing was finished. Upstairs I got distinctly annoyed at having to lug so much of it downstairs when six maids sat doing nothing. Tennis rackets, books and ignominious paper parcels littered the hall.

  I had discovered that last night’s photographs which I had squeegeed on to plate glass wouldn’t come off, and at the last minute had to be put in the bath again. I tried to dry them in front of a gas stove, as I wanted to take the batch with me to Bournemouth. In my haste I almost burned to death, while Papa and Reggie hollered for me. I grabbed the photographs and The Forsythe Saga, gave final instructions to Nurse[21] about taking care of the love birds and plummeted into the car.

  After all the panic, it took so long to start up I needn’t have burnt my fingers after all. Papa, as though he were the butler, was carrying out the last of a thousand humiliating packages, including two bottles of whisky. Why on earth hadn’t he packed them? Papa has no pride at all. I felt certain that all H.P. Street was peeping from the windows. More parcels got crammed on top of me, then an additional trunk had to be put on the carrier at the back. Reggie tied it on with a ball of string; Papa shouted No-No-No, the string wouldn’t hold, and found some dirty rope. I thought we would never get away. And to top it all, Mrs Philip Guedella came by.

  Reggie drove. I had fits at the back of the car because Papa kept shouting, ‘Steady! Steady!’ This sent Reggie into defiant skids. We had ten close shaves: Reggie can’t resist passing cars at inopportune moments, especially on narrow roads with another vehicle coming towards us like a bat out of hell.

  At London Hall Hydro on the outskirts of Bournemouth, the hall porter greeted us in a very dirty uniform. The most suburban people sat about in the meagre lounge, reading cheap novels and drinking tea out of enormous white cups. Everyone stared hard. I felt ashamed of the two bottles of whisky.

  Daddy excitedly ordered tea, wanting to do everything in the first five minutes. Of course, the tea took forever to arrive, which sent him into the most terrible passion. He cursed, swore and puffed. Reggie and I sat trembling in silence, wishing to goodness he would keep calm and quiet. Daddy shouted, ‘Waiter, waiter,’ adding his rarely used, ‘For God’s sake, hurry up!’ Daddy always has a row with the waiter if he can.

  We went for a walk. I tried not to be miserable, but my stomach churned with anger. The road into Bournemouth might well have been the road to hell.

  ‘Aaaaaaccch!’ My father took in a huge amount of air and let it out again. ‘This will make your whiskers curl,’ he promised, then read out the bathetic names of every cheap little house, hotel and boarding house. Papa observed about a horrifying residence surrounded by a hedge of repugnant shrubs. ‘That doesn’t look a bad sort of place.’ I nearly went mad.

  How I abominate English seaside towns! When I’m on my own I shall never subject myself to such squalor. As I walked along in misery, I kept thinking how romantic it would be to go to Italy. My whole soul cried out for something exotic. Why, in Bournemouth it wasn’t even warm.

  Papa reminisced about the hard times he’d had here at school. We looked into cheerless shops, we stared at even more cheerless seaside people. The smell of Daddy’s filthy pipe insulted my nose.

  We had to change for dinner: it was de rigueur! The other guests, their faces like logs, sat erect and wretched. Afterwards, we withdrew to a lounge. I read a bit of Saki while Daddy and Reggie, bored, stared vacantly into space.

  There was an entertainer woman, the worst thing I’ve ever heard of. Fancy having a stranger introducing people to one another! She rang a bell and shouted instructions to the whole room to mingle for a family whist drive. With each ring, a would-be comic in the audience shouted, ‘Muffins, Muffins, I loike muffins, but I prefer crumpets. Ha! Ha!’ We sat in our corner criticising, then went to bed early as the clocks were being put forward for summer time.

  Even from my bed I could hear that entertainer ringing bells.

  April 14th

  We discovered that Mrs Patrick Campbell is on a tour of The Second Mrs Tanqueray, playing at the Pier Theatre tonight. Daddy generously got tickets. I perked up, as it would be a great chance to see our living legend and compare her performance with Gladys Cooper’s.

  I’ve read the old play a lot. It’s still a good vehicle — a bit artificial, but well constructed and full of theatrical situations.

  Later:

  Pinero would have winced. His chef-d’oeuvre got mutilated tonight; especially by Aubrey Tanqueray, who was stiff, prosy and absurd.

  Mrs Pat looked physically unbelievable — like a huge, falling blancmange. It’s tragic that at this stage of her life she should be appearing in the same role that ‘made’ her in the heyday of her beauty. Poor old thing, she did seem a repulsive sight, twice as large as any man on the stage.

  Still, one could see more than remnants of the great actress. She has a wonderful voice, and employs certain splendid little tricks. She laughs, ‘Ho, ho, ho, ho,’ deep and unusual — this device brought into play each time she gets upset. She gives out a long, breathy sigh, ‘Ooorrrr, I’m so happy!’ And she has an effective sniff.

  On the whole, I thought her performance less convincing than Gladys Cooper’s and certainly much quieter. Or did it merely seem that way to me because Gladys looked so marvellous? Mrs Pat, by contrast, might have been a terrible old landlady, all insolent ways and untidy black hair about to fall down. Gladys’s cockney, flashy bravura added to the character; not to mention Molyneux’s encrusted gold and chinchilla dresses. Poor old Mrs Pat, she must make do with pea-soup hand-me-downs and washed out old Spanish shawls. She was continually meddling with fringes and pulling at bodices to keep her dresses from falling off her shoulders.

  Mrs Pat was horribly to the front each time she sauntered onstage, even when she ought to have faded into the background. Instead of quietly playing the piano, she strummed so loud no one could hear a word being spoken by the other actors. Twice she was late for her cue, and once kept the audience waiting for what seemed like three minutes. I’ve heard many stories about her beastliness to other actors and her jealousy. But she knows she is a monster, is the first to laugh at herself.

  The way she took her call struck me as highly amusing. She waddled to the footlights, leaned forward, held up her skirt with one hand and bowed with a grotesque sneer on her face.

  Daddy sat bored throughout. I must admit, I was a little embarrassed myself by the last act. I didn’t think Mrs Pat at all good in it, but perhaps the play tails off badly.

  We came home to the Hydro, thankful to have missed the hotel dance. I drew myself naked from the glass. It’s good practice; and with a shilling in the gas meter, I felt warm enough.

  April 15th

  ‘What car was that that passed, a Rover?’

  ‘No, a Ruston.’

  ‘Are they good cars?’

  ‘Fairly.’

  ‘Steady! Steady!’

  This stimulating conversation passed the time as we jolted and jogged to Poole. Daddy and Reggie wanted to see an old man in the hope of selling him some timber.

  I sat in the car, shifting on the hard seat and reading bits of Apollo, though it is much too exhausting a catalogue to read for l
ong on end.

  On our return, we played tennis. Daddy was longing to have a four, but Reggie and I rudely declined, determined not to know any of the undesirable residents in our hotel. Daddy played single to our double, winning every one of the five sets, though we had some energetic rallies. And I did serve well!

  After dinner, while the professional entertainer was doing her worst, I found, fortunately, a more delightful source of amusement by quizzing an old woman who arrived here yesterday. I thought her pert and perfect, an inspired little bird in smart London clothes. She is spiky and wrinkled, with a Botticelli forehead and thin, Renaissance eyebrows. She’s almost bald but, clever little darling, doesn’t wear a wig, simply parting her thin, moth-eaten hair very slickly. She sat in the lounge with a frown on her face. She, too, tried not to listen to the entertainer but I could tell what she was thinking from her expressions of semi-amusement, astonishment and disgust.

  I sat watching my new-found friend long after the others had gone to bed. I wanted to pluck up courage and talk to her, but instead drew her very badly on the end-page of Saki.

  VISIT TO SANDRINGHAM

  July 30th

  It was a cloudy day. But we decided to make an excursion to Sandringham and visit the royal gardens while they are open to the public. The entire family squashed into the car; laughing and twitting, alive and witty.

  When at last we arrived, we discovered with delight that it was the day of the flower show, the first I had ever visited. Huge tents had been set up, bands were playing. It was a festive opportunity to see the gardens at their best. We sat under trees and pretended to be ‘royal guests’. But the pretence couldn’t have been more ridiculous with thousands of country yokels swarming about, eating food from boxes and bags.

  Then, unexpectedly, Queen Alexandra arrived. For me, she had always been a fantastic figure from an unbelievable past grandeur. In her day, court ladies spent the entire morning being laced into corsets, patiently submitting to florid adornment with jewelled pins, brooches, Prince of Wales feathers and fenders of diamonds. Gone now were her stately banquets, presentations, balls and palmy splendours. She would be eighty years old on her next birthday, but she was still a queen. One caught jerky glimpses of her in newsreels — arriving by motor instead of by carriage, nodding to the multitude. In these motion-pictures she still appeared trussed and trimmed, though black sequins had replaced the aurora borealis display of early years. A tight cake of formal curls seemed clamped upon her head. It was rumoured that she never appeared in public without being tremendously made up, ‘enamelled’, as Modom used to say. In my mind’s eye I had created a mask of white and pale magenta, propped upon pearl dog collars beneath which the décolletage was festooned with trinkets and charms.

  All the country folk hurried forward to the ugly red brick of Sandringham House as the Queen came out, followed by several aged crones. And of course she wasn’t at all as I had imagined — not a bit enamelled or grotesque. She seemed merely a charming old lady with a very beautiful, pale face, a sweet smile and expressionless eyes. I had never seen anyone so frail. Her body was like a Knossos figure, neat and waisted. Her head, with a black sequin toque perched atop a high coiffure, seemed like an egg stuck on a hatpin; for her neck was so slender I wondered how it could support a human head.

  She tottered slowly towards us. My mother curtsied. We heard her talking in a guttural jerky voice to a weeping baby. Then she went into a tent to see the exhibits. The crowd waited patiently and silently for her to come out and drive away — a spindly little hag in spider’s-web black.

  We thought of her as we walked further round the estate. We wondered what she would eat, and conjured up a picture of her messing about the ugly house and being taken to bed at six-thirty. Mummie kept our fancy on a practical level with, ‘Oh, well, you see the Queen wouldn’t ...’ As though Mummie were in the know! We teased her about it, but Mama insisted firmly as though she had been specially invited, ‘I remember last time I was here ...’

  The royal gardens, in spite of an impressive orderliness and formality, showed no imagination. It was only near the house, in contrast to the red brick, that the mass of ramblers and yellow privet hedges acquired a stolid Victorian charm.

  As we passed close to the house on our way out, we looked up at the bedroom windows. A huge standard lampshade was visible, all yellow silk with layers of silk frills. In fact, driven by curiosity, I even peered through one of the ground floor windows. I caught a glimpse of the old Queen pottering about the sitting room. Stopping at a crowded table she picked up a silver-framed photograph of the Duke and Duchess of York, taken by Bertram Park in soft focus.

  August 7th, Melrose, Morris Street, Sheringham

  Seaside life brings out the worst in me. If only Boy were here to talk interestingly to! But Boy, quite rightly, would loathe it bottled up here with my family. Meanwhile, I mess about, reading Chesterton on Browning and not absorbing anything very much, playing tennis badly, drinking gallons of barley water and bathing in a slate grey sea. This morning Modom got knocked over by two successive waves, panicked and rushed out of the sea. We laughed; the crowds on the beach laughed. But Mama shouted and waved for the rest of us to come out. How ridiculous: if anyone gets a mouthful of water, you’d think they had drowned. Yesterday, Nurse bumped her leg on that breakwater. She, too, got into a panic, calling to Nancy, ‘Come to me, come to me!’ As she was being led to the beach she got knocked over twice by waves and of course we never heard the end about how easily accidents can happen, how she might have been drowned and a mournful procession home, etc., etc. A lot of rot, but it terrifies the family.

  August 10th

  Morning spent on the beach sitting on hard stones, thinking of nothing and trying not to look at the people around me.

  Daddy and Reggie arrived after lunch, short of temper, hot and dirty.

  We heard a lot about the cricket tour. Reggie told me later Daddy hadn’t allowed him to do this, that or the other. It seems Daddy went to bed at nine o’clock every evening, whereupon Reggie slipped away to gad and dance at all the seaside hotels. It sounded rather cheap to me, but Reggie enjoyed himself.

  Dinner became an awful strain, with Daddy saying such terrible things they made me gasp. To Reggie: ‘Your hair is getting a terrific length. Why don’t you go to the barber and ask him to cut as much as he will for fourpence?’

  During the evening walk, Reggie and Baba became overenthusiastic about a new Astaire step they had just invented. They danced it down the street when, bang! — they fell.

  A terrible commotion ensued. Baba’s face was black all over, with three huge graze marks. Reggie turned white as Daddy turned red. I thought it a nasty accident, but why not leave it at that? No, Daddy persisted in working himself into a rage, crying, ‘What a silly fool you are, Reggie! You utter idiot! I nearly shouted for you to stop your tomfoolery, but I knew you would take no notice. I always said one day there would be an accident and now you’ve done it. If you fool about again, I can tell you you’ll get it.’ This threat was repeated over and over again, while everyone looked at poor Baba’s face. She didn’t cry; nor did it hurt, nor was it bleeding.

  We came back and watched the victim being cleaned up in the bathroom. Nancy very naughtily and irrelevantly remarked that Baba looked as if she’d been up a chimney. Mummie continued where Daddy left off, ‘It’s a wonder this, it’s a wonder that. She might have had her nose broken. She might have this, she might have that.’

  Baba said, ‘Never mind,’ kissed Reggie and went to bed, after which things settled down slightly. That is, until Nurse came down in a tantrum and complained in front of everyone about Reggie’s conduct. She insisted that she was very ashamed, then went on to say she’d seen Nancy and me bobbing about outside the house, and no doubt the neighbours thought we had a tile missing! I exploded at the old hag’s audacity. I shouted to her to mind her own business and get out!

  Next morning Baba looked terrible, her eye swollen and yello
w, also a horrid place on her face. As soon as breakfast was over, Nurse went out and bought a bandage. Baba’s head got tied up, making her look a marvellous nut. We joked and ragged her a good deal.

  August 12th

  I loaf around doing absolutely nothing but complain. It’s a relief to exhaust myself playing tennis, and at this I’m becoming quite energetic and can give Reggie a run for his money.

  This afternoon I drove the car. My parents shouted at me the whole time. I went round a difficult corner with a shrieking chorus from the back seat, ‘Another car wants to pass you!’ Several minutes later, a lot of vehicles got stuck on a steep and bendy hill. I stopped, then daren’t start again for fear we would roll backwards and hit the joy-riders behind. The pater changed places with me while Lord Cholmondely rolled down the hill in a black automobile done up in that yellow basketwork which used to be smart years ago. He looked at us as if we were mad. Later we looked in at the Cromer tennis tournament as N. and B. were entering for some of the sports competitions. They had started off the afternoon badly but Baba was determined to win the running race for under twelves. Reggie ragged her mercilessly, but for one thing she has guts. We were very amused to see her run. She was so determined! Eyebrows knitted, chest puffed out, and fists clenched! She got the prize, and N. and B. also won a second in another race and that meant chocolates.

  August 13th

  Rather a sad day, as Modom left. She seemed flustered and happy, kept saying how satisfied she was now that she’d had a holiday which would keep her well for the winter.

  Lunch without Modom proved an ordeal. I dread Papa’s vulgar heartiness at meals — clicking his tongue, eating cheese off a knife, and everlastingly wanting Nancy to kiss him or hold his tongue. The smell of his pipe makes me want to vomit, but then I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’m so disgruntled and bad tempered, nobody seems to do right by me. When my mother remarks upon how pretty Sheringham is, I jump down her throat. To me it’s ugly beyond measure. Only when one has walked for miles into the netherlands does the scenery become free of apartment houses and lodgings.