The Years Between (1939-44)

by Cecil Beaton

  The service in the home chapel was a travesty. The arrangements were in the hands of a housekeeper-secretary whom Napier disliked, and the date had been peremptorily fixed without asking advice from relations or friends with the result that, war conditions being as they are, few intimates were able to be present. The vicar who gave the address assumed that Napier had been a conventional young peer, and obviously knew nothing of his audacity and courage, his sophisticated taste, bubbling fun, naughtiness and kindness. Napier would have chuckled at the description of himself but would have been pleased at the way his favourite extract from St Paul to the Corinthians[17] — on charity — was read by old Lord Shaftesbury.

  At the macabre tea-party which took place afterwards, I managed to escape to Napier’s small sitting-room. It is a room replete with so much personal charm and relics of his epoch, showing its owner as a dilettante in the arts. He was on no subject a connoisseur but had an avid interest in, and tremendous appreciation for, Chippendale furniture, Chinese jades and porcelain, jewels, English and French literature, the stage, the Russian ballet — almost every form of aesthetic manifestation. The room had been over-tidied, and the Casati portrait by John had disappeared, but the McEvoy portrait still hung over the chimneypiece. This sensitive impression completely conveys Napier’s spirit. It is a portrait to inspire a novel — a portrait of someone who spells a distant mystery, who emanates a rare romantic and untamed quality.

  Napier died at forty-three, a boy. A tired boy in appearance, but essentially young, with the willowy figure of a bantam-weight champion, a neat head covered with a cap of silken hair, pale far-seeing eyes and full lips.

  He made life seem almost bearable to a large number of people, many of whom will be hard put to continue without him.

  UNCLE WILFRED

  December 1940 (Sunday), Pelham Place

  I’d meant for some days now to go and see my funny, eccentric, Ally Sloper-Adrian Boult-looking Uncle Wilfred. For the last two weeks he has been in a hospital recovering from an operation. Impossible to go empty-handed, but since fruit and flower shops would be shut today, I hunted through the bookshelves for something that might be suitable for him. He has a definite taste in literature, but wouldn’t be able to tackle anything heavy just now. I took some time to find anything to the point; then Edith Olivier’s Life of Cruden (of Concordance fame) also a book on Mary Tudor, seemed the thing.

  The telephone bell had not rung once during the entire day but, just as I was about to slam the front door, a pale tinkle came from the dining-room. It was one of the strangest coincidences that this should be a call from Mrs McGregor, Uncle Wilfred’s Scottish housekeeper. She said my uncle had had a relapse and was most disquietingly ill — in fact, she was worried lest, during the night, she should he summoned to his death-bed.

  Two days elapsed before Uncle Wilfred died. We were all upset and distressed. He has always been kind and good-humoured, and with his walrus moustache, bulbous red nose, and fishy eyes had given an air of fun and festivity to all our family gatherings. As a conversationalist he was excellent company, and his letters were elaborately witty. He was like a character out of Dickens — in fact, a character.

  Now we felt remorse that in his later years we had done so little for him. He had had such a lonely life. My sister Nancy, it is true, had been quite solicitous and enjoyed inviting him down for an outing at Froyle. In fact this had somewhat irritated my mother, who considered Uncle Wilfred should not be encouraged to go on in his mean ways. He was a hermit engrained with stinginess, she said. Certainly the stories of his undressing by the light of the street lamp outside his windows to avoid electricity bills are pretty preposterous. Some people said he lived so simply because he had no money; others that he was a miser by nature. Nancy now telephoned and said rather excitedly, ‘The great mystery is about to be solved!’

  I hurried off to the funeral. This was my first visit to the flat at Palace Court, and never before had I seen Mrs McGregor, the legendary figure who had looked after my uncle for thirty-five years. A small, wizened, cobwebby little Scots woman opened the door. Now nearly eighty, her legs were twisted and bent, her grey tousled hair was topped by a large black hat. She wore a long fur coat of sorts. Almost unable to see or speak, so terribly upset was she, Mrs McGregor’s face was both lined and swollen. She blurted out a few remarks that she was grateful for my sympathy and led me to the drawing-room where our remaining Beaton uncle awaited me.

  So this grotto was where the hermit had hidden himself from the world! It was quite an expensive, old-fashioned series of tall rooms, polished, immaculate and trim, filled with mahogany furniture — the whole richly sombre effect as impersonal as a Victorian flat could be.

  Uncle Cecil blinked at me with his baby blue, starry eyes. He had once bought a brewery, and when we were young we used to laugh at the way he used, when telling us about his beer, to bark out with such relish the word ‘bah!-ley’ for ‘barley’. In fact he used to be known as Uncle Bah-ley. But with the years beefy Uncle Bah-ley, with the red cotton thread on his big cheeks, had shrunk. Today he looked a ghost of his former burly self. He, like Mrs McGregor, was also very upset. Rather distractedly he pleaded with me to do the honours at the funeral if there should be anyone to look after at the service.

  We went off to Golder’s Green in a hired Rolls, Uncle Cecil, Mrs M. and myself, and arrived at the crematorium to be met by a fat, self-satisfied, old aunt of a priest who welcomed us with a glinting smile as if he had swallowed another canary. There was only one other mourner, Clement Janes, who had married the Beaton sister, florid Florrie, and was considered a bit of a scallywag — no doubt because of his gambling instincts. No flowers by request, so that the purple coffin had only one bunch of mixed chrysanths upon it. The service had dignity, for the fat, Alice-in-Wonderland, cat-grinning priest managed to speak the English of the Bible with a certain sonorous gravity.

  But that only four people should see the old hermit to his ashes was poignant! — yet understandable! for in war-time it is difficult for people to receive personal news or to travel.

  The coffin was cranked past the thick doors towards the furnace, and another pair of doors facing the East was opened. That was that. We walked out into the cold wintry morning to a loggia strewn with half-dead wreaths. The Cheshire cat priest now became a gossiping aunt with my remaining uncle: ‘Oh yes, it is tragic — tragic ...’ He pursed his lips and frowned. I watched his performance wondering that he could run through it at least six or seven times each day.

  Clement Janes now showed himself to be a high-spirited, opinionated gas-bag of the old school. Through whistling false teeth he confided, ‘God! I had to read the notice three times in the paper. Gosh! It gave me a jolly good old shock, I can tell yer!’ Then Uncle Cecil, limp and sagging, with typical hanging silk scarf and wide, tragic, Beaton-dog eyes, said, ‘Now we’ll go back and have a glass of wine!’ In the motor-car Mrs McGregor was alternately weeping and gossiping with equal spirit. Clement Janes was only gossiping. ‘These days I feel die cold — I’ve even got chilblains — and I put it down to not having enough liquid refreshment! It’s so damned expensive you know, old boy — it just can’t be managed!’ I wanted to hear the cause of Uncle Wilfred’s death, but C.J. was tossing his conversational snowballs in the air. In spite of his shabby shoes, his long hair and frayed collar, his tall hat, gloves and speech bespoke the dandy.

  Back at the flat, Uncle Cecil announced, ‘Well, the trustee tells me that although I must give away no definite information yet, Wilfred has, in fact, left a generous will. Every member of the family has been remembered. He has been most thoughtful and kind. Now, Mrs McGregor, bring that sherry — and the port we opened last night.’ Decanters were produced, and a vast box of Scotch biscuits just sent as a Christmas present to Uncle Wilfred. The two other men were soon in high spirits. Uncle Cecil was galvanized into talking like an uninhibited child about anything on its mind. He was swinging backwards and forwards on his toe point
s in front of the fire. Clement Janes relished his glass of sherry. It was a rare treat, and I was impressed by his refusal of a second glass. ‘Oh no-no — dear old chap — not any more than one glass of sherry! I don’t take breakfast these days.’ Not having tasted port since I had too much at a Beefsteak club at Cambridge, this glass of rich tawny ruby was a revelation. ‘So you’re working for the Government!’ Clement Janes turned to me. ‘My dear man, I wish you’d get me a job in the Ministry of Information!’ I was amused that he should refer to my piffling work with such ceremony. ‘You laugh — you think I’m not up to it! Ha! Ha! Well, you’re damned right. I can only say what I think. I can’t write anything — wish I could!’ One could not but admire this somewhat faded ne’er-do-well, down on his luck — cold, threadbare — for his braggadocio. In a grandiose way he talked about getting back to Golders Green ‘where the Jews had let down the tone of the place’, but since the blitzkrieg they had abandoned the neighbourhood and he, personally, hoped they would never go back again.

  Clement Janes wended his way. Uncle Cecil shut the door on him. Now fully in his conversational stride he did not wish me to leave for a while. ‘So, you see, your Uncle Wilfred — well, I hate all these uncles and aunts, and cousins and nieces — it’s all right for babies, but let’s drop it — well, Wilfred’s death — has been such a shock to me. I never thought I’d be the last to go. However, Bentley, the family solicitor, came here and we had dinner here last night, and he was so tired, poor fellow, I thought he was going to faint, and I said, “Bentley, you’ll have a bottle of champagne won’t you?” And we did, and it was jolly good, for my brother had a splendid lot of wines and spirits and cigars — and that’s all he has left me — unless there’s anything over from the residue when everyone has received something. Well, it appears to me like this — reading the will — that each person has his own hobbies. I collect stamps, for example, and your uncle — well, Wilfred — he collected money. He was so careful in his lifetime: it upset him if anyone were to spend any money on him. He used to like red clove carnations, and I wanted to take him some to the hospital, but I asked the price — eightpence each. Mind you now, he would have been simply furious if I’d spent eightpence each for a carnation for him: “What are you wasting your money for?” he’d ask. I brought him some rotten little chrysanthemums, and when I asked him what he’d like, he said, “Nothing, you’ve already brought me some flowers.” But I bought him some bananas: first I bought him three, and another day I bought him two, and he liked that. He sat up in bed and ate one in front of me. But extravagance enraged him. Mrs McGregor used to buy a grouse as a treat if it were four and sixpence but not if it were five shillings. Of course he liked his glass of sherry with his dinner, and his glass of port, but he was very Victorian and often said, “What was good enough for me as a boy is good enough for me now.” Sometimes when we went away together on trips I’d come across all sorts of little traits that were part of his character. We’d dine, and the waiter would say, “Coffee?” “How much?” he’d ask. Abashed, the waiter would say, “Sixpence.” “Nonsense, no coffee is worth more than fourpence,” and he’d go without. I’ll tell you another story that is typical of him. You know he used to walk home every day from the city. Well, he knew the fare of a bus ride from Marble Arch to Whiteley’s Corner was a penny, so, as it was raining one day, he got on to the bus and gave the conductor a penny. The conductor said that for the distance he wished to go the fare was twopence. “No, it isn’t, my man.” “Well, I ought to know my own job. I tell you the fare isn’t a penny, it’s twopence.” “Well, I pay under protest.”’

  On arrival at home Uncle Wilfred wrote to the bus company complaining of what had happened. Later he told Uncle Cecil the story and of how, the following day, he was to go to the courts about the case. ‘Now, really, you mean you’ll go to all that trouble just over a penny?’ ‘I don’t care how much it’s over — it’s the principle of the thing. I’m not going to be rooked!’ The next time the brothers met, Uncle Cecil asked, ‘Well, did you waste your time at the courts?’ ‘Waste my time? Nonsense! I won my case, and got back my penny!’

  Now, after years of really denying himself all the luxuries, and even many comforts of everyday existence, Wilfred has died, and the scattered strangers with the fluke of a Beaton surname are to benefit. It is an extraordinary stroke of fortune for us, and, judging from the way in which Cecil talked about the legacies, I should not be surprised if Wilfred has not died an extremely wealthy man. It is a great comfort to know that Mummie has not been forgotten, and I only pray that it may be substantial enough a sum to give her a certain feeling of freedom. Nancy, Baba and I will benefit, as indeed does Olive Mary Beaton who, it appears, is a daughter of Theodore Beaton in Liverpool, and a few obscure relations will also receive a pleasant shock.

  Suddenly, with Russian cigarettes, Scotch biscuits and French champagne, the atmosphere became highly keyed. It seemed so unlikely that any member of our family should be connected with money. Of course we may yet be disappointed, but I have never expected a penny.

  Another surprise was to find how human and entertaining is Uncle Cecil. He has the quality I love of being able to describe people in imitations. Completely unselfconsciously, he could do exaggerated impersonations of our relations, of Mrs McGregor (now weeping outside so loud that I thought a dog was howling), and other intimates in the circle. He was really inimitable describing his night sleeping or waking here in the flat, with Mrs McGregor’s snores (she had said she couldn’t sleep a wink) and the chimes of the clocks. He gave imitations of Uncle Wilfred blinking in bed as he sank into his final illness, of the blustering doctor and pernickety nurses, and of the dreary, cautious, indoctrinated family solicitor. He also told me in character many amusing family stories about flushed old Aunt Florrie, who always spoke as if she were trying to prevent a burp, and her son — who is considered a crank for he does no work, but knows every date in the world’s history. He is good enough, Uncle Cecil said, to be featured as Datus was at the Tivoli in the old days. Datus was fired at with questions at the rate of one a second but he was never once ‘pipped’; even when the trap of Leap Year was sprung, he would reprimand the questioner by saying, ‘Don’t you remember that that happened to be a Leap Year?’

  Poor old Wilfred whom I last saw, more walrussy than ever, flying about wild-eyed and hatless, in the middle of a traffic roundabout in Paddington during an air raid — he’d popped off very quickly, and we had now lost the opportunity of being nicer to him, of giving him a better time. We’d missed that bus, and we didn’t really deserve to benefit. Yet instead of returning home depressed, Uncle Cecil and I came back somewhat galvanized by the morning to my house for a lunch of cold pheasant. When, during the meal, I gave a telephone message to Dorothy, the maid, for Peggy Ashcroft, the actress, Uncle Barley barked out, ‘Tell her you’re lunching with her godfather’; and it was true. The morning had been a succession of surprises.

  I was sorry to have to put an end to this adventure in a new world of family life. But a blonde tartlet of a movie actress and the usual ratty concourse of film scavengers — publicity men, yes-men and no-men — were awaiting my degrading services at the costumiers.

  End of April, Ashcombe

  The spring, though it came late, has been such a welcome joy after the long and frightening winter. Here at Ashcombe, paradoxically enough, the garden has never been in such trim. Dove, the new gardener, is a gentle creature, who has not only put up a desperate fight against asthma, but has battled ruthlessly against nature. Nettles, six foot high, and weeds have surrendered to his onslaught, and favourite flowers have grown larger than ever before.

  It was here last Sunday that the radio informed us that London had been badly bombed — the heaviest raid yet. We’ve been so remote and peaceful in this fold of the Downs that it was only the nightly drone of German aeroplanes above that gave us any sense of war. Even the drone ceased on Saturday. We did not realize that the planes, instead of b
eing on their way to Plymouth or the Midlands, had taken a course to London.

  Immediately on arrival in London one realized the chaos and damage. Great yawning gaps gape around Waterloo Station: there was little traffic on the roads, and rubble was all that remained of thousands of bombed-out houses. The Temple church and many city buildings that survived the Great Fire and the blitzkrieg of September have gone in this last onslaught. By some fluke the house in Pelham Place remains intact, but its survival becomes ever more remarkable. One realizes that the odds against remaining immune are drawing in.

  It is characteristic of the British always to be convinced that all goes well. But I begin to wonder secretly whether all good things don’t come to an end, and if, this time, we have been caught bending once too often. Events are very dark. At the collapse of France we said, ‘Things couldn’t be worse.’ Now the Balkans have gone, Greece is in the throes of a final agony, and we have lost there our last foothold in Europe. I know we cannot afford to give up, but if the Suez Canal goes we are likely to be terribly maimed. In a year’s time, maybe, we shall be living on capsules.

  Each month one learns of more victims: Robert Byron, torpedoed on his way to the East, is a great loss. He was such an original scholar. His Birth of Western Painting led the way for others to re-discover Byzantine art. I recall him dressed in exaggerated tweeds, as though just in from the moors — a man of great wit and with the grandeur of a Roman emperor. And he was still so young. Each month the net of tragedy is pulled tighter. Each month one looks back on the last with a nostalgic regret as for the ‘good old days’. Growing hardened to more and more rationing we cannot believe that once we went shopping casually for a box of matches, a roll of photograph film or a bottle of soda water. As Vic Oliver quips, ‘Do you remember razor blades?’