The Years Between (1939-44)

by Cecil Beaton

  HOME BY FLYING BOAT

  Friday

  At last word has come that I can return to England. I am fortunate in having a friend at the embassy who not only facilitated my departure, but lent me money to do last-minute shopping for presents of all the things that are unprocurable, or rationed, in England: sugar, marmalade, preserved figs. I’ve bought a dozen Comice pears. They are marvellous specimens and will be like gold when brought home for the family.

  Saturday

  As I sat in the bar, acquiring dutch courage before my departure, the manager of the hotel passed the time of day with me. He was like someone from another planet for, until a month ago, he had been working at the Hotel Adlon in Berlin. The German people never discussed the war; there was nothing on which to spend their money; the shops were empty; very little food, no commodities, certainly no antique furniture or jewels; but the theatres were thriving.

  At last it was time to go to the port. My fellow passengers had all provided themselves with baskets of fruit to take home for wife and family: some had pineapples in string bags, and General Willoughby Norrie, whom I had last seen when I was lost in the desert, clutched a large bunch of bananas. The weighing of the luggage seemed to be a lengthy business. ‘How long will it be before we take off?’ ‘It is very doubtful if you will be leaving.’ The wind had got up yesterday and blown with a fury ever since. The flags were beating themselves in an attempt to free themselves from their masts. One had been vaguely conscious of the wind, but now it had become the prime interest in life. The sea was rough indeed with white foaming horses. The flying-boat, enormous as it is, was swinging up and down on the waves. The launches that went out could not get near it. When it was announced definitely that there would be no take-off tonight I was somewhat relieved.

  No good even trying to go back to the Hotel Aviz — they would have disposed of my coveted room long ago. In any case, the cafard de grand luxe has set in. The dark panelling, the heavy furniture, the pile carpets and endless meals had become indigestible. A bus took a party of us to a gimcrack hotel in near-by Estoril. The wind hammers the panes of my bedroom window as if we were on a ship in a gale.

  Sunday

  A bright sun but still blustery: the wind may not abate for several days. A strange gathering of people is assembled together just on account of the wind: a good subject for a short story. I spent my day reading War and Peace and, in the late afternoon, went to the Casino. It being Sunday, the place was crowded, and I watched a fencing contest. The participants were wired electrically with a long string coming out of their backsides which connected with an electric box. Each time one of them was piccuéd a bell rang — a more ridiculous installation one could not imagine. There were cinemas, tango teas, bar and chemins de fer rooms. I enjoyed watching the types of old people, ravaged, and ravenously playing for gain, but desperately losing chips.

  Wednesday

  On Monday evening preparations were made for another departure. A gale was still blowing, but ‘they’ said we might start. We got into the bus again and, on the road, passed another busload returning from an abortive ‘take-off’, filled with the disappointed faces of those who had been all the way out to the sea only to be told they must return. Would the same be our fate?

  When we arrived the usual formalities were gone through, including the lengthy weighing of luggage. I was rather worried that my pears would be over-ripe when the Customs men were again ‘very doubtful if we start’. A launch had gone out to reconnoitre. The captain, it was said, was as impatient as anyone else to turn his back upon Lisbon.

  When the word was given that we were to try our luck, my feelings were mixed: I was glad to go, yes — but none too happy at the prospect of taking off from such a mountainous sea. We walked, with much buffeting, to the end of the jetty. It was quite an achievement to jump into the small boats tossing about below. After a choppy journey, with our luggage falling about us, we were thrown aboard the flying-boat. Once we were locked inside everything seemed calmer — for one heard and saw less. We taxied through the waves for what seemed in itself a complete sea journey. Then we turned in our tracks. The engines revved-up, snorting and backfiring furiously: it was as if some monstrous, enraged dragon were at bay. Now we were cutting through the waves at great speed. The sea, in its fury, came down upon us like walls of steel. For minutes on end we continued with a desperate determination to lunge, lurch and rivet forward. Suddenly the man next to me threw his thumbs in the air — and we were off!

  At dawn, we dove through a hole in grey clouds to find ourselves among a lot of slate islands floating in a brackish sea. We were at Foines.

  The neutral Irish came out in launches and were meticulous in their inspections: the brogue sounded supercilious at this early hour. A doctor examined us before we were allowed ashore for breakfast. A wet, drab morning with Ireland’s trees bushy, thick and lush.

  Another take-off. The windows of the aeroplane were curtained so that we should not see our island’s defences, but one young man peeped and saw that a Spitfire was escorting us. After two and a half hours’ flying — England! At last! England — green — such dark spinach green — so damp and rich. Poole looked rustic: very village-like and ‘sea-sidey’. A group of young folk, leaning on their bicycles, watched our arrival with benevolent curiosity. The English atmosphere seemed remarkably peaceful until we went through a gruelling at the Customs; even our personal papers were read. Yet the Customs inspections are always somewhat harrowing for, surely, everyone cheats just a bit: there are very few who would declare that pot of jam without hiding a slab of chocolate. However, I paid in duty really more than I should have — though a few things did get overlooked! The pears I bought in the market, many days ago, were safe. General Norris still had his bunch of bananas, and the others their pineapples.

  Now for the train to take us to Victoria. We passed rows of cottage gardens, so strange and yet so familiar, that appeared, after the parched climate of the East, so opulent, lush and dark green. When I left England, winter had still been upon us: now I tried to gauge the time of the year: There were scarlet runners in the gardens, and hollyhocks and marguerites, and avalanches of rambler roses. Yes, the summer must be drawing on. Heavens! it will soon be August Bank Holiday — but the holiday season doesn’t count for so much in wartime. How lucky I have been to get back to enjoy much that is left of summer! This was what I looked forward to while I was away. This is the goal — their homecoming — that all the men in the desert dream of during the years they are existing in such unnatural surroundings.

  In spite of the shortages of war, and even after the opulent food of Cairo and Alexandria, I would not now exchange all the rich meals of the Hotel Aviz for this English train meal — this plate of cold tongue with the new potatoes, and such green, sweet-tasting peas. I must take stock of my good fortune. Yes, without this luck I might still be awaiting my return from Cairo or Lagos, or even have been ‘put in the bag’ or sunk on the sea.

  The train rattled on, but it is a longish hop from Bournemouth to London when one feels desperately impatient. My mind was already filling up with the events that would be part of life at home. I longed to see the garden at Ashcombe, and Peter, Diana, Juliet, Clarissa and James P. H., and have news of Rex, and new surprises in the theatre.

  It was quiet at home. Mummie was upstairs, but rushed downstairs looking thin but well. Aunt Jessie screamed with extrovert surprise and sing-sang in her long-acquired foreign accent. The dog bounced up and down. The house was filled with faded flowers from friends: they had been awaiting my arrival for several days. There was such a lot to hear — news of death, divorces, and of the immediate family; so much to talk about or discuss; letters and clippings to read. Francis of the Ministry of Information rang and said they were pleased with my work. He is a kind man. I had a lot to tell him.

  During my quieter moments away I decided that, on my return, I would not dash at once to the telephone and become involved forthwith in the lives of my
friends, but would settle more quietly in the bosom of the family.

  I enjoyed the tranquil dinner at home with so much glowing of hearts, and warmth of sentiment. The presents I had brought were received with delight especially the ripe pears.

  At last, after so long, my well-travelled suitcases have been finally emptied and taken away. At last, the bed of my own, that I have so often remembered. At last!

  Part IX: London Interlude, 1942-3

  THE ROYAL FAMILY AND MRS ROOSEVELT

  August 8th, 1942

  Edith Olivier’s hair has become white. We shall soon forget that she was all these years the dark-haired gipsy for ever on the move, laughing and scratching her scalp. The white hair, while being more becoming, is not so striking. She appears more of a conventional little old lady and less the violent character that her conversation still proves her to be.

  While staying with Edith in the park at Wilton, I walked one afternoon, while she was out at a meeting, to the Close at Salisbury. Here I wished to feast my eyes again upon the rosy brick façade of the Wren school that, together with Mompesson House, and twenty other exquisite small houses, is part of the most beautiful domestic architecture in England.

  It was a leisurely afternoon, and so peaceful that it gave me the feeling that often accompanies such an unexpected pause — that of presaging great activity — which is exactly what it did. Returning to the Dayehouse, I found Edith at her door, bidding au revoir to someone from the Women’s Institute. Edith saw me and called, ‘The King and Queen want you to photograph an unexpected visitor with them tomorrow — you must go up to London by the earliest train.’

  I had been working on my Middle East book and had not taken photographs for some weeks. In my mind I felt so far away from photography that this summons came as rather an upheaval. My night’s sleep was punctuated with half dreams in which all the usual fears had eventuated, with fuses blowing, lamps falling and confusion reigning in the subsequent darkness.

  Sir Eric Miéville rang me at Pelham Place to say the visitor, though expected, might not arrive: the aeroplane had left Iceland but there had been fog, though now it had lifted. On getting to the palace there was still secrecy, but eventually I was told that the expected arrival was that of Mrs Roosevelt. Messages kept coming through. As I waited I was treated to a furlong by furlong account of Mrs Roosevelt’s progress as if she were a Derby favourite. ‘She’s coming round now — she’s at Tattenham Corner — she’s leading by a head — she’s getting closer — now a straight run for it and she’s here!’

  The royal family came in quietly and shyly, the King showing restrained embarrassment by a muscle moving in his cheek, the children meek with furtive side-long glances. The Queen smiled blandly and said, ‘Mrs Roosevelt is just taking her hat off. After she’s had a cup of tea, we’ll come in again right away.’

  The lamps stood in readiness in the Bow room — its walls decorated with rather pretty gilt medallions containing copies of Winterhalter portraits. The glass cupboards, because of bombing, were bare of china and the fireplace was empty. The palace has conformed to wartime strictures and sets an example in austerity. The temperature in corridors and many of the rooms was little above freezing. There were no flowers in vases. It very likely is true that the King allows himself only a few inches of bath water, but this somewhat dour atmosphere did not make my job of picture-making any the easier.

  After a slight interval the royal party, with their tall powdery-haired, powder-faced guest, swept in. Hurriedly I stage-managed a group around the chimney piece. A few suggestions from the King were graciously acknowledged. At last we were ready. ‘Now still! Quiet, please!’ Whereupon Madame President turned this way and that — her head high in the air while she shouted, ‘I haven’t put a comb through my hair since New York. I haven’t had any powder on my face since leaving Washington. Now that’s very nice of you to arrange to have him for dinner — I didn’t know where I’d contact him!’ Meanwhile, the family smiled nervously and the youngest child tittered. I asked for quiet, and waited by the huge camera with trigger poised. I felt like an old-fashioned Victorian photographer trying to take an exposure of a scalded cat. Mrs Roosevelt leant forward this way and that, threw her head back, and kept up a monologue while I waited with the trigger poised in helplessness. I shouted hopefully, ‘Still! One second’s exposure!’ Yet Mrs Roosevelt talked!

  It was much later, after reading of it in the Press, that any of us realized that Mrs Roosevelt has become somewhat deaf, and this, of course, had been accentuated by the recent throb of aeroplane engines. I now realize that this deafness gives her the expressionless voice and the baffled look that these unfortunates possess.

  Personal vanity is something of which Mrs Roosevelt is not conscious. Obviously it made no difference to her how she looked in these pictures. It seemed ridiculous that I should ask her to cross her feet, lower her chin and moisten her lips. Mrs Roosevelt was much more interested in going upstairs in order straightaway to write her column ‘My Day’ — which, in fact, is what soon she did. In any case the wife of the President of the United States was under the impression that a movie camera was in use and that she must portray animation.

  After her exit, the royal family were photographed in turn. The photographs primarily are for official purposes, and one must not take a chance on their not being technically perfect. So, instead of taking informal pictures with ordinary lighting and candid camera, a barrage of enormous lights, with clumsy electrician attendants, is brought in. The lamps stand six feet from the ground and cannot, with safety, be raised more than nine feet. The blaze of ubiquitous light that they create is unlike life: it is the sort of glare you see only on an amateur stage. Not only must one try to regulate the lights in a bold and original way, but one must try to disassociate one’s self from all those groups of royalty that have differed little since Queen Victoria’s early days. To prevent these well-trained sitters from regimenting themselves into a rigid composition that is not merely a pastiche of the past, provokes a great challenge. I knew that today I was not meeting this challenge. In a desperate effort that some unexpected felicity would eventually arrive to save the situation, I exposed dozens of negatives that I knew would never be of interest. Quantity does not necessarily improve quality. The bolt from heaven never arrived.

  The King was amenable, but I found myself completely uninspired. The lights would not do my bidding, although there in front of me were great possibilities, provided by the raw, bony, medieval aspects of that handsome face. I could only fall back in desperation on a Bond Street ‘camera-portraitist’ form of flattery!

  ‘How potent cheap music is,’ someone remarked in Private Lives. How contagious the prevailing forms of photographic flattery! Yet what a service it would have been to dare — to have the authority and originality of point of view — to show the King in a heightened reality.

  While waiting for a brainwave, I played for time by scrutinizing an enormous Chinese vase covered with dragons. ‘This is a strange object but it casts nice shadows.’ ‘Isn’t it hideous!’ remarked the King. ‘Where did it come from, I wonder?’ After we had surveyed it for some seconds in silence the King ventured, ‘It’s Chinese, I suppose.’ The delay before continuing the photography could be no longer protracted.

  The Queen was as sympathetic and full of charm as ever. Princess Elizabeth has developed her mother’s smile. The two Princesses, posing together, reminded me of the beginning of my career when I used to photograph Nancy and Baba as school children.

  I had no brainwave and felt desperate. Unless one has enormous vitality the conditions of taking photographs such as these are apt to overwhelm one. This evening I failed, and in my secret opinion the results were merely ordinary.

  The session lasted longer than I had dared to hope: the voluntary woman driver from the Ministry of Information, waiting to take the films to be developed (a super-rush order), sent in a pencilled note to say she had waited twenty minutes and couldn’t stay
longer tonight.

  AUGUSTUS JOHN’S LETTER

  Augustus John showed me such a witty letter from the Queen. She had really enjoyed being laid up with a bad cold as it was the first time she had been able to relax since the beginning of the war. At last she had had time to think about lots of things including her John portrait. It had been such an agreeable experience, posing in her spangled dress, with music being played during the sitting, but, alas, the portrait had not come off, and now it would have to be abandoned. But the Queen had preserved a hat that John had once noticed flying by in a motor-car when the King and Queen went to inspect some troops in John’s part of the country, and of which he had said he’d like to do a drawing. One day the Queen would come to his studio wearing the hat — as her own home was dirty and dark. A most delightful letter.

  DAVID HERBERT’S ESCAPE

  David Herbert, now in the Merchant Navy, has been torpedoed. He has returned from Oran safe though slightly unnerved. He was on night watch 9 o’clock to 3, sitting at his wireless set, or rather lying back in his chair, his legs on the table in front.

  For the past three days, they had known that they were going through the danger zone and that chances of attack were high. Some of them had said they thought the Roman Catholic clergyman had been a bit too optimistic when, that very evening, he held a thanksgiving service for their safety. A tremendous bang — all lights out, and David, thrown backwards, could not find the safety light in the dark. His duty now was to go to his superior officer and report that the ship had been torpedoed. This was perhaps a little obvious as the ship had suddenly listed to an acute angle. The wireless chief was hale and bluff. ‘So we’ve been pipped at last, have we? So we’ve been pipped after all.’ There was very little panic considering, but a few men did jump overboard from quite a height, and their lifebelts jerked up and broke their necks. A few officers panicked, but the captain managed to regain order and told everyone that it would be some considerable time before the vessel would sink. An Indian managed to swim out of a room that was submerged within inches of the ceiling; some men trapped in the engine room could be heard tapping but could not be reached. Somehow most people managed to get into the boats; of the 5,000 troops aboard only 200 were drowned.