Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle (13 page)

Passing under the central Gothic arch, I made a right turn, paying little heed to the pair of handsome sixteenth-century Flemish
feuilles de choux
tapestries (so-called because of the mass of cabbage-like leaves hosting rabbits, a lioness chasing a lion, and plenty of exotic birds dotted around the wild foliage) that faced each other across the inner hall, and stood before the double doors to the drawing room.

I listened for a moment, trying to pick out any familiar voices. I dreaded this “making an entrance” business when everyone in the room turned to look at you and did their best to come up with something nice to say.

I heard only my mother’s voice and Borrett’s firm reply, “Yes, Madam. I would say so, Madam.” I paused, marshalling my courage, then cautiously turned the handle and went in.

My eyes were drawn immediately to the massive and beautiful Italian marble chimneypiece and the roaring, crackling log fire which lent the wood-panelled room a sensational warmth and glow. In front of the fireplace, providing additional protection (together with the fireguard) for the eighteenth-century English armorial carpet, and the ring around the tea table of George II walnut balloon-backed chairs, from wayward sparks, was a late-seventeenth-century Chinese coromandel wood screen.

My mother was seated on the far sofa smoking a cigarette and glancing through a daily paper. Behind her stood an eight-foot-tall lacquered Chinese screen depicting people and pots, gardens and birds, and further back, to the left, was the lofty and imposing bay window where my mother, Granny B, and Auntie Pops had had their portrait painted in 1947 by Étienne Drian. Since it was dark outside, the elaborate French silk curtains had been drawn. In front of the bay window sat a handsome Louis XV desk, and close by, next to the double doors leading to the Yellow drawing room, was a splendid mahogany gramophone, grander by far in appearance than the small contraption in David’s London bedroom.

In the centre of the room was a round table covered with a white linen tablecloth, and in the centre of the table was a large silver teapot mounted on silver legs. It was so high it partly obscured my mother’s face. Around the table were cups and saucers in fine china, silver spoons and knives, rolled knobs of butter, and a selection of homemade jams in individual silver dishes, a plate full of scones, a chocolate cake, and a sponge cake, both of them fresh from the pantry. The tea napkins were hand-embroidered linen with budgerigars around the edge.

To my right was another sofa, facing and identical to the one my mother was sitting on. In front of me were the backs of two Louis XV fauteuils. Opposite the fireplace were two smaller bay windows, also with their curtains drawn, and on a table between them sat a spectacular Chinese mantel clock. Just beyond, in the corner, was the card table and four more balloon-backed chairs, the setting for Granny’s daily (when in residence) canasta marathons, a card game with which I was not, as yet, familiar.

There were lamps on covered round tables each side of the fireplace and on the Louis XV desk. There were also three mid-sixteenth-century iron standing lamps with curvy tops and downward facing shades. They could be moved around which, of course, everybody did when the scene shifted from tea, to cards, to after-dinner cards, conversation, and so on. By each sofa was a black lacquered Chinese side table, with flowers and ashtray on each, and all around the room was an array of eighteenth- and early-nineteenth-century Chinese porcelain, figurines, and biscuit ware.

Subdued grandeur was the drawing room’s tone. I was feeling mightily subdued myself, at five o’clock on the dot, with only my mother and I present and correct.

“Hello, Mummy.” I walked over, taking the fireplace route around the tea table, and gave her a kiss.

“Hello, darling,” she replied, putting her paper down and folding it neatly. “Heavens above, you’ve come down fully armed! Are we expecting trouble?”

“Sort of. Anyway, I thought I’d be prepared.”

“What a good idea,” said my mother. “You never know what might happen over tea. Shall we ask Borrett for a glass of milk when he returns?”

“Yes, please.”

I sat down next to her on the sofa. “What’s in the paper?” I asked.

“I was just reading about your friend Mr. Richard. Apparently his latest tune is near the top of the hit parade.”

“Yes, I know. ‘Travellin’ Light,’ it’s called. I’ve never met Cliff, Mummy.”

“Of course you haven’t. What a curious idea.”

“So why did you call him my friend?”

“Because you like his music and talk about him a lot. That makes him sort of like a friend.”

“Do you think so?”

“Don’t you? Well, never mind. Did you have a good walk? I’m sorry I couldn’t come. Granny needed me to make up a four at canasta. I think Lady H dropped out for some reason.”

“I took my bicycle, and we went up to the woods above Mr. Elves’s house. It was fun.”

“Did you bump into anybody on your travels?”

“Actually, I bumped into a tree. But the bike’s fine.”

“You didn’t hurt yourself?”

“Oh no. We saw the peacocks outside the laundry.”

“Oh yes, extraordinarily colourful, aren’t they?”

“Ugly! And sometimes they make dreadful noises.”

Up until this point my reluctant descent into grown-up territory had gone smoothly. All the usual navigational hazards involving unwanted encounters in distant corners of the castle had been avoided, and for a brief while I was able to enjoy my mother’s company in peace and luxuriate in the sumptuousness of the drawing room, set in all its panoply for tea.

Then, all of a sudden, pandemonium erupted. Voices came from the hall and from the corridor leading to the kitchens. Footsteps were coming from all directions. The three sets of doors—the main, the ones to the kitchens and pantry, and the ones behind the Chinese screen leading to the Yellow drawing room—were opened simultaneously and what looked like the whole company of the Apostles entered the room.

Granny B came first, filling the drawing room with her understated yet forceful presence, accompanied by Uncle Gawaine, Morg, Bottle, and Lady H. As they made their way in, my mother and I stood. Borrett, accompanied by Johnny and Vincent, the footmen on duty that day, waltzed in, carrying plates of wafer-thin sandwiches, biscuits, napkins, and sundry items without which the conducting of the tea ceremony would be quite unthinkable.

From the Yellow drawing room came Lord and Lady Wilton, not my idea of fun. He was pompous, potbellied, spoiled, and aloof, and he walked and talked like a caricature of an aristocrat from centuries past. She was nice looking and well dressed but, like him, had no time for me. With them were the Honourable Robin and Mrs. Warrender, and my father, all of them chatting away earnestly and clearly eager for tea.

No sooner had I started to think that that must be it than through the main doors came Reg Shurey and Guysy-Wee, the Old Faithfuls, muttering away cheerfully to each other, their country outfits a portrait of no-fuss refinement. Mr. Shurey wore a three-piece earth-brown Donegal tweed suit and sober tie, and Guysy-Wee wore a blue-grey houndstooth tweed jacket, grey flannel trousers, and sober tie. Woody brought up the rear, dog whip clasped in both hands behind his back (which I never saw him use for any purpose other than to gently slap his leg when out walking) wearing his customary green tweed single-breasted suit, and sober tie.

At this juncture I had no idea what to do next. Should I go and give Granny a kiss or remain rooted to the spot and hope for some kind of greeting from someone before the ground swallowed me up? Forcing myself to remain calm, the answer came when Granny said to my mother, “Susy, darling, come and sit by me,” and then, noticing me, “Ant, darling, how are you?” Before I had time to reply or venture a move towards her, she continued talking to my mother: “I need to talk to you about Nassau.”

Wearing her customary
tailleur
Chanel and small amount of exquisite jewellery, Granny walked to her regular chair, the one with its back to the fireplace, while everybody else made beelines for their regular positions.

“Hello, Granny!” I wasn’t sure if she’d seen me, but Nanny’s words had emboldened me, and I was determined not to let her down.

“Hello, darling. How are you?”

Not realizing she’d enquired after my health twice in less than one minute, she proffered her cheek for a kiss; then, after I’d given her one, she sat down without waiting for a reply. It seemed my presence was going to be of vital importance to the gathering. I girded my wits about me to make the best of the situation. My mother sat on Granny’s right, and Morg took the chair to her left.

“My dear fella,” he addressed me. “What do you call that fine-looking piece of weaponry you carry about your waist?”

Thank God for Morg, I thought. He could rescue any situation.

“Glute,” I blurted out for no reason whatsoever. The word had arrived in my head as if planted there by a Dalek.

Apparently Morg found this extremely amusing.

“Glute, you say! Bless my soul, what an excellent name!” He chuckled loudly and passed me the sandwich plate.

Guysy-Wee and Reg Shurey sat on the sofa to my left. Gawaine, Mrs. Warrender, and Lord Wilton made up the group at the round table. Lady H and Colonel Anson sat on the sofa to my right, and my father and Mr. Warrender sat at the card table in the corner, deep in conversation.

For the next few minutes Borrett, Johnny, and Vincent passed around teacups, saucers, spoons, and napkins. Then Borrett poured tea from the silver pot with one hand, using a silver strainer to collect the leaves with the other. Johnny offered milk and sugar cubes from a silver salver. Vincent took round plates and offered scones. When Borrett had finished pouring tea (for the first time), he offered sandwiches and napkins, and when Johnny had finished serving milk and sugar, he took round the chocolate and sponge cakes. Not wishing to interrupt this finely tuned performance, I decided to be bold and slip down to the pantry and get myself a large glass of milk. I encountered Johnny in the pantry, there for the same purpose as myself, to top up on milk. We walked back to the drawing room together, chatting.

Resuming my position by the fireplace, I noticed that a plate of plain white bread, cut into triangles with the crust removed, had been placed on a small side table next to Guysy-Wee, who stood up, took two pieces of bread, and headed in my direction.

“What was that name you gave your pistol?” he asked me.

“Glute,” I told him.

“Yes, how about that! Well, Glute,” he said, “why don’t you and I make some toast together?”

Upon which he removed two three-foot-long poles with forked ends from little hooks by the side of the fireplace—I’d never noticed them before—skewered a piece of bread onto each fork and handed one to me. “Best toast in the world,” he said as he stuck his prong not into the flames but close to them, in order not to burn the bread. I copied Guysy-Wee, and to my absolute delight he proved to be one hundred percent correct. It was the best toast ever. I smothered mine with butter and jam and demolished it with a flourish.

I could tell our activities had not gone unnoticed. As Guysy-Wee resumed his seat, Lady H sidled up to claim his abandoned toasting prong, and together we set about making some more serious toast.

“Glute, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Glute, I happen to be extremely partial to a slice of toast at teatime myself.”

Judging by Lady H’s girth, this comment came as no surprise. Pleased to be engaged in activity and conversation with a person I did not find at all intimidating, I went to pick up the bread plate and brought it closer to the fire.

“Were you playing truant this afternoon, Lady Huntley? I had to speak quietly, conspiratorially, because Granny was close by. But with the fire and everybody talking, I saw no danger.

“Truant?” Lady H seemed taken a back.

“Avoiding Granny’s card game.”

Lady H regarded me with a quizzical, Sherlock Holmes–type look. I noticed her toast starting to burn. “Watch out! Your toast’s burning!”

“Drat!” She discarded her burnt morsel and affixed a fresh slice. “Are you checking up on me, good sir? Are you with security?”

“Granny’s Gestapo, at your service, ma’am.”

“Oh dear. It looks as if I could be in a spot of trouble here!”

“Don’t worry, Lady H. I know you’re a good sort. I’ll protect your reputation.”

“My reputation?” At this Lady H looked genuinely concerned.

“Oh yes. As a loyal and dedicated supporter of castle law number one—always be available for cards with Granny unless you’re tremendously sick, or some other really good reason prevents you.”

“Yes. Quite so.”

Lady H and I were making our third piece of toast at this point. Four neatly toasted triangles sat on the bread plate; the bread was no more. “Perhaps,” she said, “we should move this important discussion over to the sofa where we can be more comfortable?”

“As you say, my dear Glute,” she continued once comfortably seated, “I would be the last person—heaven help me—to break castle law number one. This afternoon I was, indeed, struck down by a most virulent headache and was obliged to retire to my bedroom, take two aspirin, and lie down for a while. Fortunately, your mother was willing and able to take my place at the table.”

“Funny how important some things are, Lady H.”

“Isn’t it just?” said Lady Huntley, and we left it at that.

Once again Borrett and Johnny materialized from nowhere for another round of tea pouring, scone dispensing, and other vital duties. Clearly, they were taking every conceivable precaution against anybody feeling the tiniest pang of hunger before dinner. Personally, I felt as stuffed as the proverbial Christmas turkey, but I did marvel at the intake capacity of the grown-ups, returning as they would in only three hours’ time to the dining room for a four-course dinner.

My mother turned and spoke to me. “Darling, be an angel and see if your father or Mr. Warrender would like a sandwich or a piece of cake, would you?” She handed me two plates, which I carried over to the card table in the corner. It did not seem likely that Borrett had overlooked this area, but there was no point in causing a stir.