2.4: Parents: sparring skirmishes

Something that we all realised to some extent, was that our parents were no longer getting on very well together. Shouting could sometimes be heard when I was walking in the vicinity of the drawing-room. And I once caught Christopher with his head round the partition door which separated our side of the house from theirs, gleaning what he could from the exchanges of abuse that were coming his way. I think he was in the habit of such eavesdropping, so he probably knew a lot more than I did about the state of the marriage. It was also true that Daphne was spending more and more of her time away from Sturford, but I fell short of perceiving that they might actually be contemplating divorce as the solution to their incompatibility. Even if they did appear irritated with each other, I assumed that this was an acceptable part of marital life, and that they were still quite well matched.

Inasmuch that Daphne was so frequently absent from the scene, it was becoming especially important that I should learn how to get on well with Henry. After my excellent showing at Eton, I know that he had been taking it for granted that I would do well in my army training. He saw me (in good fascist theory) as someone fitted to rule, and he attributed my low final grading to the humorous story about me answering back, when I had disputed with my instructor as to where on the map the position I was occupying might be. Naturally it was flattering to me that he should regard the failure thus, but it frightened me that he might wake up to the fact that there was something more radically immature about my whole development in life.

I had managed to get through the period of my training as an officer without any serious disputes arising between Henry and myself - probably because we had so little time to spend in each other's company. But the situation changed once I had received my commission, and had moved back to the comparative proximity of Windsor. Something which I know got on his nerves was my continued interest in painting. He had always been so sure that it was a passing interest that would rapidly fade, now that I had reached adult life - just as my interest in butterfly collecting had passed. And he'd been at pains to mock me when he'd observed how I would set up my easel where the tourists who came to Longleat might stop to watch what I was doing. According to him, I was just showing off to them: wanting to hear my praises on their lips. And he'd supposed that a slight touch of ridicule might nudge me away from such an undesirable occupation.

I realized how he might find it intolerable if I finally decided to paint professionally. For one thing, my approach to art wasn't such as to incur his admiration. Not photographic enough, might be another way of putting it. But even if he had liked my paintings, he still didn't regard art as a serious profession. And he was convinced that I was cut out for better things.

It offended me however, that he took my personal aspirations all too lightly. When I asked him to have the paintings I had done at Eton framed by one of the estate carpenters, he refused. So I was left with the task of framing them myself - which I did, even though the carpentry looked distinctly amateur. And it irked me considerably when he granted his friend Robin Campbell at that time, the full use of his estate carpenters when it came to framing his paintings for a pending exhibition of his latest work. These were matters which led to a few heated words, but not exactly to a quarrel. Having framed all my paintings, I ranged them round the walls of the Orangery in what should rank as my first personal exhibition. And there they remained until I moved to Germany, when Henry took them down for storage elsewhere. Not that this really offended me, in that I had expected as much. Perhaps I had doubts in my own heart then, that I would ever really take control of my life sufficiently to emerge as an artist. So I took such depreciation in my stride.

The intended occupation which I most frequently proclaimed was to join the Foreign Office and become a diplomat. Not that this idea either carried Henry's approval. There was no money in diplomacy. Who ever heard of an ambassador becoming a millionaire from what he'd earned in his salary? No, all of these ambitions were really quite futile, and he was confident that eventually, I could be dissuaded from making such a fool of myself.

He probably regarded my whole relationship to adult life as being a bit tenuous these days. I wasn't someone who had firm ideas on what I might eventually do. And he had troubles enough of his own. With Daphne's frequent absences, and with the family's integrity beginning to fall apart, I daresay he found my endeavours to regulate my own position in adult life to be an unnecessary complication to his own sense of order in life. We had in fact been getting on each other's nerves of late, and there was a particular week-end in October when the irritations spilled over into real anger.

It was during the period that I only had a provisional licence to drive the Landrover, which had just been given to me. I was eager to drive it on all possible occasions, so I arranged to give a lift to the Morrison brothers whose home was at Fonthill, not far from Sturford. That way I was complying with the law in having someone who had passed his driving-test at my side - as far as Fonthill in any case. I then continued the journey illegally, in that I was unaccompanied; and the additional mileage that I had incurred made me very late for lunch at Sturford, where Henry had been waiting for me. In fact I arrived at 14.20 hrs, to join him belatedly at the table. But the atmosphere was frigid after this, and I missed out greatly on Daphne not being there to smooth things over for me.

Tempers reached boiling point when I asked him if I could have the use of Harold Mather, his chauffeur, to accompany me back to Windsor next morning. I daresay that I was offering to place him on a train back home, once we had got there, although it seems evident within the sequel that this point was lost on Henry. He seems to have got the impression that I was just asking for a free lift. In any case he dismissed the subject with a curt "No". My own feeling was that I hadn't been given sufficient reasons for this refusal; just a verdict which I regarded as irrational. But when Henry perceived that I was questioning the finality of his judgement, he suddenly exploded. I can't remember what was said, but some abuse flooded from his lips in general denigration of my personality. And the meal was concluded in an atmosphere of complete hostility, whereupon I just took off back to Windsor, without even bidding him farewell.

A few days later, I received a letter from Henry, making an admirable attempt to clear up the ill feeling. It deserves to be quoted in full in that it throws considerable light upon our relationship at this time.

Dearest Alexander,

First of all I want to apologise for having lost my temper with you in such an absurd and childish way. To behave as I did was exceedingly stupid of me, and immediately put me in the wrong before anything could be discussed. I am sorry.

Secondly, I am writing this letter as I feel that you and I must do something on both sides in order to cease these endless annoyances which lead to quarrels, before it has all gone too far. The point is, old cock, that I am exceedingly fond of you and admire many of your estimable qualities, but the trouble is that you do things and say things which drive me to a point of frenzy and fury. I am sure that I have the same effect on you.

When I heard you were coming down today, I was genuinely delighted and was looking forward to seeing you. I always feel like that before you arrive. But then something always happens which spoils it.

Today Donald told me that you had sent a telegram saying you would be here for lunch. One o'clock arrives and then Donald asks me whether to begin, or wait. I tell him that I am perfectly prepared to wait until 1.30, but it rested with them to say what they preferred. They wisely said to begin - which I did. One-thirty - two o'clock - and still no appearance, and no message. Then at two-twenty you roll up in your car, admitting you were late because you had given some friends a lift somewhere. And all the time you must have known you were going to be late before even you had sent your telegram. And then on top of it all, you arrive home expecting still to be fed.

Now you know Alexander - you know only too well - or if you don't, you must be zany - that this sort of inconsiderate behaviour annoys me beyond words. It isn't necessarily the extra trouble which you give everybody, but it is the inconsiderate manner in which you behave towards other peoples' lives. You give the appearance as if everyone was at your service, and that they must put themselves out to suit your convenience. Bring your filthy washing back and expect Mrs Sims or someone to wash it. Expect Mather to go to London at a time which suits you best in order to help choose a taxi for you. There are many things like the above which you have done in the past, and which I can't now remember.

Please believe me that I am not trying to tell you off again, but I am honestly trying to clear the air so that you and I can get along better together. I hate all these rows, and I am sure I am to blame, just as much as you are, for not handling the situations correctly.

When I have made up my mind about something - such as Mather not driving you back to Windsor the other day - don't go harping and returning to the subject like you did. That again infuriates me.

And Alexander, one more thing. You actually came down today in the Landrover without an L-plate, and without having passed your test. You simply must remember that the row we had last time was about that sort of thing. It so happens that you have now departed without me knowing, so thank heavens for that. Otherwise I should have insisted on Mather accompanying you back - and what is more, you would have had to pay for his train journey back home.

Do please come down again. But before you do - pass your test - that is if you come by car. Can you see what I mean when I say how, in my opinion, you are so thoughtless? Anyway I'll really try to make an effort to be reasonable. And will you please, on your part, just try and think before you leap. (Wrongly quoted I know!) There is no need to answer this letter - probably best not - just as you wish. Bygones are bygones as far as I am concerned.

If you do happen to be down this way on your big manoeuvres, try and stop your regiment parking their bloody armoured cars on my rhododendrons.

Love Dad.

It seems that I complied with Henry's suggestion of refraining from a reply. Well-intentioned though his letter now strikes me as being, I think I'll offer my comments here. I feel sure that I was indeed inconsiderate as a young man, and yet part of the fault can be attributed to the way we had been left to our own devices throughout our upbringing. We had never been trained to be especially co-operative within the home environment; nor had we really been encouraged to consider anyone's problems other than our own. So I was indeed emerging as a product of that mould. Individualistic to the point of egocentricity perhaps.

Even with this point to one side, it doesn't strike me that Henry yet appreciated the degree to which his own behaviour needed to change before there could possibly be a lasting peace between the two of us. He didn't identify me yet as an adult, and it was difficult to listen to his authoritarian rulings without feeling that my manhood was getting repressed. It didn't occur to him that he might have got better co-operation from me if discussions were to take place, where my own opinions and judgements might sometimes win the day. I had obeyed him literally for too long, and a resentment of it was beginning to gnaw away at me inside.

There is but one other quarrel which led to an exchange of letters, and this was concerned with money. To coincide with my obtaining a commission, Henry had raised my allowance to £500 per annum, on quarterly instalments. And this was perhaps more than some of the other subalterns received - in addition to their army pay, that is to say. Life was notoriously expensive for young officers in the Brigade of Guards, with all the social events of the London season to contend with. But the prospects of a spell out in the British Army of the Rhine would reduce the opportunities for any heavy expenditure. So my financial prospects were quite reasonable.

But it was at Henry's insistence that I equipped myself with a wardrobe such as never in fact got used. Shirts from Turnbull and Asser to suit every possible occasion, and all else that he deemed a young gentleman might require. It was an excessive wardrobe, and much of it was soon stolen - by whom I never discovered. But the sheer ostentation of such possessions had been an invitation to thefts of this kind. And what Henry didn't seem to perceive is that he was setting me up, in the eyes of others that is to say, as someone aspiring to be a dandy - which wasn't much in character with the personality that was developing in me. And I felt all the awkwardness of an imposed image.

Due to these heavy initial expenditures, and also to the visits up to London which were not infrequent over this period, I soon found myself just slightly overdrawn - to an extent of about £25. It was a situation which would in any case soon get rectified, in that one could easily survive upon army pay, when living out in Germany with the British Army of the Rhine. But Henry's standing instructions with Drummonds, with whom we banked, were that all cheques which I might present after my credit was exhausted, must bounce. Moreover I now learnt that he had written to the manager, demanding to know why I had been permitted to go overdrawn, when his instructions had always been to the contrary. What I required was that there should be a certain flexibility in the situation while we were still at Combermere. So I raised the subject with Henry one evening at dinner, when I was back at Sturford on a week-end pass.

I found unfortunately that I had come up against all the rigidity of outlook that I had experienced from him throughout my adolescence. There was no question of him concluding that I was now an adult, and must be treated differently. He told me that he wouldn't permit me to go overdrawn. And when I attempted to persuade him that my request was in fact quite reasonable, he brought the conversation curtly to a close - criticising me sharply for having brought up the matter during dinner. I realized that he was on the verge of losing his temper with me, so I shut up. From my own point of view, his endeavours to remain in strict parental control of my life were excessive, and were unmatched by any other father that I knew. Indeed as an adult, it was really for the bank itself to make such decisions as to whether they would permit me any credit. So I took up the matter with him a second time, but on this occasion within a letter.

Dearest Daddy,

I know that to reopen a subject irritates you, but owing to the fact that I wasn't given a chance to state my case, I am doing so now. Then at least I can feel that my request was discarded on its lack of merit, and not simply as a result of a dogmatic principle. Nevertheless I apologise for mentioning the subject at dinner yesterday. I did not intend to until afterwards, but it somehow cropped up by mistake. However the facts of the case are as follows. (a) My allowance is sufficient. Anything greater would involve superfluous generosity on your side. (b) I have been informed by Drummonds that I have gone overdrawn, and that you have instructed that any further cheques should get bounced.

The reasons for this state of affairs can best be summed up by my sending you my pass-book, since there is nothing private in it. And I have asked the bank in future to send you details direct. As you will see, there are quite a number of cheques cashed to `Self' - and thus for personal pleasure. But I think you will judge that I have not been squandering my allowance upon riotous living.

So I am wondering what your motivation might be for refusing to let me go overdrawn. It seems easily, if somewhat sordidly explained. You feel that if I were allowed to go overdrawn, I would sooner or later take advantage of it, and go plunging into an overdraft - from which it would require a tractor to extract me. That tractor (you suppose) would be yourself.

If I am right in thinking that you take this view, then it can all be summed up in the word `mistrust'. It is mistrust. You do not trust me to act sensibly when it comes to the question of credit. And even if you cannot furnish me with a fully flexible allowance, then perhaps I could be permitted to go overdrawn up to a given limit; perhaps up to a figure for which I myself could offer the bank some surety.

If all is impossible, I shall of course manage to get by. As you have often told me in the past, there is a way round everything. I could borrow on post-dated cheques, which would in practice amount to an overdraft. But I must stress that I'd far prefer to act on principles of mutual trust, than start scheming on how I can get round your rules.

Please give the matter your careful consideration, and tell me what you think best.

Love from Alexander.

Henry's reply to me was as follows.

Thank you so much for your very nice letter, but I do want to make it perfectly clear that the reason I will not let you overdraw is in no way because I do not trust you. In absolutely no way whatsoever. It is merely that one has to draw the line somewhere. Even if I said you could withdraw up to a certain limit, you would still be able to say that I was not trusting you then, inasmuch that I would no longer give you a free hand. The point is that, if one doesn't make a rule of this sort, every single person in the world would overdraw. In my own time I have done this to no small extent - when I was about your age - and my father had to pay up!

I'm afraid I shall continue to stick to my rule, in spite of the fact that you say you have bought only the merest essentials for your trip to Germany. I have written to your bank today informing them to this effect. I do however want you to realise that I am in no way annoyed with you, but it is one of my rules which I propose to stick to with all of my sons - and no argument will persuade me to be different.

I went to the dentist in London yesterday and discovered that you have not been to see him, or even made an appointment to do so. May I inform you that unless you do so before Christmas, you will in future pay for all your own dental treatment, as you promised me faithfully that you would go.

The correspondence between my father and Drummonds led to the manager requesting a meeting with Henry, when it was tactfully pointed out to him just how detrimental it might be to my career, if my cheques started bouncing when I was serving as an officer in the Household Cavalry. The question of credit was thenceforward left as a matter for my bank manager to decide - and has never incidentally, been abused. But it marks a moment of small triumph in my life in that my father now felt actually obliged to modify one of the rules which he had set up to govern our lives - if only because it concerned matters which were not strictly under his control.

But as I've said before, his home environment was experiencing the tremors such as precede an earthquake, even if the rest of his household seemed unaware of the shocks that were to come. The first occasion when someone saw fit to hint openly to me that the marriage might not last was when Iain Graham-Wigan came down to visit me from his regiment. (He had joined the Rifle Brigade, with the intention of signing on as a regular army officer.) We went out to lunch in Windsor somewhere, and I heard all his latest history . But he had always been one to take a sadistic delight in the discomfiture of others, and he did so on this occasion by tossing me a query about my mother's antics.

"So what's this I hear about the way she's carrying on up in London?..... There's a private house, it's said..... She gets up to all manner of things up in London, I'm told..... People say that orgies take place..... She's a thoroughly immoral woman, by all accounts....."

Perhaps I should have taken umbrage at the words he uttered, but it had suddenly struck me that I might be hearing the truth. And he'd been a good friend - for some of the time - so might be permitted an indiscreet comment or two. I did in fact know that Daphne often went to stay up in London. And what they might get up to was anyone's guess. At the same time, I knew how Iain had always been someone to get his facts wrong - especially when it came to sexual matters. I didn't quite know what to think, and I felt perturbed; much as Iain had been anticipating, as I imagine. And it was all too close now to the date of me crossing to Germany, to expect to find out what might truly be going on. So my unease on the subject remained unalleviated.

Rooted in astonishment I stand, twitching
the itch of incredulity, a fool for doubting
the folly of belief, grieving, and yet admiring
the dire audacity of whoring in one so dear.
Near the ilk of my own former antics,
romantic at heart, I blend in her glowing soul,
identifying deep, through back streets
of fleeting sub-conscious memories of guilt.
My stilted morals wince and wilt at the farcical
charges you level at her ruffled reputation,
ungracious in pouring spunk on raw sores,
and chortling gleeful at my own discomfiture.
The priceless treasure of my childhood's heart
should not lie open to such vulgar farts.

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