2.2: Parents: my need for independence

Henry and myself had never got the measure of one another - which on my side meant that I wasn’t always smiling when he imagined that his performance of life should amuse. I read his actions too much at their face value perhaps, without the distance of humour - too earnestly endeavouring to perceive their application to myself.

I was also apt to misjudge what he might appreciate me doing, or what I should buy him as a birthday present for example. I believe that he had some kind of a private joke with Virginia, about him being her knight in shining armour. (A reference to some episode where his old-fashioned chivalry had come to the fore, no doubt.) And I noted how Virginia had given him a puppet of a silver knight, which was suspended in a prominent position within his study. But it was hardly the same thing when I presented him with a box of tin soldiers from Hamleys - all of them knights in shining medieval armour, but without the shared sentimental memories to sublimate them into something special. I was often aware how I had misjudged a gesture which I had imagined might please him.

But I did have an urgent wish to fit in with his new family, and I was concerned that he should be happy with Virginia. I had commented in my journal (12th January 1954) upon the state of my both my parents’ marriages, as I viewed the matter then.

Dad’s marriage to Virginia appears to be going very well, and I have much more confidence in the durability of that union than in Mum’s with Xan. It is true that Virginia does occasionally lose her patience with Dad, but I do not regard this as being anything different from behaviour that might be taken as normal. Where I do feel slight misgivings however is in David Tennant’s declared intention to return from Spain and live in Britain again. For it seems that Virginia does go to see him occasionally. And I fear that she may be partially drawn back to him and then start leading a bigamous kind of existence - dwelling first at one house and then at the other. I think she feels guilty about leaving David so that, if she ever begins to feel disillusioned with the situation she finds with Dad, then it could quickly develop into such a state of affairs.

Whatever my fears, it seems that David Tennant was dissuaded from moving back to Britain, although Virginia did go out to stay with him in Spain (near Torremolinos) on more than one visit over the course of the next two years - until (as I suspect) my father persuaded her that it was endangering their own marriage. Neither of them were inclined to speak too openly about these visits. They were fleeting enough - usually within the routine of delivering her children into his hands, or when collecting them to their return to Britain; and such dates were often inserted into the calendar at times when the rest of us were busy elsewhere. But I was aware of them as a constant irritant in Henry’s mind over this period.

Henry was apt to hide himself by taking a cure at a health farm over the periods of her absence - drying out from the effect of too much alcohol. His level of drinking had always been high, without exactly going into what a heavy drinker might regard as excess. But his marriage to Virginia had one undesirable effect in that they now pooled their personal preferences (Henry’s for whiskey and Virginia’s for wine) by having both items on the menu nowadays, whereas in their own homes previously it had just been the one. I did take note how there was always wine (usually a good hock) served up with the dinner at Job’s Mill, whereas at Sturford this had only happened when there were guests. But the main problem from my own point of view was that, in drinking wine over our meals, the mutual tolerance to each other’s divergent opinions quickly diminished. Little things which had remained (in one’s more sober judgement) unsaid, were then liable to bubble up to the surface. And there is an instance of this in my journal of 21st March 1954.

I had an argument with Dad practically as soon as he arrived back from his cure. It began by him saying something about [F], with me sticking up for her. And in listing her good points I said that she was intelligent. This somehow made Dad become angry and, during the discussion on intelligence which followed, he declared that he himself was intelligent, even if he wasn’t well educated. Having taken as much as I’ve done in the past from him on this subject, I took this opportunity to throw back at him some of the sneers that he has made against myself recently - about my conceit in thinking that I should study anything at university when I ought to be making a start in some manner of business. This didn’t help matters. But it infuriates me when I get accused of conceit, when he thinks he’s allowed to get away with a description of himself as intelligent.

It’s not that I consider him a fool. My opinion of him is that he has a very active brain which, if it had been intelligent, would have achieved some admirable results. But he cannot get away with such claims at the level of intelligence which he actually possesses. When he applies his mind to intellectual subjects, his viewpoints are of little value owing to the thought processes which have produced them. I may still admire the activity which constantly takes place in his mind. But when I find myself (or friends) subjected to disparagement which results from his own disorganized thought processes, then it makes me feel exasperated, and rebellious against all manner of positions that he might hold.

With manicured hands you flicked the lumps of shit,
sitting aloft on your dictatorial throne;
but I’ve grown in size, like larvae nourished on dung,
and sprung open the restricting walls of my pupa.
The soup and meat course for a swarm of swamp gnats
shatter your brittle calm with their squeaking venom -
the endless deserved torment serving a splendid
inspiration for a plethora of barbed retorts.
chortle with a full bottle, now that my nimble
limbs can copy the fencer’s thrust and parry -
married as ever to the clever tricks of polished
politesse in pursuance of conversation.
Yes, now I’ve learnt to crack the hunter’s whip,
I’ll get your feet a merry jig to skip.

On the following day, I refer to another quarrel with Henry in my journal.

Another row with Dad - not very serious this time, although it does seem to indicate that we are not able to discuss anything nowadays, without a risk that we ruffle each other’s tempers.

Seen from my own standpoint, it does seem that Dad’s method of discussion is bound to lead on to my saying something that will annoy him. He never fastens himself steadfastly to one subject, but skids from one to another - scoring as many points as he can compile (often below the belt) upon issues which have been left open between us from arguments long past. But these different subjects require different approaches for discussion. So when I try to tie him down, to discover which aspect he might really wish to discuss, he seems to think that I am seeking to catch him out with a quibble. Or if on the other hand I try to humour him by going along as best I can with the presentation of his case, I soon find that I have lost track of all direction in his thoughts. So I feel irritated, and point this out to him - which he then holds against me as an example of my stupidity and conceit. The only real solution is that I should avoid all manner of discussion with him, no matter how friendly the spirit in which it may be offered.

Then on 30th March 1954, I wrote in my journal concerning a conversation that I’d had with Daphne, after seeing her in London.

Mum tells me that Dad told her that he is livid with me because I try to make out that he is unintelligent. I am delighted, because it shows that he is now feeling some of the discomfort that he always makes me feel!

A few excerpts from Daphne’s letters to me will reveal the kind of life that she was living with Xan over this period. Both of them were striving their hardest to meet the deadline on books which they had to complete for their publishers before the Spring - for publication in October. But that didn’t stop them from going on the occasional visit to London, or to Ireland. However in her letter of 28th January 1954, they are still in Cornwall.

We had Auberon Herbert staying with us here. He is a staunch Catholic, so we went to mass with him in Polperro, and the priest preached a sermon of home truths, bang at us - all about divorce and mixed marriages. (Xan was born a Catholic.) He said that people who were married in registry offices were not really married. We all got terrible attacks of suppressed church laughter, and the priest said: "Some people seem to think this is funny."

The new Landrover has arrived and is a great joy. I now feel confident about facing up to the desert sands. We shall be making our trip to the Barbary Coast in May. [This was to research some further details for the book Xan was writing.]

Cowrie is storm tossed - huge seas thundering below us, with the house shaking in the wind. There is even snow here. But inside we are warm and cosy. I don’t even put our noses outside. I rather love the winter here.

I read in the Daily Mirror today that Oxford is full of immorality between undergraduate and undergraduette. It sounds a very good thing.

Then there were plans being made for me to come a stay with them at Auberon Herbert’s house, up in London, to attend the first night of the play which her brother Lord Vivian, my Uncle Tony, was producing. This was The White Countess by J.B.Priestley. He had formerly been in partnership with Cochrane as a producer, with himself furnishing the aristocratic veneer to the other’s professionalism. But Cochrane had recently died - from burns, after suffering a stroke in his bath, when the hot tap was turned up. And now that Tony was left to his own devices, his professional judgement was found to be suspect. He had just turned down Salad Days on the grounds that its nostalgia for the twenties would be out of keeping with the taste of theatre goers in the fifties. He had felt it was safer to stick with Priestley, whom he regarded as modern and safe - when in point of fact that author had just reached the point when he was demoded. I was in the party which accompanied Daphne to the first night, but it was a faintly embarrassing experience in that there were people up in the gallery who booed. And the critics dealt harshly with the play. I think that this was Tony’s last venture as a producer.

On 22nd March 1954, Daphne was writing about the prospect of a visit to see Oonagh Oranmore in Luggala, when Xan would be going off on his own to interview someone in Crete.

I shall be lop-sided without him as we have not been away from each other for a single night since our marriage. We have decided not to sell Cowrie until September when we shall go to Tangier, and stay there until January. Perhaps you might come there when I get the house fixed up. There is a spare bedroom.

On April 29th she writes about her visit to Luggala, where two of the other guests were Desmond Guinness and Mariega, who had recently announced their engagement.

I find Desmond the greatest fun, intuitive and understanding, but - Oh my goodness! - I wouldn’t like to be Mariega, and I suspect she finds it pretty difficult even now. She wasn’t trying to look nearly as pretty, and was very friendly - although she still has the snooty expression, which I don’t think is really her. She is not a bit sure of herself, and Desmond must make her even less so, in the way that he goes on.

We all went to a fun-fair after dinner - and of course full of champagne. Mariega and I were both wearing leopard-skin trousers, and we were mobbed. Like Pied Pipers we led a rabble of wolf-whistling Paddies and Micks. They finally turned out to be very sweet, and I came back with my pockets filled with their addresses, having given them promises that I would become a pen-pal.... When Mariega got back to Luggala, she said: "I must now have a bath to wash off the fingering"!

I had gone to stay for a week with Daphne down at Cowrie, which I describe in my journal of 8th April 1954.

All went very well. I spent most of my time reading, or playing `Keyword’ during the evenings. I felt more at home there than I’ve done previously. Mum and Xan appear to be perfectly happy, so perhaps everything is going to be all right....

Mum and Xan had to appear on a local brains’ trust one evening. They were terrified before the event, and went to a chemist to buy a drug called Oblivon. This was supposed to embolden them for any ordeal, but it didn’t seem to have much effect!

The car for which Henry had long been promising me a cheque in part payment, as my coming-of-age present, had finally been delivered to me in February. It was an open-topped Triumph sports car - the new TR 2 model, with a front end designed to look like a jet engine, with the chassis coloured a pale ice blue-green, and the hood a bright geranium. And this replaced the Landrover which had long been on loan to me from the Longleat Estate. Curiously the new car became a matter around which some ill-feeling between Henry and myself now sometimes generated - on the issue of whether I was entitled to expect the use of Henry’s staff to chauffeur me places when my own Triumph was not available - while it was having a car radio fitted being one of the first instances. I refer to this incident in my journal entry of 12th April 1954.

When I tried to persuade him to let me have a lift back from Trowbridge, to make it possible for me to take in my car to have a wireless fitted, Dad suddenly flew into a rage. This appeared to me to be unreasonable. But he shouted that if I was trying to have a scene, I was going to get one. I cannot see what I said to justify this remark. My attitude must have been too persistent (or something like that,) as he really became very angry indeed.

I kept my temper, telling him that I would be taking in my car in any case, and would catch a bus back home. He declared that he wouldn’t send anyone to collect me from Longleat for my meals at Job’s Mill until my car returned. He said he would also refuse to let me stay at Job’s Mill over that period. Whether he’ll hold to this line, I can but wait and see.

It is about time right now for someone to come and pick me up for dinner at Job’s Mill, but it doesn’t look as if anyone is going to arrive. I am indeed prepared to cook myself my own dinner - which will make the recent press reports seem less false in any case.

The outlook for the future however is more serious. Very soon I’ll consider myself too old for these disciplinary displays - although it might be unwise to argue this point with Dad. So the alternative is to give some thought to breaking myself off completely from his jurisdiction by hiring myself a small domestic staff of my own.

One thing for which I am thankful is that the transactions to make me financially independent are now almost complete - or they will be by next term. As far as the long vacation is concerned, I shall probably remove myself from the whole Longleat environment as much as I possibly can. I shall probably go to Spain or Italy, and attempt to cope with a new language. Then by Christmas time, I’ll be in a better position to decide what I’d best do about this situation. But my current expectation is that it will mean employing at least my own cook.

Perhaps I should give some thought to the question now, as to why this clash between my father and myself ever occurred, because it does (on the face of it) seem absurd. But it must have been fundamental in its reflection of basic attitudes to each other. I daresay that I was inclined nowadays to demonstrate the skills I was beginning to acquire in reasoned discussion, in a fashion which he evidently regarded as an indulgence in quibbles. Henry still had it in his head that he must uphold his authority over me at all times, and that I should learn not to question it - whereas my own attitude was increasingly that he must learn to express his reasons to me for any decision, and that I should then be at liberty to debate the logic of such persuasion if I saw the need to do so. Essentially, he had yet to recognize that, as an adult, I expected to be treated differently.

I must also speculate that he had been drinking. Or he was displaying the intolerance which often arose when he was drinking. He had it in his head that I’d been answering him back far too frequently of late and, as he interpreted it, I was just trying to pick a fight with him. And quite suddenly under those conditions, his authority seemed immensely important to him - demanding a head-on confrontation.

My next entry in the journal is on 16th April 1954.

Dad never sent anything to fetch me for dinner, nor for the following lunch. I cooked myself both meals with a fair amount of success, and after I had fetched my car by walking to Warminster, and taking a bus from there to Trowbridge, I continued to cook for myself in an attempt to give voice to my disgust. I saw Dad in Warminster, and we waved to each other in outwardly friendly fashion, but there was no call to speak to one another.

Journal: 21st April 1954.

Tomorrow I intend to go back to Oxford. I don’t have to do this quite so early, but I think it’s the best thing for me to do under the circumstances. These holidays have not been a tremendous success. I can’t go on living like I do in my relationship with Dad. I’ve got to establish myself on a much more endurably independent basis.

I’ll ring up Job’s Mill this evening to find out if Dad still wants me to come with him to Cheddar tomorrow morning - his intention being to introduce me to the management team at their annual conference. If he does, I expect I’ll attend; and I expect he’ll then want to know more about my long term intentions. My attitude towards him should be perfectly friendly and, if he invites me back to lunch at Job’s Mill, I’ll accept. But I wish him to see that I’m perfectly independent, and I anticipate that sooner or later he’ll come up with his own suggestion that I hire myself a staff of my own for Longleat.

An outsider might easily judge that my quarrel with Dad is unnecessary, and should be quickly forgotten, but I cannot agree with such a position. The quarrel doesn’t rest on the flimsy ground of hurt pride, but it concerns the whole nature of our future relationship. If I disregarded this episode, another such instance would soon occur. It’s better that I should take a decisive stand here and now, rather than to await the occurrence of an episode which might be far more serious and difficult for me to handle.

Journal: 27th April 1954.

All went well over my visit to Cheddar. Dad was perfectly friendly on the phone, and he came and picked me up on his way over there. Then after it was all over, he dropped me back, and I set off in my car to Oxford.

Journal: 17th May 1954.

On Saturday I joined Mum and Xan for lunch in Hurley, where they were taking Val out for the day from Eton. Afterwards, on their way down to Cornwall, Mum was going to stop the night with Nan at her new cottage, since Dad doesn’t think it would be in good taste for them to stay with me at Longleat. I didn’t go over to see Dad while I was down there, as it would have been a needless embarrassment to both of us. I hear that he thinks I’m "sulking again", which is unfortunate. I shall have to try and set his mind at rest on this issue, but I don’t want to have to see more of him than I can help.

It is interesting to note how the accusation that I was sulking had been made, which harked back to the previous time when he had attributed such behaviour to me. That was on the occasion when he beat me when I was fifteen, and my response to that atrocity had been to sulk - speaking to him as minimally as possible in the hope that this might bring home to him the error in his treatment of me. But he had managed to persuade the rest of the household that, even if I hadn’t merited a beating in the first instance, my current behaviour was but one more example of what needed changing in me - by whatever disciplinary measures he felt it necessary to devise.

I really didn’t see why in the present instance he should be passing the word around that I was sulking. This had long been his defence against any suggestion on my side that his own behaviour was unacceptable, and I found it most irritating. So I realized how it might be wiser for me to keep away from Job’s Mill. Henry was still a long way short of comprehending the essential problems which needed to be resolved in our relationship.

The rift endured for quite some time. I didn’t see Henry again until the Trinity term was about to come to an end, when I indicate (in my journal of 16th June 1954) that I was once again going over for my meals to Job’s Mill.

I had to go down for the Royal Wiltshire Yeomanry’s territorial camp at Tilshead, and on the way I called in to have lunch with Dad. There was no embarrassment - largely because Aunt Mary and Ulick were there.

This was a period during which quite a few changes were being made at Job’s Mill. After Mrs Sims had been persuaded to retire she went to live in Warminster, and nobody saw very much of her after that. Donald stayed on and his wife (Mrs Marks) now did the cooking. And one of her Welsh relatives, Ivor Williams, came to replace Harold Mather as chauffeur, since the latter had now been accepted as a driving instructor up in Birmingham. All these changes increased the divergence that I felt in my heart between the household that I’d known as a child, and that which they were setting up at Job’s Mill.