Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle (30 page)

We pulled up alongside a grassy verge which bordered what had been the seventh hole of golf (castle guests and family, for aesthetic and convenience purposes, always began their morning nine holes at the third hole because it was an easier, shorter, more pleasing walk, across grass, not tarmac, meandering alongside the moat) and studied the situation. There was a single gentleman, about sixty, wearing a flat cap and jacket, attending the barrier, which was down. There was nobody else in sight. We looked at him and he at us. He must have wondered what the devil we were doing parked where, essentially, there was nowhere to park. I started daydreaming of the countless times I had played this long, impressive hole of golf with tall trees bordering the left side of the fairway and a row of firs standing guard over the green, which was protected first by a deep valley and then by a wide, treacherous bunker directly in front.

“Are we going in?” Catherine was obliged to ask as my reverie continued unabated. Now that the family connection had, regrettably, been allowed to fade, I was unsure as to what form of welcome we would receive.

“Indeed we are,” I responded, crossing the road, pulling up to the barrier, and lowering my window all the way down: “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon.” He was a well-built man with a countryman’s unself-conscious demeanour. The look on his wide, weathered face was neutral.

“My name’s Anthony Russell. I’m Mrs. Remington-Hobbs’s son, Lady Baillie’s grandson. I was wondering if it might be possible for us to come in and have a look around. I haven’t been back since my mother died.”

His reaction took me by surprise. He came up to the car, leaned down, and shook my hand with a firm grip that didn’t let go, and with his other hand he took my arm and held it, too. It was as if he could not believe it was me, and that my being there could be confirmed only by physical contact. No words were exchanged for a moment. He then released my arm but, still holding my hand, began to speak of my mother and of my stepfather, Col. Teddy Remington-Hobbs.

“I remember your mother and the colonel. I’ve been at the castle for about sixteen years now, and I got to know them very well. They are truly missed by everyone who knew them. Sadly there are not many left that did.” He stood, releasing my hand, and I saw the discreet pin with “Les Bray” written on it. “The things that stick in my mind are their daily walks around the estate when they would happily talk to everyone and sign their guidebooks for them, and the colonel driving through the grounds with his table-tennis bat held up with a large ‘Thank you’ on it if people moved out of the way. Your mother would pose for pictures with the visitors, usually with the castle in the background of course.”

I remembered my mother and stepfather doing just as Les was describing. Since the opening of the castle and grounds to the public in 1976 I had frequently witnessed them interacting with the ever-increasing number of visitors. Though her former home had been, with some haste due to my grandmother’s failing health, established as a public charity (the Leeds Castle Foundation) in order to avoid stratospheric death duties my mother saw to it that all those she came into contact with were afforded her warm, personal welcome, as her mother would surely have wished.

“At Christmas,” Les said, “we used to have a staff party held at the local hotel—sadly no more—and they were the guests of honour. They would join in with the dancing and have a great time giving out prizes to the staff. Your mother knew everyone’s name. She was very special. I wish they were here now.”

Our family connection to Leeds had lasted seventy-five years, one of the longest associations in the history of one of England’s oldest and most romantic “stately homes.”

“I’ll radio up to the office to tell them you’re here,” Les said. “Would you mind driving up there to get your passes? It’s where the old laundry used to be.”

Ah! The laundry! It had been managed in the fifties and sixties by Mr. and Mrs. Love, with three female assistants. On my bicycle tours, when not engaged in high-speed downhill trials, ignoring the possibility of any estate worker in his car coming round a corner from the opposite direction, I’d sometimes stop to peer through the tall windows and watch the ladies skillfully manoeuvring sheets through the gigantic roller, or ironing linen napkins, power cords dangling from the ceiling like puppeteers’ strings. A private laundry apparently was a must because all the sheets were custom made for the enormous four-poster castle beds, and all the linens were from Porthault, in Paris, and hand embroidered in Italy. To send these delicate items out to be washed and ironed every week Granny B had deemed hazardous for their survival.

“Okay, we’ll do that, thanks very much. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

We set off for the estate office, and in my rearview mirror I saw Les bringing the barrier back down. His heartfelt words had touched me, and straightaway I regretted not telling him so. If I could kick myself for all the times I might have said something meaningful to someone when the situation had called for it, but failed to do so, held back by an invisible force that decreed, “Let’s avoid sounding a little too dramatic, shall we?”—or, sometimes just by a simple lack of emotional dexterity—I would have a sorer bum than a constantly beaten nineteenth-century English public schoolboy.

Perhaps the most egregious missed opportunity of all was never telling Nanny how much she’d meant to me. At the very least she had deserved a resounding affirmation of my love for her, and it would have been so natural, so easy, during one of my visits to the cosy retirement apartment in Wimbledon my parents had bought for her, close to the famous tennis courts, to finally say the words. But they didn’t come, and after she died in 1976 I felt ashamed of my weakness.

Les had reminded me not just of my mother and grandmother’s lifelong connection to the castle and its people, but also of my own long-buried, deeply affecting ties, which rose to the surface as we drove slowly down the avenue of lime and sweet chestnut trees and the vision that is Leeds Castle, surrounded by her moat, golf course, and parkland, came once more into view.

“He was so pleased to meet you and talk about your family,” Catherine told me. “It’s clear he has fond memories of the way things used to be.”

Forking left up the gentle hill towards the offices and what used to be called the stable yard, I easily succumbed to the nostalgia of the moment, aided and abetted by the afternoon’s soft warmth and utter stillness.

“Me too.”

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am incredibly grateful to a small number of people who made it possible for me write and publish
Outrageous Fortune: Growing Up at Leeds Castle.
Jennifer Repo, Gerald Sindell, and Bevis Hillier all lent their individual perspective and expertise in helping me to rework, restructure, and rebuild my earlier drafts. Thank you for giving me so much of your time and very special guidance. Also, thanks, Bevis, for outing some nasty clichés which (inexplicably) put in an appearance earlier on! Huge thanks to my editor at St. Martin’s Press, Hope Dellon, for doing such a wonderful job on the book and, also, to her assistant editor, Silissa Kenney, who has been so kind and thoughtful to me throughout the lengthy process of “seeing into print.” Thank you, Susan Llewellyn, for your copyediting; thanks to Chris Scheina for handling subsidiary rights; and thanks to the Art Department for a wonderful cover. My thanks to the Leeds Castle Foundation for permission to use photographs from their archives, and, especially, to Nic Fulcher, the former Heritage Manager at the castle, who assisted me greatly during my visits over the past two years. I look forward to meeting and working with everyone at the Leeds Castle Foundation in the future. To my friend and agent, Charlotte Gusay, I offer the biggest thank-you of all. You nurtured this project through every one of its stages and never gave up on me, even when a little hand-wringing entered the fray and a satisfactory end was still nowhere in sight. Your enthusiasm for the book was infectious and provided me with extraordinary support. Thank you so much, Patt Morrison, for the introduction to Charlotte. Deepest, deepest thanks to my darling wife, Catherine. Everything good in life is due to you. You are also a fine and unflinching critic! Odo, what a son! I am truly proud of you. KBO.

Without you all there would be no
Outrageous Fortune.
Thanks again.

Anthony Russell
Los Angeles, June 2013

Leeds Castle, Kent, England. (Courtesy of the Leeds Castle Foundation)

The Daily Mirror
covers the famous Russell baby case, 1922.

Lady Baillie (Granny B) at Leeds Castle with her German shepherd, Elsa, 1960s. (Courtesy of the Leeds Castle Foundation)

In 1948, Lady Baillie commissioned the French artist Etienne Drian to paint a “conversation piece” to be hung in the drawing room. The portrait features the author’s mother, Susan (left), Lady Baillie (center), and the author’s aunt Pauline (right). (Courtesy of the Leeds Castle Foundation)

Lady Ampthill, Granny A, in full flight with the Limerick Hunt, Ireland. (Photo by Frank H. Meads, courtesy of Jim Meads)