the gutter.’
‘ Nonsense!’ said Lyle, and once again she was right. Michael continued to work at the BBC and even obtained promotion. Obviously I needed to give our battered olive branch of peace another wave. By this time we had reached the end of 1964 and I invited – even, I go so far as to say, begged – him to spend Christmas with us. I had hoped he might telephone in response to this fulsome invitation, but another of his terse little cards arrived. It said: ‘Xmas okay but don’t mention God. Will be arriv ing on Xmas Eve with my bird, the one Mum met when she snuck up to London to see my new pad. Make sure there’s plenty of booze.’
‘ Oh God!’ said Lyle through gritted teeth when she read this offensive communication.
Making a great effort to seem not only calm but even mildly amused I said: ‘I don’t understand the ornithological reference.’
‘It’s his latest ghastly girl. She’s American.’
‘You never mentioned —’
‘She was too ghastly to mention.’
‘ Well, if he thinks he can bring his mistress here and bed down with her under my roof —’
‘Darling, leave this entirely to me.’
Michael did spend Christmas with us at the South Canonry, but the girl was ruthlessly billeted by Lyle at one of the local hotels. Michael wore no suit. He did not even wear a tie. He was never dead drunk but he was certainly in that condition known to publi cans as ‘nicely, thank you’, an inebriated state which fell short of causing disruption but was still capable of generating embarrass ment. My enemy Dean Aysgarth, on the other hand, was con stantly accompanied to a variety of services by a veritable praetorian guard of well-dressed, immaculately behaved, respectable and charming sons. If I had not had Charley to cheer me up I might well have expired with despair.
However, Lyle had been working hard behind my back, and on Boxing Day Michael sidled up to me with a penitent expression. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I just want you to know that my new year’s resolution will be not to get on your nerves. Can we bury the hatchet and drink to 1965?’
We drank to the coming year.
‘ I’ve decided that 1965’s going to be a great time for the Ash worth family,’ said Michael, coming up for air after downing his martini. ‘I prophesy no fights, no feuds and absolutely no fiascos of any kind.’
Michael had many gifts but I fear prophecy was not among them.
THREE
‘ I am going to set before you one of those standing themes that always ought to be preached about: the relation between the sexes ... And if we achieve no otter aim, we shalt-at least show sympathy with those who are concerned to manage the most baffling and the most ungovernable pan of their instinctive nature.’
AUSTIN FAIRER
Warden of Keble College, Oxford, 1960-1968
Said or Sung
I
Having completed this portrait of myself, my family and my pro fessionally distinguished but privately turbulent life — having, in other words, set the scene for my third catastrophe — it is now time to describe the crises which battered me in rapid succession towards the edge of the abyss.
‘ Do you remember,’ said Lyle, taking the telephone receiver off the hook one afternoon early in the February of 1965, ‘how miser able we were when we were forced to face the fact that our third child was never going to exist?’
‘ Vividly.’ I was in an excellent mood for it was a Monday, and Monday was my day off. As Lyle severed our connection to the outside world, I sat down on the bed to remove my shoes.
‘ And do you remember,’ pursued Lyle, drawing the curtains and plunging the bedroom into an erotic twilight, ‘how you said God might know what was best for us better than we did, and I was so angry that I hurled an ashtray at you?’
‘ Even more vividly.’
‘ Well, I just want to say I’m sorry I hurled the ashtray. We would never have survived a third child.’
‘ Does
‘ Nonsense!’ said Lyle, and once again she was right. Michael continued to work at the BBC and even obtained promotion. Obviously I needed to give our battered olive branch of peace another wave. By this time we had reached the end of 1964 and I invited – even, I go so far as to say, begged – him to spend Christmas with us. I had hoped he might telephone in response to this fulsome invitation, but another of his terse little cards arrived. It said: ‘Xmas okay but don’t mention God. Will be arriv ing on Xmas Eve with my bird, the one Mum met when she snuck up to London to see my new pad. Make sure there’s plenty of booze.’
‘ Oh God!’ said Lyle through gritted teeth when she read this offensive communication.
Making a great effort to seem not only calm but even mildly amused I said: ‘I don’t understand the ornithological reference.’
‘It’s his latest ghastly girl. She’s American.’
‘You never mentioned —’
‘She was too ghastly to mention.’
‘ Well, if he thinks he can bring his mistress here and bed down with her under my roof —’
‘Darling, leave this entirely to me.’
Michael did spend Christmas with us at the South Canonry, but the girl was ruthlessly billeted by Lyle at one of the local hotels. Michael wore no suit. He did not even wear a tie. He was never dead drunk but he was certainly in that condition known to publi cans as ‘nicely, thank you’, an inebriated state which fell short of causing disruption but was still capable of generating embarrass ment. My enemy Dean Aysgarth, on the other hand, was con stantly accompanied to a variety of services by a veritable praetorian guard of well-dressed, immaculately behaved, respectable and charming sons. If I had not had Charley to cheer me up I might well have expired with despair.
However, Lyle had been working hard behind my back, and on Boxing Day Michael sidled up to me with a penitent expression. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I just want you to know that my new year’s resolution will be not to get on your nerves. Can we bury the hatchet and drink to 1965?’
We drank to the coming year.
‘ I’ve decided that 1965’s going to be a great time for the Ash worth family,’ said Michael, coming up for air after downing his martini. ‘I prophesy no fights, no feuds and absolutely no fiascos of any kind.’
Michael had many gifts but I fear prophecy was not among them.
THREE
‘ I am going to set before you one of those standing themes that always ought to be preached about: the relation between the sexes ... And if we achieve no otter aim, we shalt-at least show sympathy with those who are concerned to manage the most baffling and the most ungovernable pan of their instinctive nature.’
AUSTIN FAIRER
Warden of Keble College, Oxford, 1960-1968
Said or Sung
I
Having completed this portrait of myself, my family and my pro fessionally distinguished but privately turbulent life — having, in other words, set the scene for my third catastrophe — it is now time to describe the crises which battered me in rapid succession towards the edge of the abyss.
‘ Do you remember,’ said Lyle, taking the telephone receiver off the hook one afternoon early in the February of 1965, ‘how miser able we were when we were forced to face the fact that our third child was never going to exist?’
‘ Vividly.’ I was in an excellent mood for it was a Monday, and Monday was my day off. As Lyle severed our connection to the outside world, I sat down on the bed to remove my shoes.
‘ And do you remember,’ pursued Lyle, drawing the curtains and plunging the bedroom into an erotic twilight, ‘how you said God might know what was best for us better than we did, and I was so angry that I hurled an ashtray at you?’
‘ Even more vividly.’
‘ Well, I just want to say I’m sorry I hurled the ashtray. We would never have survived a third child.’
‘ Does
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