been, oh! the betrayals of youth! Melchior’s own daughter, Saskia’s, best friend. As for Melchior, he was old enough to draw his pension, already, and freshly knighted, for his ‘services to the theatre’, so at least he made a lady of her but she and Saskia never spoke again from that day to this, although Old Nanny, she’s an indefatigable gossip, told us Saskia turned up at the boys’ christening like the wicked fairy in Sleeping Beauty , balefully eyeing the plump little bundled twins, perhaps already laying out her wicked plans for the future.
Numero Tre, however, had her own plans for the future. She was a forward-looking woman. She looked ahead and she saw – television! In those days, all everybody else saw was a little grey rectangle the size of a cornflakes packet, with vague forms flickering across it, like Trafalgar Square in a peasouper. Who would have thought that little box of shadows would put us all out of business, singers, dancers, acrobats, Shakespearians, the lot? But Melchior’s third wife planned for the late twentieth century. She put the entire family on camera. They prospered.
Or perhaps it was a case of, needs must. Melchior was starting to muff his lines, trip over his sword, muddle up his business so you could hardly tell his Brutus from his Antony; old age was creeping up behind him and now he started to cash in on his own fame. He deeply mined the rich new seam that opened up before him – old buffers in pipe tobacco, vintage port and miniature cigar commercials. You started to associate his face – and though I take the piss out of him from time to time, all the same I have to thank him for bequeathing me the good old Hazard bones that improve like fine wine with age – with the music of Elgar.
His clever young wife gave up her own career to devote herself to her two wonderful sons but she often found time to pop up on the box, too, touting pan-scrubbers, washing-up liquid, toilet paper . . . ‘The Royal Family of the theatre gives its seal of approval.’ Her pièce de résistance was a turn in a long yellow frock with a ruff, standing on a rampart, gazing sternly at a half-pound pack on a dish before her: ‘To butter or not to butter . . .’ My Lady Margarine. She also did celebrity guest appearances and bazaar openings at negotiable fees. She reached middle-age quicker than any woman I ever knew.
Not that I knew her, exactly, but we read the papers, we kept in touch. After all, the Hazards belonged to everyone. They were a national treasure.
In the fullness of time, the older stepchildren took to television, too. Saskia, my half-sister and bête noire , started that cookery series; now she’s the TV chef par excellence . Imogen, the other one, developed a unique line as a goldfish. I kid you not. It was a series for the kiddies, set in an aquarium, about this carp called Goldie. It’s run for twenty years, now, carp live a long time. Sometimes I don’t understand the English.
Apart from catching the odd glimpse if we mistuned the set, we never saw hair nor hide of any of the Hazards, except in the papers. Ever since his doomed production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream , Melchior’s one and only stab at the movies, he steered clear of us because he only had us in the film for mascots and look what a débâcle that turned out to be! We’ve sat at the same table with him only the one time since World War II, and that encounter ended in tears, too. As for My Lady Margarine, she never fancied breaking bread with her husband’s by-blows, especially since those by-blows were old enough to be mother to her . But we read in the papers how the boys went to Bedales, from whence Tristram was expelled for tippling and fornication, although Gareth, not.
What a rustling of the tabloids when Tristram was expelled! Wheelchair cackled with glee. Little Tris, busted for pot in ’68, in a satin vest and velvet knickers. Titian ringlets. He danced naked on the stage in Hair .
Numero Tre, however, had her own plans for the future. She was a forward-looking woman. She looked ahead and she saw – television! In those days, all everybody else saw was a little grey rectangle the size of a cornflakes packet, with vague forms flickering across it, like Trafalgar Square in a peasouper. Who would have thought that little box of shadows would put us all out of business, singers, dancers, acrobats, Shakespearians, the lot? But Melchior’s third wife planned for the late twentieth century. She put the entire family on camera. They prospered.
Or perhaps it was a case of, needs must. Melchior was starting to muff his lines, trip over his sword, muddle up his business so you could hardly tell his Brutus from his Antony; old age was creeping up behind him and now he started to cash in on his own fame. He deeply mined the rich new seam that opened up before him – old buffers in pipe tobacco, vintage port and miniature cigar commercials. You started to associate his face – and though I take the piss out of him from time to time, all the same I have to thank him for bequeathing me the good old Hazard bones that improve like fine wine with age – with the music of Elgar.
His clever young wife gave up her own career to devote herself to her two wonderful sons but she often found time to pop up on the box, too, touting pan-scrubbers, washing-up liquid, toilet paper . . . ‘The Royal Family of the theatre gives its seal of approval.’ Her pièce de résistance was a turn in a long yellow frock with a ruff, standing on a rampart, gazing sternly at a half-pound pack on a dish before her: ‘To butter or not to butter . . .’ My Lady Margarine. She also did celebrity guest appearances and bazaar openings at negotiable fees. She reached middle-age quicker than any woman I ever knew.
Not that I knew her, exactly, but we read the papers, we kept in touch. After all, the Hazards belonged to everyone. They were a national treasure.
In the fullness of time, the older stepchildren took to television, too. Saskia, my half-sister and bête noire , started that cookery series; now she’s the TV chef par excellence . Imogen, the other one, developed a unique line as a goldfish. I kid you not. It was a series for the kiddies, set in an aquarium, about this carp called Goldie. It’s run for twenty years, now, carp live a long time. Sometimes I don’t understand the English.
Apart from catching the odd glimpse if we mistuned the set, we never saw hair nor hide of any of the Hazards, except in the papers. Ever since his doomed production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream , Melchior’s one and only stab at the movies, he steered clear of us because he only had us in the film for mascots and look what a débâcle that turned out to be! We’ve sat at the same table with him only the one time since World War II, and that encounter ended in tears, too. As for My Lady Margarine, she never fancied breaking bread with her husband’s by-blows, especially since those by-blows were old enough to be mother to her . But we read in the papers how the boys went to Bedales, from whence Tristram was expelled for tippling and fornication, although Gareth, not.
What a rustling of the tabloids when Tristram was expelled! Wheelchair cackled with glee. Little Tris, busted for pot in ’68, in a satin vest and velvet knickers. Titian ringlets. He danced naked on the stage in Hair .
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