Lost Years (24 page)

In the article, Christopher writes about London's shabbiness—the peeling plaster, the faded paint on buildings, wallpaper hanging in tatters from the walls of the Reform Club, pictures still absent in storage from the National Gallery, a once fashionable restaurant (Boulestin's
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) reduced to “a dingy squalid hash joint.” But I don't think “shabbiness” is an adequate word. It now seems to me that Christopher's impressions went in much deeper. Indeed, he quotes William Plomer's remark, “This is a dying city.” Plomer was wrong, historically speaking, but he was right in suggesting that postwar London gave you a sharp reminder of mortality—all the more so if you had just arrived from Los Angeles.

On January 25, Christopher left Euston at 12:20 p.m. for Stockport. In “A Letter from England” he writes: “I travelled on an express train which was very fast, admirably punctual, horribly dirty and so old that it was probably unsafe. Several times, I thought we should leave the tracks. There was practically no heating except in the dining car, and we all kept our overcoats on.” This was, as it turned out, the first day of a snowstorm which thickened into a long-drawn-out series of
blizzards. England was to be paralyzed by them for weeks to come—and by the coal shortage and the rationing of gas and electricity which they caused.

I am almost certain that Richard [Isherwood] didn't meet Christopher on the platform at Stockport station. Perhaps Christopher had asked him not to; perhaps he was feeling hostile toward Christopher. (There were many exhibitions of Richard's hostility on later visits; the two brothers only became friends after Kathleen [Isherwood] was dead.) Christopher arrived at four in the afternoon and took a taxi out to Wyberslegh Hall.

Kathleen didn't seem to him to have grown much older, but Richard's appearance shocked him. Richard's face looked mad and somehow psychologically
skinned
, all its protective coverings stripped away down to the raw, the quick of defenseless misery. He didn't look his age; he was fresh faced and bright-blue eyed, with thick curly hair—a once beautiful boy who had deliberately (as it seemed to Christopher) made himself ugly by refusing to have the gaps in his yellow teeth filled and by playing the village idiot, staring and grimacing and muttering and breaking into screaming laughter. His clothes were aggressively dirty, stained with food and smeared with coal dust. He took so many laxatives for fear of constipation that he would sometimes shit in his bed. His red nose dripped constantly and he kept snorting back mucus. Also, he had a hacking smoker's cough. His cough and snorting were undoubtedly exaggerated in order to embarrass Kathleen and claim her attention. When she tried to tidy him up, he submitted to her like a child. But he was neither childish nor mad; he was a sensitive, intelligent soul in torment.

Christopher embraced both of them when they met. He had seldom if ever done this with Richard before—he hadn't known in advance that he was going to do it; yet hugging Richard was beautifully “in character” for the 1947 Vedantic-American Christopher whom he had travelled six thousand miles with, to present to them. Richard reacted with shyness, pleasure and irony. “A
very
warm welcome!” he exclaimed, to nobody in particular. Kathleen later wrote in her diary (which Christopher would not read until twenty-three years later) that Christopher's face looked “so
kind
.”

Little old Nanny sat by the kitchen fire, bright-eyed but infirm, chuckling at Kathleen's novice attempts at cookery. Kathleen and Richard waited on her. Nanny seemed unaware of American Christopher; she treated Christopher exactly as she had treated him in the 1920s, as the young man fresh from college who had bossed her and accepted her service and her flattery as a matter of course.
Nanny adored Christopher. Kathleen she perhaps hated, deep down. Richard she rather despised. It was sad that she was now ending her life with them, in this uncomfortable house, but where else was she to go?

Christopher had written to Kathleen, shortly before this visit, saying, “You will find me quite domesticated,” and promising to give her a hand with the housework and the cooking. But Christopher thought of housework in terms of American kitchens and labor-saving devices. The dirt of Wyberslegh appalled him. And soon he was paralyzed by the cold. The snow lay deep all over the hills; many of the lanes were blocked. The gas pressure was kept so low by the authorities during daylight hours that it was scarcely worth lighting the gas fire. The kitchen was the only warm place in the chilly old house, but Christopher couldn't work there. He sat shivering in an overcoat in his bedroom, writing his “Letter from England” article and then rewriting his article about the trip to Mexico. (He also wrote a hard-core sex story about a sailor whose nickname was “Dynamite.” Getting horny was a way of raising his body temperature—until he lowered it again by jacking off.) It was too cold to sit still, reading. Books numbed your hands when you opened them; they were actually clammy. In his efforts not to freeze, Christopher held his arms pressed against his sides and shuffled about with hunched shoulders like an old man. He probably suffered more than any of them, with his thin Californian blood. Kathleen seemed to thrive on blizzards. And when men and women came into the kitchen from the adjoining farm buildings, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands, as they told how England was “cut in half,” how you couldn't get through to Scotland, how the army was using flamethrowers to melt the drifts, Christopher was aware of their deep, almost unconscious delight—that characteristic British delight in a “National Emergency.”

Kathleen was violently opposed to the Labour government and ready to blame it for everything from the coal shortage and the lack of cooking fat to the weather itself. Christopher, who was equally violently pro-Labour, had to be tactful about this. He had made up his mind, in advance, to keep his mouth shut when necessary, and I think he succeeded. But this visit must have been quite a strain on him, in many ways. He was at Wyberslegh from January 25 to February 28. Between the two dates in the day-to-day diary twenty-four spaces are empty, suggesting blank claustrophobic snowbound days on which Christopher yearned for a letter from Caskey and occasionally had hysterical spasms of fear that he would get sick and die before he could escape from this prison, his birthplace. On
February 7, he made his first trip into Manchester and booked a ticket on the
Queen Elizabeth
for his return to New York. This was more than two months ahead of sailing, but trans-Atlantic traffic was heavy at that time and he didn't want to take any chances.

Nevertheless, Kathleen and Christopher got along well together. He had so much to tell her and she was as good a listener as ever. At seventy-eight, her mind was clear, her memory excellent and her hearing perfect. She was even prepared to be interested in Vedanta. Through Christopher's letters she had already formed her own mental pictures of many of his friends; she “liked the sound of” Peggy Kiskadden and Dodie and Alec Beesley, the Swami she regarded with respect, Gerald Heard she mistrusted. (Gerald's “second in command,” Felix Green, had visited Wyberslegh during the war to bring news of Christopher, and both Kathleen and Richard had been repelled by his slick charm, glibness and religiosity.)

Kathleen and Christopher went twice into Stockport together and once into Manchester, to shop
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and see the art gallery. (You could get a bus into the city from the bottom of the hill below Wyberslegh, but I remember that, on one of these outings, the bus was late or they had missed it, and that Christopher stood beside the road and thumbed a ride, California style. They got picked up almost at once. No doubt British drivers had become accustomed to the hitchhiking gesture, when it was made by American G.I.s. And then, of course, Christopher was with an obviously respectable old lady. Anyhow, Christopher greatly enjoyed treating Kathleen to this bit of playacting.) On February 1, Kathleen and Christopher had tea with some of the Monkhouse family. Mrs. Monkhouse still lived at the top of the Brow, in the ugly red house which had once been the home of beautiful John, her younger son, whom she called “Mr. Honeypot” because of his thick yellow hair. In those days, John was a long-legged hockey-playing teenager with an adorable heartbreaking grin, and Christopher had a terrific crush on him. In those days, Allan Monkhouse was alive and leaning against the sitting-room fireplace; he looked like a noble old dog and had a
Shakespearian quotation to fit every occasion. In those days, Rachel, the elder daughter, was mooning around, her big reproachful eyes
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stuck into a handsome but irritating red pincushion face; she had a terrific crush on Christopher.

Kathleen and Christopher's hosts at the February 1 tea party were Mrs. Monkhouse, Patrick her elder son and Mitty her younger daughter. Mrs. Monkhouse was now getting senile and losing her memory. Patrick had a high-up post on
The Manchester Guardian
and was probably one of the half dozen most distinguished-looking men in England. (Glancing into a mirror at the age of seventeen, he had once joked to Christopher, “No one could call me handsome, but I think I might be described as brutally impressive.”) Mitty (Elizabeth) was the youngest member of the family; she had been a small child during Christopher's adolescence, so he had never taken much notice of her. Now she seemed to him to be an unusually intelligent and charming girl. He wanted to get to know her better. I don't remember that he felt the same curiosity about Patrick, the friend of his youth. Patrick and he still had a great deal to talk about, they were cordial and respectful of each other's achievements; but Christopher (and no doubt Patrick also) was aware of a gulf between them. Quite aside from Christopher's desertion of England, and of the North Country which was still Patrick's home, there was the embarrassing memory of their confidences, in the days when Christopher had told Patrick about his feelings for Mr. Honeypot, and Patrick, who was then an ardent though chaste boy-lover, had shown Christopher his homosexual sonnets. Patrick and Christopher could agree in their liberal politics, but Patrick belonged to the Establishment. Patrick certainly knew about and doubtless accepted Christopher's continued homosexuality—from a distance. But he was solidly a family
man. He might have hesitated to let Christopher meet his sons (if any) unchaperoned.

On February 27, Christopher got a cable from Lesser Samuels in Hollywood to say that his agent Meta Ries(?)
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had sold their movie
story, Judgement Day in Pittsburgh,
for $50,000.
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This news seemed all the more marvellously improbable because it came to him from the tiny stone post office in High Lane village. Christopher plodded down through the snow to send his reply. “Kiss Meta passionately from me,” he wrote. He was aware, as he handed in the cable form, that he had wanted to amuse the people in the post office, just as much as Samuels. They smiled as they read it, but were they really amused? Christopher's joke was in an idiom quite foreign to them. What made them smile, probably, was their pleasure in the glow of wealth and success given forth by Mr. Richard's Brother—who was, after all, still their property, a local boy born within the village bounds, despite his eccentric self-exile amongst the weird two-dimensional creatures of the cinema screen.

On February 28, Christopher travelled down to London. After being shut up in Wyberslegh for more than a month, the prospect of spending two weeks in London—even a ruined and frozen London—seemed wildly exciting. It was like the beginning of the holidays, when he was at school.

Christopher stayed the night of the 28th with Stephen and Natasha Spender. They saw Ben Jonson's
The Alchemist
and had supper at The White Tower. I remember that the performance, with Ralph Richardson, was excellent. The White Tower, known in prewar days as The Eiffel Tower, had been a favorite haunt of Christopher's; his memories of it went back to the time when he was the Mangeots' secretary, and Augustus John used to eat there and draw on the tablecloths. It was crammed, now, and expensive and chic. The food was probably of inferior quality but the restaurant was still cheerfully brilliant with lights and mirrors—and Christopher was anyhow in a mood to enjoy himself to the utmost.

Stephen was immensely entertaining, as always, and bitchier than ever—an amused spectator of Christopher's social comeback. Christopher was very much aware of his own role and he played it with enthusiasm. Even the cold merely gave an edge to his appetite
for company. I think most of the people he met were sincerely pleased or at least curious to see him. The wartime military Americans had long since gone back home. There were almost no tourists. Christopher was a New Face. They could tell him their old air-raid stories and he listened goggle-eyed. He admired or was suitably shocked by everything they showed him. Toward the end of his visit, Stephen told him, with typical malicious hyperbole, “You're the most popular man in England.”

March 1. Christopher had lunch with Jack Hewit at the Café Royal. Then he met Forster and shopped for books. He had supper with Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears. He went to stay with Forster at his flat in Chiswick.

Christopher's lunch with Jack Hewit must have been embarrassing—at the beginning, at any rate. Christopher had behaved very badly to Jack in 1939—going off to the U.S. and leaving him under the impression that he would soon be sent for. It's impossible now to be quite certain, but I would say that Christopher never had any intention of sending for Jack. I think Christopher had grown tired of him before leaving England and was merely afraid to tell Jack so because Jack was so much in love with him and so emotional and potentially desperate. At most, he thought of Jack as a kind of understudy who might conceivably be called upon in the event of a highly improbable crisis—that is to say, if Christopher was unable to find himself an American boyfriend. But Christopher had Vernon Old already waiting for him in New York. And, very soon after his arrival, he and Vernon became seriously involved with each other. This was partly because Christopher realized that Vernon had taken it for granted that they would live together as lovers, whenever Christopher returned.
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He couldn't possibly disappoint Vernon, who was so young and pretty and who thrilled him sexually. It was much easier to disappoint not-so-young, not-nearly-so-pretty, tiresome, devoted Jack—who was now on the other side of the Atlantic and whose steamship ticket would cost a lot of money. So Christopher felt guilty but let the months go by—either not writing to Jack at all or writing evasively. In May he travelled out to California with Vernon on a bus. In June, they moved into a house in the hills, 7136 Sycamore Trail. It was here that a shameful long-distance phone call with Jack took place. I think Christopher must already have hinted to Jack in a letter that he must stop expecting to
join Christopher in California. Anyhow Jack called Christopher, in tears. I can remember that Christopher took the call lying on the bare floor—the house was scantily furnished—writhing about in guilty embarrassment. Jack sobbed that he was frightened, that there was going to be a war, that Christopher had made him a promise, that Christopher had got to help him. And Christopher told him no.
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