Confessions of a Cock-Eyed Optimist

By Nigel Quiney

This volume continues to explore the life of Nigel Quiney during the decade of the nineteen-seventies. Both his companies - Nigel Quiney Designs, and Ridley Quiney & Co Ltd - are successful and expanding. By then the decade of the 'sixties and Swinging London was maturing and London had become an extremely popular tourist destination drawn to the creativity of the theatre, music, fashion, designs and the arts generally. It was in this decade that Nigel began to explore the Far East as a source for new products and suppliers for the family business of RQ and Hong Kong was the first of many destinations that he explored. Later in 1976, having accepted one of the official invitations to visit China he flew the tortuous journey to Peking and then by train to Dairen and then Tientsin. In Dairen he was privileged to be shown the underground tunnels and excavations which took many years to create and were part of a defence system should the Russians invade. Back in Peking he was wandering around filming in Tiananmen Square which was packed with people and giant wreaths out to commemorate the death of Chou En-Lai. He was ushered away by his Chinese interpreter just before the authorities swooped and confiscated all film and arrested the few foreigners who were later jailed. He had escaped by just minutes. The same year Nigel was introduced to the amazing aspects of Bombay and touring Rajasthan by car. There he stayed at several palaces that had only just been turned into hotels where he and his two friends were the only guests. In the latter part of this decade Nigel explored Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, The Philippines, Indonesia and South Korea looking for new suppliers which culminated in Ridley Quiney being the first importer of throw-away thin carrier bags into the UK. This memoir also records the love affair between Nigel and an American pop singer which sadly failed even after trips to Moscow and Ibiza. Later another affair, was also doomed.

This was also the decade when industrial unrest in coal mining, steel production and manufacturing was producing strikes as the demand and competition from abroad threatened their survival. Also the decade when our various governments seemed unable to deal with these problems to the point that the UK was likened to a Banana Republic.

Nigel’s love affair with America blossomed and in this period he took on the share of a flat in New York previously used by his friend, the musician and composer, Richard Rodney Bennett. In this exciting city Nigel promoted his Nigel Quiney Design products by taking space annually at trade shows and when not working took full advantage of the city’s varied gay life.

In Los Angeles, Nigel continued his close relationship with Edward and Gillian Thorpe and introduced his widowed mother to these trips where she became very much part of the entourage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookPartnership.com
• Release date: Sep 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783015245

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The other night I had a horrid dream which awoke me and I lay in bed thinking.

For the last few weeks, I have been on a roll as far as writing my memoirs is concerned and I finally completed volume two - More Cock-Eyed Optimism. It is 2008 and I am currently sailing to Australia from Southampton on the Oriana – an indifferent P & O cruise ship but the many days at sea without any pressures are a perfect environment for writing. So, delighted with my efforts, I decided to start my third memoir and here I am. But…

In my dream, I became very aware that writing my memoirs, in such a detailed fashion, was an enormous display of my ego and vanity and not very nice. Who on earth did I think I was? Now wide awake, my confidence was suddenly undermined and I began to question my motives for all this writing. Do I push my efforts on my friends? I have a feeling that I do. Or, if I don’t maybe I manipulate a situation to achieve this end. I am beginning not to like myself.

I do not often grind to a halt when I am in the middle of some project, unless some event outside my control forces the issue. I am usually a confident person who just gets on with what is at hand; now I feel vulnerable and quite uneasy. I don’t want to stop writing these unimportant stories of my life as I enjoy the process and the reinvigorated memories, and when each one is finished I feel I have achieved something.

I have been greatly encouraged to write by the enthusiasm from my immediate family and some of my friends, yet the nagging thought will not go away that all I am doing is showing off and desperately looking for applause. As I write this, sipping my morning coffee and nibbling on a particularly good biscuit, the realisation has dawned on me that my nagging fears are totally correct because I am a show-off and, horror upon horrors, I do seek applause. Therefore, to conclude, I have got to stop feeling vulnerable, accept who and what I am and drop this nonsense and get on with the job…

My writing this third memoir embraces the decade of the nineteen-seventies. However, as in the last memoir where I started with some stories which belonged in A Cock-Eyed Optimist, dealing with the ‘forties and ‘fifties, again I start this book with a few stories left out of my previous books.

CHAPTER 1

REMEMBER?

US 1939

Starred: Robert Taylor, Greer Garson, Lew Ayres,

Billie Burke

During my last year at 7 The Studios, I finally decided to buy a new TV. My parents had given me a very old black-and-white ten-inch machine which originally they had given to my grandparents but, now that grandpa had died and granny Grogie had moved to Streatham, was surplus to requirements. I hardly ever watched this TV as the picture was so small and the reception appalling. I only had a temporary aerial of the sort that stood on top of the TV and resembled a giant insect’s antennae. Every time a train passed outside my huge studio window, which was frequently, white lines criss-crossed the image in waves, along with what looked like a snow storm. In the end, because I couldn’t throw it away - after all it did still function - I draped a splendid ‘twenties, embroidered silk shawl over it to make it disappear.

But finally I made the important decision to buy a new set because colour TV had recently been introduced and the Swedish, top-of-the-range SABA with a twenty-inch screen was available with remote control. This wonderment of technology was irresistible to me so at the age of thirty I began to watch television. I should just add that my parents would not tolerate TV in their house while Tony and I were at school as they did not want anything to divert our attention from our studies. Little did they know what else I was getting up to and had they known would undoubtedly have bought the biggest TV available at that time.

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Last night, in July 2011, I watched The Prince and the Showgirl on television. This charming film starred Marilyn Monroe, Laurence Olivier, and Richard Wattis and was made in 1957 by Marilyn’s production company with Olivier producing and directing. After the film finished and I was preparing for bed, reminiscing about Marilyn and her short, tragic life, I suddenly remembered that I had attended the London premiere with mother at the Odeon, Leicester Square. Very sadly, Marilyn missed the occasion, as she had caught an infection and was bed-ridden in New York.

However, after we had found our seats and settled down, before the film began, I realised that mother was sitting next to Herbert Lom, a very successful and busy English film star. To my amazement I realised that Mr Lom was chatting to mother and I overheard him saying, somewhat plaintively, that he felt that his film career was finished.

But, surely not, was mother’s immediate response in a comforting manner. Why, I see you so often in films and I am quite sure that I shall continue to do so, she added firmly.

Looking back, I remember that Herbert Lom was unaccompanied and now I wonder two things. Firstly, was he flirting with mother? I must admit that she had dressed up that evening and did look very glamorous and the second thought that crosses my mind is whether Herbert Lom had been in line for the Richard Wattis part, the actor whose role was the British Foreign Office equerry attending to the royal family of Carpathia. Without a doubt Herbert Lom was a major star and had he wanted the part he would have been much put out when Wattis was cast, as the latter was more of a character actor. Alternatively, maybe Lom was hoping for the Prince Regent role acted by Laurence Olivier. After all Herbert Lom had been born in Czechoslovakia to an upper class family and would have been a perfect choice with his identifiable middle-European accent but Olivier was by far the more famous. Also in 1953 Olivier with his wife Vivien Leigh had starred in the original West End production of The Sleeping Prince written by Terence Rattigan upon which the film was based. Rattigan had also provided the film script. It was therefore most unlikely that Mr Lom stood any chance of capturing this part against such odds. However, I am happy to report that Herbert Lom’s career did not falter as he had prophesied but continued into the twenty-first century until he died aged ninety-four in 2010.

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I wasn’t sure if I should write the following section of my life so I asked David, my partner for the last twenty-eight years, what he thought. He was adamant that I should include it. Now what pray is it which gives me doubt about whether to record or not to record?

The collective name for it is clap. How this strange piece of slang came about, I haven’t the foggiest. Today the word is seldom used and the ubiquitous acronym STD has taken over. These same initials in the ‘seventies were used by British Telecom to mean Subscriber Trunk Dialling, which allowed phone users to dial long-distance numbers direct, without requiring help from an operator. However, nowadays we know these initials to mean Sexually Transmitted Diseases. So now you know.

In my life during the ‘sixties, clap in gay society was, annoyingly, not at all uncommon and most of my friends, including myself visited the clap clinic rather too regularly. I use the adjective annoyingly with care because that was how we all reacted. Depending on the particular disease that we had become infected with, sex had to cease for at least ten days to a fortnight – a most intrusive interruption in some of our evening activities when the search for sex was an endless pastime. Looking back, I realise that I did not have a television and I don’t think my chums did either. Therefore our evening entertainment was reduced to seeing friends, the cinema, theatre and cruising.

The most commonly caught clap was gonorrhoea and a hypodermic filled with anti-biotic plunged into one’s backside and, discharged, – apologies for the pun – quickly did the trick.

In second rank came Non Specific Urethritis or NSU. Essentially this seemed to mean any infection which caused irritation of the urethra with consequences of discolouration or mild seeping from broken skin. This problem was treated exactly as gonorrhoea but sometimes took longer to be rid of. In fact for some guys the problem could be quite a curse, taking ages to be finally cured.

Lastly there was syphilis which was pretty unusual but of course could be extremely dangerous if not quickly diagnosed and dealt with.

I regret to record that I suffered all three of these diseases and, thankfully, living in London I was close to many clinics who could deal with such matters efficiently and at the same time offering privacy. There were three hospitals in central London which housed clap clinics and when I first caught gonorrhoea in the late ‘fifties – from the gorgeous Miklos from Budapest I chose the St. George’s Hospital for treatment. This Victorian building at Hyde Park corner and Knightsbridge has now been turned into the very de-luxe Lanesborough Hotel, but in my youth was one of the places to visit should one be so unfortunate as to need treatment for clap. Most of my friends used St. Mary’s Hospital in Paddington where a very popular gay doctor ran the clinic but as I was the shy type I preferred the anonymity of the basement of St George’s. My chums always gossiped about the cruising that went on in the waiting room of the clap clinic at St. Mary’s, which I found rather unpleasant as the idea of chatting up someone for a possible sexual adventure who currently was suffering from clap was not appealing to me.

Interestingly, both the aforementioned clinics were housed in the hospital’s basements, and this was also the case with the Middlesex Hospital, where much later I switched my allegiance, when St. George’s closed their facility. With hindsight I now realise that a basement clinic with its own entrance to the street was much more hospitable than visiting via the main front doors and it does show the lengths that these hospitals went to in making a visit more bearable and easier for the truly shy or ashamed folk.

I have to admit that my first visit in the late ‘fifties found me feeling fairly shy and a little ashamed, which was perfectly natural being a well brought-up middle-class teenager. Thankfully, I soon settled down and relaxed with the nurses and doctors who were very kind. On my first visit I was presented with a small notebook in which my appointments were recorded and on the front cover was printed a number. My name did not appear anywhere. However, after only a few years my book was completely filled and a new one was issued, but at the same time I was asked if I would see the hospital psychiatrist, to which I agreed, albeit with puzzlement. Rather to my embarrassment, although I quickly recovered, the psychiatrist turned out to be a female, in fact a rather pleasant middle-aged, aunty-ish type. She quizzed me for about half-an-hour trying to extract a promise that I would stop having so much sex. She also extended the thought that maybe I would like to try some therapy to both reduce my sexual appetite and try to divert my attention towards the fair sex. I remember smiling a lot and thanking her very much for her kindness but I didn’t hold out much hope that such attention to my sexual behaviour would change me very much. Poor woman really did have rather a hard time with me and I finally departed her small bare room leaving her in no doubt that I would not become a regular visitor.

Shortly after this event when I had been given my second little appointment book I was having my daily bath when I noticed a blotch on the end of my penis. This was something new to me so off I went to the clinic at St George’s hospital. The usual blood tests and examinations took place and when I returned for the results a few days later I was told that I had contracted syphilis. I was also advised that my case was extremely uncommon in that during the first stage of this disease it is usual for there to be no symptoms at all. I was asked if I would allow my penis to be photographed. I was by now getting rather used to having my photograph taken for all the various press articles associated with my giftwrap enterprise, so the thought of my penis being photographed and, as I discovered later, the photo being printed in a medical book dealing with syphilis was rather appealing. I did, however, request that I didn’t receive a credit. An appointment was duly made for the following evening.

When I arrived and announced my number to the receptionist, he responded immediately as if I was a celebrity and asked me to follow him. Together we walked down a series of dingy corridors and after a while we came to the lift which would take me to one of the top floors of the hospital where medical photographs were taken. I followed his instructions and alighting from the lift I was met by a nurse who showed me into a small cubicle and asked me to strip and put on a white hospital gown. I did as I was told and after about five minutes of flicking through the recipes of a previous year’s Good Housekeeping magazine, I was called and a male nurse led me down another long corridor, through a door and into a large brightly-lit room. To my surprise about twenty young men and women were sitting around, clearly waiting for my arrival. Nobody had warned me that I was going to be the centre-point of a lecture and all I expected was to be the subject of a couple of quick photo shots - thanks a lot and maybe a cup of tea and a biscuit – and that would be that. None of it! I was now the star of the show as I was led to a circular dais about six feet in diameter where I was asked to stand and open my gown and expose myself to the young men and women who crowded around me to get a closer look. I felt like some furtive flasher exposed, frozen in time, caught in the act and projected onto a screen for all to see.

I really was in a most strange situation. Obviously I wasn’t introduced to my audience, either by name or number and I just stood there, now feeling rather like one of those discarded semi-naked window mannequins, except that I was very much better built down below than they were as they usually only sported a gentle mound. I had been asked to hold my penis away from my body which I duly did and after all the students had had a close look, they were ushered away and told to sit down. I was to remain standing surrounded by these young people who chatted amicably to each other occasionally glancing at me as though I was not a real human being at all. I survived this embarrassment - I do not like to be seen naked - by imagining that I was playing a part in a movie.

I don’t suppose I stood on that dais for very long but it seemed like ages when suddenly a wheeled vehicle about the size of a pre-war Pedigree perambulator and, not so very dissimilar in appearance, was ushered through the door. As it glided towards me, pushed by a male nurse I realised that fixed to the top of it was a camera with flash equipment either side. I was asked to stand very still as the camera was wheeled closer and closer until the lens was only inches away from the tip of my penis. The students became hushed and they peered in my direction leaning forward in their seats and suddenly with a click and a series of blinding flashes half a dozen photographs were taken in quick succession. With the action clearly over, the students wandered out of the room and I was told that I could close my robe and go - thank you very much. I did ask the nurse if I could have a copy of the book when it was published but I don’t think he quite understood me and just gave me a rather pitying smile. And that was that. I never did get a copy of that publication.

However, after the photography session, which recorded for posterity the state of my penis with a blotch on it, I was given a series of penicillin injections which had to be administered every other day for a few weeks. Unfortunately Easter arrived in the middle of the treatment and I was hosting a party at East Dean for the holiday. With this in mind, the clinic gave me an extra special shot of slow-release anti-biotic to cover me for the period until I could get back to the usual routine. For the first few hours after the injection I was fine but later down at East Dean, the ache in my hip became extremely painful and I spent most of the evening lying on the floor by the fireplace at Albourne with my trousers and pants pulled down to my ankle with my bum exposed to the flames and glow from the wood fire where at least the heat offered some comfort.

What a palaver the treatment for syphilis was, but I was so lucky to have experienced the blotch which brought the problem to my attention in the first place, because without it the infection would have retreated from my blood into my bones, where it would have rested awhile before multiplying and finally bursting back into my blood stream as secondary syphilis. At this point many signs of the problem would manifest themselves but by then the disease is much harder to deal with and this is usually the stage when doctors first see it. I was told that if nothing is done during secondary syphilis, once again the disease retreats into the bones but also to the skull and brain. When finally tertiary syphilis breaks out, God help you.

Looking back at this period I am astonished at the easygoing way I dealt with the situation. Having said that, it was a fact of life, not only for me but for practically all my gay chums and to avoid the risk, I had no option except to become celibate which was simply not on the cards. These days we do not have to deal with just three sexually transmitted diseases, the numbers have since multiplied, with AIDS as the ultimate nightmare. But this did not appear until the early ‘eighties, when the innocence of the sex lives of gay men of previous decades turned into a terrible fear.

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Another small episode that I forgot to write about which occurred in the ‘sixties is to do with the very celebrated and admired Frenchman, the bass-baritone, Gerard Souzay.

In my first memoir, which records my life in the ‘forties and ‘fifties, I spent many summer holidays with a French couple who owned La Capucine, an elegant, ageing villa set in grounds facing the Mediterranean on Cap d’Antibes in the South of France. There, each year between 1956 and1959 I met Gerard Souzay, amongst others, who regularly stayed there and who were chums of the owners. Gerard was always polite and considerate to me, as were all the guests but at the same time kept himself to himself. I recall how sometimes I felt quite lonely in this lovely place as my French was very basic and everyone else spoke nothing else.

After I had moved into my West Hampstead studio in the early ‘sixties, I received a telephone call which, to my great surprise, was from Gerard Souzay who was visiting London for some concert performances. Gerard was very friendly and asked if we could meet. I don’t recall him inviting me to his concert or indeed to meet for dinner or even a drink, but by the time the conversation had ended we had agreed a date for him to come to my studio for lunch.

Looking back I wonder if I cooked one of my meat casseroles. These were commonly known amongst my chums as Nigel’s Bone Stews. Anyway, the day arrived, which I recall was a Saturday. I was a trifle nervous as I was not used to entertaining celebrities, let alone someone of Gerard’s reputation, but nevertheless he was easy to talk to and I was surprised after all, at just how well he, indeed, spoke English! He showed interest in what I was doing and asked me why I had not visited La Capucine since 1959. Then, after more conversation, he let slip that during the time when I was staying in Cap d’Antibes most of the male guests, including Claude Cocquerel - husband to Germaine and owner of the villa - were all gay. I was amazed by what I was hearing as nothing had ever led me to this conclusion or even a suspicion of such a thing. And then Gerard got out of his armchair, came over to where I was sitting on my settee and put his arms around me. And, before I could even call help, he was holding my head and kissing me on the lips passionately.

I was horrified. Gerard was born in 1918 making him not far short of fifty years old at that time. He also had the figure commonly associated with serious singers of concerts and opera and in short was absolutely not my type sexually. I gently pulled myself from his embrace and explained, as nicely as I could, that I was sorry but I could not have sex with him.

Monsieur Souzay was not pleased and I have a horrid feeling that this episode ended our association. I don’t think that he even stayed for lunch. I certainly never heard from again; not even a note of apology. Nothing! I remember feeling rather abused as his visit was only related to his own selfish venality.

He died in 2004.

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Strangely, I omitted to record a photo of some of the giftwraps that I designed in the ‘sixties so, better late than never, here they are:-

Carnival

Bulls-Eye

Flower

Leaf

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As previously recorded, Ridley Quiney imported monthly shipments of tissue paper from China and in those days, when Chairman Mao was still very active, some shipments would include at least one bale that instead of containing the standard thirty-five reams of tissue was packed with hundreds of Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book. This midget book was only about three by four inches in size and listed the thoughts of the dear Chairman which were required reading for the Chinese population at large. However, they were printed in tiny Chinese characters, so that all the effort to export his philosophies to the western world were to no avail and all we could do was extricate the bale in question and bin the contents. Sad really; I would have liked one printed in English as a souvenir if nothing else. The cost of finding the offending bale was considerable as our shipments were seldom less than one thousand, all looking the same. Talk about needles and haystacks. I remember cabling China many times to thank them for their kind gift but to, please, not repeat the generosity as nobody could understand Chinese. Eventually the message did get home and the gifts stopped. However, one regular problem that we experienced with these shipments ironically helped to find the offending bale.

Those were the days before containerisation and the bales, having been packed in the countryside of Northern China, had to withstand a great deal of manhandling prior to being loaded onto a ship at the Port of Dairen as well as during transhipment to the UK from Rotterdam. It was, therefore, common for our cargos to arrive at the Port of London severely damaged. To the layman this must sound crazy. Firstly why would any importer put up with regular damaged shipments and secondly why would any insurance company continue to insure these cargoes with a substantial monthly claim for sorting and repacking?

The reasons were two-fold. Firstly the demand for the tissue was strong as no other paper mill outside China produced a tissue with similar characteristics at such a competitive price and secondly the insurance company always paid the claims as it was owned by a Chinese Government authority. We tried again and again to explain to our suppliers that if they packed the bales more substantially the claims would stop. But the response was always the same that the cost was too great. They could not equate the cost of our claims to the Chinese Peoples Insurance Company with their own costs of export packing. Madness.

One year I recall a particular shipment that had been through the usual channels of being offloaded in Millwall docks onto a barge which ferried the bales to the warehouse that we used at that time. There were many damaged bales, as was usual and as the warehousemen stripped them down so that the reams of tissue could be sorted and repacked it suddenly became clear that something else was also very wrong. The corrugated cardboard used in the initial wrapping was infested with creepy crawlers and they were waking up after their long journey and looking for food. Not a pretty sight, even for a hardnosed docker. I forget how this problem was finally solved but I think that all wrappers were removed and burnt and the bulk of the tissue was saved, re-wrapped and sold on. Today the whole shipment would have been burned as I am sure that Health and Safety would have been summoned which would have condemned it outright. And quite right too; after all some of this tissue was used to wrap around a loaf of bread.

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Lastly, an adventure, not forgotten, about when I was staying at The Cavalier Hotel on Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood; I had been staying there every summer since I was introduced to it by Ted and Gillian Thorpe and this delightful ‘forties-built hotel had become my L.A. home.

The lure of the West Hollywood gay scene beckoned me yet again from my junior suite down the backstairs to the hotel’s basement car park. The evening was, as always at that time of year, balmily warm and the black sky was glowing with the pinprick lights of the brightest stars. I turned east from the Cavalier and drove down Wilshire to Santa Monica Boulevard and continued driving through Beverly Hills. I loved this drive and enjoyed the lack of traffic and the power of my Mustang secure in the knowledge of where I was and where I was going. I felt entirely at home in this part of the city. As I neared West Hollywood I spotted a young black guy standing on the kerbside and as I approached he leaned forward waving his arm with his fist clenched and only his thumb pointing in the direction that I was going. He was clearly hoping to hitch a ride.

I slowed the car and pulled over to the kerb and stopped just beyond where he was standing and as I turned and looked over my shoulder I could see him sprint over and as I opened the passenger door he jumped in beside me. He was very good-looking, slim with a natural athletic build and grinning he said. Hi, wher’ya goin’?

I returned his enthusiastic greeting with one of my own and replied that I hadn’t yet made up my mind, but it was a warm night and I had just fancied a drive. I mentioned one or two gay bars which were about a mile further along the boulevard and he clearly knew of them when he retorted, You godda place, I’m sure we’d have more fun there than in a club? I smiled and nodded, checked my rear mirror, and at the next cross road made an illegal about-turn and roared back in the direction from whence I had come. Only in La-La-Land, I thought to myself.

My new chum was a charmer. He was a few inches shorter than me and I guessed a little younger. He was curious about my being English and I was delighted to discover that he had not met any Brits before me. In truth this was usually the way in the ‘sixties and early ‘seventies and the feeling of being special was never lost on me in Los Angeles. We were very soon approaching the Cavalier and I slowed and turned sharp left towards the steep ramp, which lead to the underground car park. Thankfully there were a lot of empty spaces so that parking was straight forward and I signalled to my friend to follow me up the concrete stairs straight to the first floor. This was the first time that I had dragged a guy back– a rather unpleasant gay term for inviting someone home – to the Cavalier and fulfilled my dream of smuggling someone into the hotel utilising the back staircase and thus avoiding the front-desk. I knew with a certainty that I was following in Marilyn Monroe’s steps when she stayed here in the late ‘forties and shivered with excitement.

Once inside my cooler, junior suite we positively leapt on each other with abandon. This young man was exceptional and we were both completely carried away with each other. The moans and groans and sounds of grand passion might have been audible in neighbouring suites but I didn’t care and just as we were both about to climax my young man twisted round a little and with his left hand pushed something in my face. I was breathing deeply and the stench of poppers - amyl nitrite - was instantly recognisable to me, albeit that I had not had anything to do with them for some years but before I could react negatively, total passion swept over me and without a thought for his wellbeing I selfishly indulged my own desires until I rushed into an explosive climax and finally collapsed in a muck sweat.

I was exhausted and drained and by now feeling very guilty. I moaned as I pulled away from him, I am so sorry. You shouldn’t have shoved those poppers in my face, though I know that’s no excuse…

He cut me short with a long moan and groaned,

That was wonderful man, I thought you English guys were supposed to be so reserved. And with a wriggle of his body he fell asleep in my arms.

The relief from guilt was instant and a warm glow swept over me as I realised that he had enjoyed my selfishness and I too adjusted my body to fit his and in seconds was also asleep.

What a night that was.

In the early hours we awoke and I drove him back to a place where he could pick up a bus. He was living with relatives on the other side of the city and was only in LA for a short stay. He was at the end of his trip and we didn’t even exchange home addresses. There simply was no point. I lived in London and he in some Midwestern town – where, I no longer remember. But how well I remember him and the details of our passionate time together – over forty years ago. I so hope that he survived the terrible scourge of AIDS that swept away so many gays starting at the beginning of the ‘eighties. I am so much older now, but that memory of my youthful abandon almost makes me feel young again.

CHAPTER 2

THE VENETIAN AFFAIR

US 1966

Starred: Robert Vaughn, Karl Boehm, Elke Sommer,

Boris Karloff, Felicia Farr

For the last few years I had accompanied my good friends Ted and Gillian Thorpe on many a holiday, mainly to the USA and our relationship was such that I almost felt like a member of their family. When in Los Angeles, Gillian visited producers and directors at the Hollywood film studios to promote herself as a script writer. Ted was the ballet critic for the London Evening Standard but also wrote books. His novel The Night I caught the Santa Fe Chef had been optioned for a movie several times and we all thought that it would make an unusual and exciting thriller.

In 1970 I was asked if I would like to join them on a trip, but this time to catch a train to Paris and from there to pick up the Orient Express and travel on to Venice, where we would relax for a couple of weeks. Then the plan was to drive north through Austria into Bavaria and to Munich. Apart from Paris, all the destinations were new to me and I was delighted to be invited. However there was one problem.

I felt a strong responsibility towards mother, now a widow of only a few months. I discussed this with Ted and Gillian and when I tentatively asked whether it might be possible for mother to join us, they very sweetly agreed. They had met my parents before and liked mother and were most gracious in their enthusiasm that she should come along too. I then broached the idea with mum and she was clearly deeply touched and longed to go. She had, after all, enjoyed part of her honeymoon in Venice and had never returned, so the destination was very special for her. However, there was another problem. What to do with Granny Grogie?

Mother’s first thought was to ask her brother, my uncle Arthur if he would put her up. Grogie was, after all, his mother too and my parents had looked after both my grandparents for many years without a break. It was a very reasonable request but sadly turned down, with the excuse that Arthur’s health was delicate and he wasn’t to be put under any strain. Mother, I know was very hurt, especially having just lost her own husband and he had put up with his parents-in-law for a very long time. But, there you are; family relationships can sometimes be unpredictable.

Then mother had a brainwave. Through her chums in the Dulwich crowd and the Friends of the Cheshire Homes, which she strongly supported, she was aware of a single lady, whose name I think was Kay, who lived alone and was rather hard-up. Then, through another Dulwich friend, either Doreen Griffiths or Audrey Reeves, a rather competitive pair, who were both somehow, in charge of the committee behind the Friends of the Cheshire Homes, mother dropped the question of whether Kay might consider doing the favour of looking after granny by living in for the time that mum was going to be away. All expenses would be paid, plus a fee, of course. The idea fell on fertile ground and Kay was duly introduced to Grogie.

Mother had primed granny about the idea and expected her agreement, especially as she was always kind and thoughtful and very appreciative of everything that was done for her. However, to everyone’s surprise, granny became quite uncooperative and at first did not even want to meet Kay, saying that she was perfectly able to look after herself, thank you very much. Sadly, by now this was just not true. In any event we could not leave a very elderly lady to live on her own when she had never in her life done so. It was simply not possible.

So granny, who behaved in a somewhat grand and distant manner, met Kay, who seemed to understand and in any event accepted the way things were, and an arrangement was firmed up.

Mother was about to embark on the first holiday for decades when she was not accompanied by her husband. She seemed quite rejuvenated by the idea and rushed to Peter Jones and Harrods to look for a smart new wardrobe.

The train journey to Paris for our party of six was uneventful and here we had to change stations to catch the Orient Express, so we hailed taxis, with mother and I following Ted, Gillian and their daughters Harriet and Matilda. Once we arrived at the correct station, I got out of our cab with mother and our luggage, paid the driver and was surprised to see Ted, apparently having an altercation with the driver of their cab. I walked over and asked Ted what the matter was, as it was obvious that he had very little French. Ted explained that the taxi was demanding quite a few more francs than was shown on the meter and the driver was being very aggressive. Then to Ted and Gillian’s amazement, I stepped into the fray and confidently told the driver that it was illegal to charge more than was shown on the meter and that was that. I turned to Ted and his family and told them to ignore the ranting of the driver, take their luggage and proceed into the station. And what’s more, I almost shouted at the furious driver, you have just lost any chance of a tip. We are not fools and will not be treated like this. Go away. I was speaking in French and aggressively and the Thorpes were astonished. Firstly, they did not see me as ever being aggressive; in fact quite the opposite, I always tried to please; secondly they had no idea that I could speak any French, knowing that I had failed all my O levels except English before immediately leaving school aged sixteen. However, I did pass French oral, which was not considered a subject on its own. When I was congratulated by the family for my forcefulness and ability to argue in French, I could feel my halo growing by the second.

The Orient Express has a very fine reputation – well, it has today. I believe it had a similar one before the Second World War. However, the train we embarked in Paris was little better than the train to Eastbourne, except that we had the privacy of our own compartments. The Thorpes had theirs and mother and I had our own. As soon as I got onto the train I enquired about a restaurant car, as I wanted to be sure of a table and one for six if that was possible. I was amazed to discover that our train had no such facility and did not sell any refreshment at all. With this in mind, I dashed out of the train and through the station where I found a small shop where I was able to buy some bread and pate as well as a couple of slices of tarte aux pommes. I think I passed on the information to Ted but I seem to recall that he did not respond as he had his hands full with his family. Anyway, mother and I enjoyed the picnic in our rather sparse surroundings and finally slipped into our couchettes and went to sleep.

We arrived in Venice the next morning in a haze of noise, bustle, suitcases, and the sudden heat of the day before alighting a vaporetto, which we shared with the Thorpes. By then the poor darlings were starving.

Mother and Ted

We had decided not to stay in Venice itself but had booked a family hotel on the Elizabetta, the main shopping street on the Lido, the island facing the Adriatic. Capelli’s hotel was a modest one, positioned just off the pavement and set in a very small garden, but friends of the Thorpes had recommended it saying that the food in their restaurant was exemplary. So much better than the Grand Hotel Des Bains, we had been told. However, this very chic and world-renowned, Edwardian hotel was in the best situation facing the Adriatic and owned the plot which extended down to the sea. There on the sand the most comfortable beach-beds with thick mattresses and tasselled pillows were positioned under wide umbrellas and waiters hovered to serve snacks and drinks. This hotel was a fabulous reminder of luxury for wealthy travellers embarking on their holidays in pre-war days. The terrace, which ran for part of the length of the hotel, overlooked the beach and there one could enjoy morning coffee, lunch, afternoon tea, cocktails and a light supper in the coolness of the shade therein. It was to be at this hotel that Ted and Gillian’s great chums and Highgate neighbours, David and Paula Swift, would be staying. This couple were actors and were, accordingly, a little larger than life, always great fun and extremely generous. Paula was the daughter of a very successful clothing manufacturer from Liverpool who supplied Marks and Spencer and David had for a while worked for his in-laws until finally deciding to follow his brother Clive into show-business.

Back on the Elizabetta, the Thorpe and Quiney families settled into their respective quarters. For some unaccountable reason mother and I were sharing a room. It may have been that this was the only accommodation available. Anyway, our tiny room was in the attic of the hotel and there was nothing we could do about it. Neither mother or I were bothered, just excited to be embarking on a lovely holiday in the sun, where we could enjoy the culture of Venice in the cooler parts of the day and swim and sunbathe when it was hot. The food was indeed excellent and when we had all settled into our respective hotels, Paula and David often visited us and had dinner at our hotel exclaiming that, the food was so much better than the Grand Hotel des Bains. On other occasions the Swifts invited us to their sumptuous hotel for dinner and in truth, I would have changed places quite happily even if their food was terrible – which of course it was not!

I think we stayed on the Lido for around a couple of weeks and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves in the balmy sea, bathing and wandering the beach watching the children playing in the sand. Italian beaches full of happy families, youngsters playing with beach balls, kites and Frisbees, teenagers flirting and showing off are a delight and that year the scene was most memorable. Ted and I had bought kites for ourselves and delighted in flying them. Ted’s kite was modelled after an airplane and mine was a pilot suspended from his parachute. I called him Massimo and we played with them for hours.

On the beach at The Lido

David and Paula Swift

Gillian and Ted Thorpe

Matilda and Harriet Thorpe             Me

I shall not describe the delights of Venice as they are well known, but guiltily I have to admit that I thought that the whole place was very over-decorated and I was really rather nasty and dismissive, saying that the Doge’s Palace would make a delightful cinema. As for the tourist tat, I simply could not believe my eyes. Anything that could be made from blown glass of all colours was displayed for sale and in the most garish fashion. I was so fascinated that I filmed a lot of the worst of it. Decades later, on a return visit, I changed my mind about Venice and realised how arrogant I had been.

However, I thoroughly enjoyed visiting some of the small islands and one in particular springs to mind which was the main cemetery for Venice. The Italian custom of leaving photographs of their loved ones on their vaults and head-stones very much appealed to me and I spent a long time during our visit peering at the faded images and wondering about the poor dead souls and circumstances of their deaths. The history of Venice was not without its tragedies but the photographs and enamelled likenesses made everything much more personal, even to an outsider.

I must also mention that by 1970, some men’s fashions had become truly bizarre. The young fashion-conscious men of London were wearing shoes with extra thick soles of even an inch, so reminiscent of ‘forties black and white movies where female stars -and Joan Crawford springs to mind - added extra inches with their chunky high heels and platform soles. Joan was renowned for her fuck-me pumps as they were rather unkindly known at the time. Young men were also striking out for freedom from the confines of convention which had so restricted what had been available for them to wear. Now some quite extraordinary outfits were available, not that so many men availed themselves. However, Ted Thorpe did and, to a rather less extreme way, so did I.

I was very proud of my snub-nosed, beige canvas shoes with three-quarter inch soles and two-inch heels, even though these now made me six feet four inches tall. I really did not need the extra height but I loved those shoes. I also had shoes, reminiscent of what Mickey Mouse wore. Mine were dark blue leather with very thick crepe rubber soles and double thickness heels. They were lace-up, huge and weighed a ton. My trousers were skin tight, showing every wrinkle in my body, as were my shirts which often had ruffles running down their length by the buttons. My old friend Michael Fish was responsible for introducing these ruffles together with his exaggeratedly wide ties known as kipper ties. I had a good collection. Thank God, I was slim enough to wear these tight- fitting shirts, because they looked ridiculous on anyone with the slightest hint of a belly. Boots were also in vogue in many colours and styles, but I was less keen on them, as I did not like to feel the confinement of my feet and legs and found them bothersome to get on and off. Anyway I wore my outfits with pride and was pleased when I attracted attention. In Italy in those days, London’s fashion had hardly arrived and, surprisingly, men’s outfits were rather conventional and to our eyes, old-fashioned.

Now I come to Ted. This dear friend of mine was usually a step ahead of others when it came to fashion and he had really pushed the boat out with one of his outfits that must not go unrecorded. A warm morning’s walk along the Elizabetta has to be chronicled with Ted striding along, dressed in skin-tight, powder-blue suede, hot-pants. He wore his tailored, matching shirt, styled with an extra large collar, unbuttoned exposing his tanned, muscular chest and to cap it all, he wore high-heeled platform boots, also in powder-blue suede which flared at the knees in Robin Hood style. The effect was so startling that Gillian, the girls and my mother refused to be seen with him and walked at least twenty feet behind us. I, however, refused to be embarrassed and walked proudly along with Ted trying to ignore the wolf whistles and cat