‘I often try to recreate the garden in my mind. It was a paradise. That’s the only way of describing it. There’s a lot of rubbish talked about old age, but that is absolutely true – that thing about childhood memories becoming so vivid with age … The garden at Buckhurst Park was simply vast – even after years we were still discovering new places. I can now, as I’m talking, see so clearly the avenue of cherry trees, I can feel the blossom on my face, then we turn to the right, and we’re into the French garden and I’m sitting by the sundial showing my sister Olga how to make daisy chains. We had no idea of its perfection then. Or our privilege. It was just the world we grew up in.
‘In the spring and the summer we would play until the dusk came. Just the two of us, no, I don’t think we ever minded being on our own so much. I had Davy, our Border collie, and the horses, and Thomas, the head gardener’s son, was often round. And if we ever got bored, a car could be sent for one of our friends from Windsor. It’s only as you get older that loss can be understood. In a way I realise now that for most of my adult life I’ve been seeking a return to that garden. And as a child you have no comprehension of privilege really. You take as you find. It just is. We could ride for an hour and still not come to the edge of the estate. We were always finding new corners – the chestnut glade by the stream where we made dams, the dilapidated walled garden with the Victorian greenhouses, the door to the ice house that had completely mossed over, the plum trees that we discovered just behind there one summer, and gorged ourselves on. Thrilling. And just to be left to our own devices! Of course there were mealtimes. They would seem very formal by today’s standards – the maids all in black and white, and the butler (from Hungary, with a name which sounded very exotic to us). The long table. Grace always. If Mama wasn’t there our nanny would say it. But it’s the freedom I really remember, so different from nowadays – when children are so fussed over and so …’
Ella’s voice trails off. I notice a delicate ruby ring on her left hand, long, elegant fingers and nails still manicured, somehow at odds with the liver spots on her arms. The hand circles the air of the drawing room trying to find the word.
‘… Supervised! that’s it. Supervised, so that no risk is permitted at all. They’re not even allowed to fall over! All the paranoia today about children, it just seems mad to me. What kind of adults will that create? All that suspicion and sheltered upbringing? Bloody little monsters, that’s what they’ll turn into!’
I didn’t expect to like her, but I’m warming to Ella now. There is something no-nonsense, unsentimental about her. A desire to speak directly. Maybe this outspokenness increases with age? And the fact she’s a smoker helps as well – as she reaches for another Silk Cut, I ponder why I have such a soft spot for smokers. They generally seem so much, well, just so much warmer than non-smokers. Maybe it’s an awareness of their own fallibilities which makes them more tolerant of others, or maybe it’s the calmness that comes with the rhythmic quality of smoking? …
I’m momentarily distracted. Ella is now describing the intricacies of the family tree, children from Deterding’s earlier marriage, Henry and Roland, his first wife, Dutch, a house called Kelling Hall in Norfolk. I try to get her back on track, steer her gently to her own experience, and her relationship with her father. That’s why I’m here: to try to see what exists behind the two-dimensionality of the Deterding legend.
We go into the kitchen, followed by the drooping Labrador. Ella puts the kettle on and goes off to find a book of photographs. I’m beginning to feel a little uneasy now. The dog looks up at me and his trusting look gives me a little stab of guilt. When you get older, how many people are interested in listening to your stories? Am I just using this? I take the boiling kettle off the Aga as Ella returns holding a large leather album in one hand and a book in the other. We start to leaf through the old photographs. They show a lost world. Of chauffeurs, of orangeries, of empire.
‘That’s Dunbar – he was my favourite horse when we moved – a gorgeous chestnut … you can’t get the colour from this picture of course. My sister’s on Fordy, a present from the car chap.’
‘And who’s this you’re with? Is that the gardener’s son?’
‘No, he was taller …’ She examines the picture, bringing it closer. ‘No, I don’t know. It could be one of the drivers’ children, I don’t remember.’
‘And this must be your mother?’ A woman all in white with a fine hat, laughing and leaning back against an open-topped car.
‘Yes, that’s her – Lydia. Actually that’s rather a flattering picture.’
I detect a resentment, just a scent of hurt.
‘What was she like?’
‘Oh, she was … well, very flirtatious, very quick-witted, good fun. Before Pa she was married to an Armenian general, General Bagatoumi. At least that’s what she said – you could never be quite sure with her stories, they were half true, half embroidered. Yes, lively and glamorous was Lydia – everything we weren’t. Don’t think she ever really wanted children. Far too busy with parties and travelling. Of course I worshipped her, but she never really had time for me. Thought I was rather plain, I think. She preferred my sister. She used to greet her with outstretched arms and sweep her up off the ground. And she’d sometimes look at me with a puzzled expression: “I don’t know who Ella looks like.” People say you shouldn’t have favourites but that’s absurd. Just the way it is. I ended up closer to Pa, Olga was closer to Mama.’
‘And what about your father? You haven’t really talked about him.’
A pause. Ella reaches for another cigarette. Momentarily I’m disconcerted, perhaps I’ve been too direct. She must be defensive about her father, surely. She looks up at me, almost challenging:
‘What do you want to know?’
‘What’s your first memory of him?’
She puffs out her cheeks and breathes out, slowly, trying to retrieve memory:
He was – I mean I can’t remember the first – but I suppose my main recollection is this ball of energy. He was short and fiery, could be very impatient. Of course, he wasn’t around very much when we were small. We’d hear the car coming back late in the evening if we were still awake, crunching on the drive. Mama would tell us about his meetings with Churchill and Lord This and Lord That, but it doesn’t mean anything when you’re a child, does it? He had all these phrases he’d repeat. I remember once he was teaching us to dive – it must have been the summer – anyway, it was very hot and we were by the pool at the back of the house. And we’re trying our best, trying to please Pa, but at one point Olga wants to give up, and says “I can’t do it!” And I remember he then got very angry, quite red in the face, and barked at us, as if we were soldiers on parade: “Can’t?! No such thing as can’t! Got to have guts!” and he made Olga carry on until she managed a dive that wasn’t a belly flop. That’s probably why he was so bloody good in business, I suppose. He had that stubborn streak, always felt himself a loner, going against the grain. Even when he was at the top. He also had this thing about not lying. Not because of anything to do with religion – he just thought it was “silly, because to get out of it you have to tell another twenty”. That’s good advice, actually …