Happy 80th, dearest Bron
Patrick Marnham reveals his unpublished letters from the late Auberon Waugh, the funniest, rudest journalist of the 20th century
Recently I came across an old file of letters, dating from the 1980s. They were from Bron, who would have turned 80 on November 17th 2019. My father died in November 1984 and this was Bron’s letter of commiseration: Dear Patrick, I was sad to read of your loss in today’s newspaper. Although I never had the pleasure of meeting your august father I always esteemed him and judged him blameless. 83 is a respectable age, but the loss of a parent always leaves a great emptiness. Only now are you the master of your fate, only now the captain of your soul. The only word of comfort I can think of in this fragile moment is to suggest that what you have lost in social comfort and support you will gain in manliness.
I am happy to think of Chantal by your side through this bleak period and look forward very much to receiving you both at Combe Florey for Margot Norman’s wedding (to which we have not yet actually been asked) on January 3rd.
The house may also have in it my brother James, his spouse Rachael, my daughter Sophia, her ‘young man’ of 46 called Julian Watkins and a pleasant young friend of hers called Emma Lancaster. If you can face all these, come earlier. I may have to go to Burmah or Burma on January 5th.
‘Death is the supreme festival on the road to freedom.’ (Dietrich Bonhoeffer, 1953) Yours, Bron
Although it was kind of him to write to me, I wondered at the time whether he had quite captured the right tone.
Some of the letters date back to the 1970s when I was living in a cottage outside Abergavenny, in Wales. Bron had severe views on ‘cottages’. He thought that no gentleman could possibly live in a ‘cottage’. This was part of his public persona as a reactionary West Country squire. He himself lived in a most beautiful Somerset manor, the address of which was ‘Combe Florey House’. My address was actually ‘Orchard House’, not ‘cottage’, which aroused Bron’s suspicion. Having made detailed enquiries as to its size and appointments, he started writing to me at ‘The Wee Orchard Hoose’, which fortunately did not faze the postman as it was the only dwelling in the lane.
In September 1979, following the murder of Lord Mountbatten, he wrote again, this time to ‘Patrick Marnham, Gentleman, The Wee Orchard Hoosie’:
‘I tried to refer to Mountbatten’s alleged tastes on a television programme, but my exclamation of ‘Goodbye, Sailor!’ was cut out. That’s the sort of thing we must live with in the search for truth and honesty in the media…
‘The great thing is to find someone to cook for you and earn enough money to get drunk after 6.00pm. It is much better than having to talk to people.
‘Septimus [Bron’s brother] has grown some powerful marijuana in the small garden of his terraced house in Tiverton. It makes one drive very slowly…’
He was forbidden to smoke because he had only one lung after being severely wounded in Cyprus while doing his National Service during the Emergency. Since he was terrified of being caught smoking by Teresa, his dear wife, he would flick his lighted cigarette out of the window into Greek Street (home to Private Eye, where we worked from 1970-80) as soon as our door opened, in case Teresa had dropped by to see him. One day, a furious woman stormed into reception with a smouldering hat saying that some oaf had set it on fire with his cigarette. The receptionist apologised profusely and directed her straight into Bron’s room.
Five minutes later, she emerged beaming, saying what a charming man he was. A wad of £20 notes had apparently changed hands.
In the Private Eye days, I lived in London and, if invited to Combe Florey, took the Friday evening train. Bron suggested that we should travel down to Taunton together. I said what a good idea, but didn’t he normally go firstclass? He said, ‘Surely you realise that staying with the rich is far more expensive than entertaining the poor.’
On an early visit, he invited me into his study and asked if I had ever seen his Krugerrands. He kept them in a secret drawer in an oriental cabinet and would sometimes get them out after supper to count them. He opened this drawer to show me his hoard.
Before supper, I was given a tour of the extensive wine cellars. These were infested with bats. For some reason, there was an old tennis racket by the door. After a delicious supper with a high consumption of bottles from the cellar, the household retired to bed.
During the night, I woke with a raging thirst and set out to find a glass of water. There was a hand basin in my bedroom but the cold water was tinted a delicate shade of brown. The house was in pitch darkness. On the ground floor, in my search for the kitchen door I managed to
set off the burglar alarm. I was paralysed by the shattering noise.
Then the lights came on to reveal my host in his dressing gown standing above me on the staircase with a loaded 12-bore in his hands. He dismissed my explanation about searching for a glass of water and warned me against any further attempts on his Krugerrands.
At one point he acquired the conviction that I was Jewish (which I may be for all I know) and started to address me as ‘Dr Cohen’, signing himself as ‘Bernie’.
Our daughter, Alice, was his goddaughter and when she was nine years old she sent him an invitation to her First Communion, to which he replied: Dear Alice, Thank you … for informing me about your First Holy Communion… I enclose a small miraculous medal of St Lambert (635-705) who was Bishop of Maastricht.
St Lambert’s death came about in a most unfortunate manner. According to Butler’s Lives of the Saints, Pepin of Herstal, after living for many years in wedlock with St Plectrudis, entered into improper relations with her sister Alpais (of whom was born Charles Martel) and St Lambert expostulated with the guilty couple. Alpais complained to her brother Dodo, who with a party of his followers set upon St Lambert and murdered him as he knelt in prayer before the altar in the church of St Cosmas and Damián at Liège.
If you can cultivate a relationship with Saint Lambert, I am sure you will be able to work many miracles with this medal. If you keep it until you are 18 years old and bring it to me, I will give you something made of gold in exchange. With fond love from your devoted Godfather…
He died on 16th January 2001 at the age of 61, three years before Alice could hold him to this promise. The last letter I received was dated 8th January and the handwriting was wobbly: Dear Patrick, or Cohen, as you prefer, Isn’t life grand?
Thank you for your letter, I hope to see you soon, love from Bron
It was not always clear what Bron’s real opinions were. When he left Downside, he was a devout Catholic; his was a faith shared with his father.
In due course, he became one of the victims of the Vatican Council as he had no time at all for the relatively meaningless new liturgy.
Teresa told me that, before Bron died, he had agreed with her that there was nothing in it. I prefer to remember his earlier position, when he wrote that in the dispute between Christians and atheists, there was no doubt which had the more amusing side of the argument.