Swell party-givers
As coronavirus kills off Christmas parties, Charlotte Metcalf remembers friends who made the evening go with a swing
COVID-19 has put paid to that most British of seasonal institutions the Christmas party. Many will feel relieved to have escaped the obligation to feign festive jollity. We’ve all been hemmed into the corner of an overheated, noisy room by a bore, with only a small glass of sour, warm wine for consolation.
It’s easy to forget that a good party can lift the soul. It can restore our capacity for joy, convincing us the world is brimming over with fun and excitement. Yet the art of throwing a great party is as magical and elusive as alchemy.
The painter Lindy Dufferin (aka the Marchioness of Dufferin and Ava), who sadly died in October at 79, knew how to do it.
She was our editor’s godmother and, in the summer of 2019, she threw an Oldie party for him at her Holland Park house, to which I was lucky enough to be invited. Her knack was to appear delighted to be opening up her beautiful house and garden, sharing her good fortune rather than flaunting it. We all stayed long after dark and agreed we’d had an astonishingly good time.
The recent deaths of writer Derwent May, 90, and Sunday Telegraph editor Peregrine Worsthorne, 96, triggered memories of another legendary party hostess. Margot Walmsley (1914-97) worked for Encounter magazine, scandalously discovered to be funded by the CIA, and edited by Mel Lasky, the American anti-communist leftie.
Margot threw regular parties, mainly for writers, between the ’70s and ’90s. I went to many. Derwent May, with his wife Yolanta, and Perry Worsthorne were often there. Other well-known regulars were lots of Lawsons, including Nigel, Vanessa, Nigella and Dominic, Freddie Ayer, Barry Humphries and Lizzie Spender, Beryl Bainbridge, V S Pritchett, Charles Moore and Katharine Whitehorn.
Margot lived in the top-floor flat of a tall house on Earls Terrace, Kensington, long before the terrace’s rented flats gave way to mansions with underground car parks and swimming pools. When guests rang the bell, Margot opened a sash window, leant perilously out and threw down the key in a sock or an envelope.
At the top of several flights of stairs, Alec the butler was there to hand you your favourite tipple, invariably remembering what it was. The quality of the alcohol was dubious but the quantity generous. The canapés were limited to fish paste on Ritz crackers, peanuts and crisps but Alec circulated them at great speed, simultaneously refilling glasses.
No conversation at Margot’s was dull, partly because no one ever finished one. It was customary for Margot to wheel you away mid-sentence to meet someone else because she considered it a heavenly treat for us all to get to know one another.
She called everyone Darling, which was a genuine expression of affection and never affectation. ‘Darling, do you know Darling?’ she’d say, as she propelled you into someone you knew quite well.
She twice introduced me to my own mother and bubbled with merriment when she realised. Her generosity of spirit never betrayed her double tragedy – the terrible suicides of her journalist husband and only son.
As an oldie, I’ve clocked up hundreds of parties, but Margot’s were among the very few I have entered alone confidently, without that slight but definite feeling of dread. It is utterly unnecessary for a party to dazzle with splendour and abundance. That might look generous but it’s probably just showing off and can intimidate.
To feel happy at a party, you must feel you belong, that you have found your tribe – even if it’s brand-new.
When I was going to Margot’s parties as a very young woman, most people I talked to were decades older, but I would look forward enormously to seeing them every time – Bill Letwin, the AngloAmerican academic, twinkling behind his cigarette smoke; writer Peter Vansittart, red toupee askew, tilting gallantly forward to hear what I was saying; V S Pritchett with his sputtery giggle.
I once left to escort Beryl Bainbridge (still carrying her glass of wine and lit cigarette) home in a taxi and then turned straight round and came back again, because Margot’s party was where I most wanted to be.
Post-lockdown and, touch wood, postvaccine, some of us will rush to the first party we’re invited to while others will feel timid about renewed social contact. Lindy and Margot made us feel safe, cosseted among allies. Without ever needing to be lavish or extravagant, their parties buoyed us up for weeks because, however old, experienced and battlescarred we are, we thrive where we feel sheltered from life’s worries and dangers.
As we endure another lockdown and enforced separation from family and friends, many people are discovering that a fundamental pillar of happiness is feeling cherished. The rare skill of Margot and Lindy as great hostesses was to make every guest feel just that, even if they arrived as a stranger.
It’s the cornerstone of every great party and I wonder how many partygivers of the future understand that.