A Spectator's Notebook

On being asked whether he had any favourite superstitions the late Sir Nal Coward replied, "Not many. But I do think that its terribly unlucky to sleep thirteen in a bed."

I was reminded of this remark on reading a review of Bruce Lockhart'sdiaries in which he discusses the sexual proclivity of Somerset Maugham. It seems that the Master was unable to attain a condition of potency unless there were three in the bed. (The odd things one learns about one's friends when they are

safely out of the way!) Not content with this revelation, Lockhart dots the i's and crosses the t's, by informing us that on some of these bizarre occasions one of the participants was the late Mr Godfrey Winn. No. There is no misprint. It was Mr Godfrey Winn in person — the heart-throb of millions of readers of women's magazines, the symbol of all that was clean and sweet, the eternally chirping cricket on countless domestic hearths.

I have a rather personal reason for referring to this matter, and it is not a bitchy one. Only six years have passed since the publication of

A Case of Human Bondage, in which I told, for the first time, the story of the Maugham

tragedy, for tragedy it was. The book was written as a vindication of his wife Syrie, whom he had grossly slandered, and whom I greatly loved. It contained no bedroom scenes, and it turned back no dirty sheets, but it set off a critical explosion.

And who was among the most morally outraged of the critics? None other than Mr Godfrey Winn himself! I can still see him on the television screen, in a programme that was rushed out at the height of the con troversy. He was moved to such indignation that there were moments when one feared that his celebrated toupee might come adrift. Well, as we are often reminded, the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. Not that I have the faintest desire to revenge mystlf on Mr Godfrey Winn; indeed, I should like to pay a tribute to him. In spite of his ludicrous affectations, and the excruciating vulgarity of his prose — which earned him a considerable fortune — he was a man of outstanding physical courage. I am not sure that he wasn't the bravest man I ever

met. As a war correspondent he was in the VC class, and his book 13017 is a superb ringside 'narrative of one of the war's most heroic episodes.

All of which — to me at any rate — Makes him a fascinating character, worthy of our consideration. For coupled with his shining quality of courage was an almost incredible vanity. His eternal preoccupation was his hair, or rather his lack of it. On one occasion, when we were still on speaking terms, he said to me — in all seriousness — "my hair is my Cross." To use the symbol of the Cross, in this connection, seemed lacking in felicity.

Godfrey's hair became one of Fleet Street's most fruitful subjects of discussion, par ticularly after he became a leading television personality. How much had he? Had he any at all? Was it a toupee or was it a wig? Eagerly we peered into our screens in an effort to solve this vital problem. Finally — for the suspense was befoming unbearable — I went to the only source of information who coutd provide an authoritative answer, a charming very fat man called Bryan Mickie who used to 'accompany Godfrey on his lecture tours.

.What was it, I bluntly demanded, on Godfrey's head? Was it, or wasn't it? His reply was terse and to the point. "If it isn't a

toupee," he replied, "what's it doing in a box?"

Better on a woman

The theme of vanity prompts us to ask whether the sexes have now changed roles. with the male spending more than the female in the quest for beauty. The young male certainly doesn't. My former tailor now charges as much for a dinner-jacket as a rich girl pays for a Dior dress, and the young men's barbers are reaping a golden harvest. But I suspect that in the vanity stakes the Women still lead by a short head. They are prepared to suffer more, to endure' more actual physical pain.

Consider the question of face-lifting on which — needless to say — I am an expert. I know only three men who have had their faces lifted. One of them has retired to the North, where he spends his time wandering about in a Scotch mist; another has grown a beard — which seems rather a waste — and the third, who was quite a promising actor, is now on tour, with a limited repertoire, because after the operation his features became unexpectedly Chinese. Men should not have their faces lifted. Only their minds.

But I know at least twenty 'lifted' women, and some of their names would surprise you. The pioneer of face-lifting was a minor American actress called Fannie Ward, whose daughter married a former Lord Plunket. In her sixties, if you saw her "on some enchanted evening across a crowded room" — (usually the Savoy Grill) — she looked a faintly dubious twenty-two. Fanny began by experimenting on her husband, who was a long-suffering man. Those were the days when the plastic surgeons were using paraffin wax to inject under the eyes. So 'Mr Ward,' or whatever his name was at the time, was dutifully injected. But unfortunately, after the operation, he sank into a chair by the fire, and the wax melted and coagulated under his chin. Which was the end, socially for Mr Ward, and should be a lesson to all of us.

The most dynamic beauty specialist I ever 'Met (as I observed before, I am expert in these matters) was Helena Rubinstein.„Shei was a most engaging monster, who inspired Graham Sutherland to paint his greatest portrait. La Rubinstein was a witch, but she was a witch who knew her stuff. The creams she compounded and the lotions she concocted really worked and still do. But one of them, Which has since been discontinued, stung so violently that when a woman applied it she had to stand in front of an electric fan to cool herself, and even (.en, she screamed.

Aphrodisifes

In case you were trhaware of it, I am also an expert on aphrodisifics. Not through any personal recourse to these devices but because I once spent five days traversing the sub-continent of India, sharing a carriage with a commercial travefler who sold and talked about, nothing else. He had a .huge suitcase stuffed with pills, powders, and brightly coloured creams, all guaranteed to induce extreme excitement. He did a roaring trade with maharajas and young Indian prices who, I gather, were usually impotent by the age of twenty. They were prepared to pay astronomical prices for his products. If they had known some of the ingredients, which were highly unpleasant, they might have hesitated before employing him.

The history of aphrodisiacs, of course, stretches into the remotest past, and most of it is quite bogus. Apart from one or two exotic drugs which have dangerous side effects there never has been and never will be any reliable stimulants to, sexual desire. In spite of this, poor old Norman Douglas in his last disreputable days lent his name to a regrettable volume called Cupid in the Kitchen, which was bought by a few misguided people under the illusion that it contained recipes for inflammatory dishes. For some reason which escapes me, Mr Grahame Green contributed a .preface to this sad little pot-boiler, recommending it to the public. He should have known better.

Dame Rebecca

My morning postbag_ was illuminated by a letter from Dame Rebecca West. I use the word 'illuminated' because everything about this lady has a shining quality — her mind, her nature, and her abiding wisdom. She is a bright light in an increasingly sombre world.

In her letter Dame Rebecca told me of her last encounter with a mutual friend who is no longer with us, a woman who — though many of us had felt a fondness for her in the past — was singularly deficient in the art of growing old gracefully, and never tired of reminding us that in her bag she carried a lethal dose of sleeping tablets. On saying goodbye to Dame Rebecca after luncheon she said — by no means for the first time — "I wish I were dead." To which the immortal and eternally inimitable Rebecca, with her customary serenity replied, "Well, it really is delightful to hear somebody wishing for something they are quite certain to get."

And a few days later, she died. I would like to think that thanks to Rebecca she died with a smile on her face.

Beverley Nichols