DIARY ALEC GUINNESS
Only twice in my life have I sidled through the glossy black door of No. 10. The first occasion was during the premier- ship of Major Attlee, when I was bidden to a bun-fight which must have been attended by about 60 elderly ladies in velour hats and coupon clothing. I cannot remember what the event was in aid of but I have a clear memory of leaning against an open door in a large room while balancing a teacup and saucer. There was a little shud- dering or resistance from behind the door and perhaps a muffled protest. I eased the door a bit and a rather squashed, disgrun- tled Prime Minister emerged from behind it. What he had been doing there in the first place I shall never know; he was prob- ably hiding from the more serious ladies among his guests who had calculating eyes on him. I mumbled apologies and escaped.
The second time I squeezed in to No. 10, five years ago, was with a great flurry of showbiz and media folk, all of us invited to a pre-dinner drinks bash given by Mrs Thatcher. Our names were announced in stentorian tones as we were propelled towards our hostess. I had never seen her in the flesh before and I was astonished, indeed captivated, by her splendid appear- ance; it wouldn't surprise me to be told I had genuflected. Well, when in Rome, etc. Mrs T. was most elegantly dressed from top to toe in some glittering, form-friendly gown which appeared to be made of minute metallic tiles: black, dark green and mid- night blue. Perhaps it was bullet-proof. But it is the eyes that have it: they are amazing- ly and totally mesmeric. I couldn't help feeling that she might single me out and whisper, 'There is a tree in the midst of the garden of No. 10, with a magnificent apple on it. Come with me and you shall have a bite.' But the announcing gentleman was booming out other names and Mrs T's eyes swivelled and focused elsewhere. David Lean kept plucking at my sleeve in a state of high excitement, hissing between clenched teeth, 'She is all woman, all Woman, all woman!' And, heaven, with his experience he would have known.
It was Disraeli, I think, who said, 'Some- thing unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to speak the truth.' This I find to be one of the traps or dangers of age. Some of my contemporaries have become, during the past decade, unexpectedly and often brutally frank. Then there is the chubby elderly taxi-driver who is ready (unwitting- ly) to risk his tip by informing you that you are overweight and query if you are still employable. I remember thinking, when I reached the age of 70, `Ah, now I can say
exactly what I feel about anything — per- sonalities, books, plays, performances, art work, food or wine — and no one will take offence. What's more, all I have kept bot- tled up for years can come tumbling out; and every indiscretion or beastliness will be forgiven me.' That is not so, of course. There is a foolhardiness in the old which makes the tactlessness of the young look very circumspect. I fear the misjudgments of age, most certainly with regard to my own profession. How often, as a young actor, I've blushed and shuddered to see some ancient and at one time acceptable performer think he was being very funny when in fact he was unbelievably abysmal. That is a truth I am now unwilling to face.
These unwelcome thoughts come to me on a lovely summer morning as I loll on a newly acquired steamer-chair set up on a patio. I pretend to myself that it is the sun- deck of the beautiful Mauretania (my favourite of the old Cunard liners, being more like a ship and less of a floating hotel than the admirable Queens) and I trick myself into the belief that we are in mid- Atlantic and in the mid-Fifties in time. But there is no charming steward to bring beef- tea or chicken-broth; instead, I clasp a glass of bottled, iced lemonade which tastes of the smell of gas-works. Opposite, sitting side by side on a fence 15 yards away, are two glossy crows with their backs to me. Now and then they slightly rearrange their wing feathers or turn a head to see if I'm
still around. We have become rather chum- my during the past 12 months.
Athough I have always had a feeling of empathy with most birds I have never taken to crows, suspecting them of being too familiar with the Scottish play and maybe having more in them than mortal knowl- edge. And now twa corbies are on the fringe of my life. They settled near us last year when we took to throwing out bread and old bits of cheese; they became regular visitors at breakfast, lunch and tea. We fed them because we thought that (a) it would dispel their appetite for small birds and nest-raiding; and (b) they would see off herons which were threatening Koi carp in the pond. Both these objects are being achieved, I think. They brought three of their gawky offspring to see us — they sat in a row on the fence, the juveniles in the middle, as if for a photograph; but once they saw the kids were adept at getting the cheese they wisely gave them the push. The surprising thing has been the reaction of our three dogs. Until we started feeding the crows, the dogs resented their presence vociferously; now they accept the situation, or at least tolerate it, and pretend, in a haughty way, not to see the birds even when only a few yards off. But now the increasing roar of the traffic on the new stretch of the A3 has sent the crows back to their tree and me inside the house, all of us cawing and cursing the Department of Transport.
Ihave a great liking for most regional accents but get depressed by refained sub- urbia and the downward inflection at the end of every sentence. The soft Highland manner of speaking English sounds to me the purest and most attractive; and I take an amused pleasure in listening to Geordies, with their rough, vibrant tongue, whom I have the greatest difficulty in understanding. (During the war, while serv- ing in the RNVR, I had a Geordie coxswain; a regular RN, very robust, down- right, trustworthy and likable. He would often advise me on some course of action — and probably very tactfully — but I rarely grasped a word he said. Not wishing to offend him by asking him to repeat everything slowly, I got into the habit of replying, 'Very good. Let it be so!' — or majestic words to that effect.) And of course the aristos and, above all, their imi- tators, with their 'offs', `gorns' and `becorzes', are a source of endless joy as one sees them ride with superb indifference (if they are the genuine article) in their tumbrils smoothly running towards Consti- tution Hill.
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