High life
Family sagas
Taki
Ihave been here before,' says Charles to Hooper at the beginning of Brideshead Revisited, and so he had. These are Brideshead-type days, with a cloudless sky and the air heavy with the scents of sum- mer. For me, Wilbury days.
Wilbury, near Salisbury, is the earliest Palladian house in England, and I first set eyes on it, like Charles did with Brideshead, on a brilliant June morning about 20 ago. After Andover and past Grateley, through a large gate, a twisting drive through open parkland, and there, in the distance below, stood Wilbury, symmet- rical, grey and beautiful.
I don't know what captivated me about Wilbury? Was it the girls that lived there, the ever-present crazy atmosphere, or was it the sense of doom? Wilbury belonged to Lord St Just, who died in 1984. His widow, Maria, died last year, and the house now belongs to Peter St Just's three daughters, Laura, from his first marriage, Katya and Natasha from his second.
Although I was in hot pursuit of her two daughters, Maria, a crazy Russian actress with a wonderful heart, and I hit it off like a house on fire. The house was always full of artsy types, Leslie Caron, Ned Sherrin, Gore Vidal, Franco Zeffirelli and, of course, the platonic love of Maria's life, Tennessee Williams.
To call Maria difficult would be like call- ing Patton aggressive, a monstrous under- statement. Ergo, there was always a staff problem. Once her least favourite butler, known as the weasel, came in during dinner and announced that his wife had run off with another member of the staff. Unfortu- nately, they had fallen into a ditch and needed his (the weasel's) help to extricate them. Maria St Just and the rest of us burst out laughing, so much so that I took pity on the weasel, and was the only one who went out in the middle of the night looking for the fallen lovers.
I took a cottage on the estate and for a while it was all hunky dory, but then things changed and I went after younger fish, and simply stopped going down there. When Maria died last year, she named the moth- er-of-my-children as executor to her estate.
Last Sunday, like Charles on manoeuvres, I happened on Wilbury, and stayed the night. Only Natasha Grenfell and Charles Glass were there. No weasel, no Gore Vidal, no nothing. Even the dogs looked moribund. The grass tennis court had dis- appeared, and the formal gardens looked OK, despite having seen better days, but it was the atmosphere that was missing. Wilbury is among the most beautiful hous- es in England, but it's greatest asset was the crazy family that lived in it. Now I hear Katya wants to sell and Natasha does not. It is a very old story.
About five years ago I gave a dinner party in Athens, in my father's house, one which Oliver Gilmour attended. Oliver is not exactly known for liking things. In fact, all he does is bitch about how ghastly life is. On that night, however, he told me he had never seen anything like it. Daddy's house was made of marble and steel, designed by David Hicks, and from Mt Lycabettus it looked down on the Acropolis. My brother wanted the house sold; I did not, but went along with his wishes. Looking back, it was a smart move. Someone would have either blown it up or found a way to take it from us. Still, I wince when I think back on the magical setting of that house.
The same with Wilbury. The next morn- ing I woke up early and left immediately. They say that love is better the second time around. Don't you believe it. The English believe that houses make people. The Greeks think it's the other way around. This is why the kleptocrats in the Greek Royal Palace look ridiculous, and why Wilbury without Maria St Just and her cronies will never be the same.
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