Читать книгу Journey of a Lifetime - Alan Whicker - Страница 7

If ever there were a true 20th-century chameleon, it was Fanny Cradock. She invented reinvention. She had a number of names, and at various times had been an actress, journalist, romantic novelist, restaurant critic—apart from her own brilliant creation filling the Albert Hall as the original show-biz cook.

She was a television buccaneer years ahead of her time, and we met in her heyday, the time of cooking demonstrations before thousands where she would arrive on stage in white overalls and, just as the audience were sympathizing with her workaday life, strip off to reveal underneath a full-length crimson evening dress and diamonds—like Sean Connery unzipping his wetsuit. In the background Johnnie modestly revealed his white tie and tails.

There was nothing grey about Fanny. Everything was direct and startling: her opinions, her clothes, her generosity, her energy, her friendships and enmities, her impossible manners…This last trait was to be part of her undoing.

Fanny arrived in Jersey with Johnnie, two Lhasa Apsos and a couple of pantechnicons crammed with possessions. Also, strong opinions ready-made about everything and everyone.

They had left their home in Eire in fear after the murder of the British Ambassador in Dublin. She had grown afraid to turn on a kitchen light if the curtains were not drawn, and was scared of people lurking in the darkness around the house. It must have been a very serious scare for Fanny to admit to being frightened of anything. Alternatively it is just possible she had a noisy meeting, not with the IRA but with some inoffensive local shopkeeper who is still stunned by what hit him.

It is not easy to offend everyone in a small and tolerant island like Jersey, but Fanny managed it in a few short weeks. An innocent local photographer would be dismissed with a short sharp scream, a young waiter shyly proffering the Jersey Royals she was supposed to have cooked with her own skilful hands would receive a snarling, “Take those away, we think they’re disgusting”…

Her senior dog, which bit any hand that tried to feed it, sent our friend Ruby Bernstein dashing to the nearest hospital for a precautionary rabies injection, while wondering whether husband Albert—who had bravely sucked the tiny wound—should have similar treatment.

There was not much local sympathy, though I did warn that the dog might suffer an attack of Rubies.

Fanny rarely enjoyed a smooth path. Writing a dreadful review of a long-established St Helier restaurant was hurtful. Jumping queues in the splendid fish market did not go down well, nor did complaining loudly at the butchers when waiting in the queue was the wife of the Housing Chairman. What started as little ripples of irritation became waves of discontent among island politicians: “We’ve had one Norah Docker, we don’t need another.”

It became obvious that Fanny did not much care for established restaurants, she liked to earn credit for discovering some hidden gem at the end of the jetty no one knew about. Fortunately this also extended to private cooks, as in Valerie’s case entertaining was a new experience and each meal a hit-and-miss adventure. After that first dinner she was generous in her praise and managed to eat everything, only pausing as she left to offer a bain-marie. So far so good.

The Cradocks had been generous and hospitable when I was working in Fleet Street, so upon their arrival in Jersey I tried to ease their passage by arranging a lunch to introduce them to the great and good of the island. Fanny arrived dressed from head to toe in forest green, a veiled green bowler topping her orange make-up—a cross between Boadicea and Robin Hood. Her requested drink was predictably odd—Martini and sweet sparkling lemonade. This improbable mixture caused grinding of teeth and delay at the bar, and held up my distribution of conventional champagne.

After a short while she offered to help in the kitchen. To discourage such good intentions we fed her first. Suddenly out of nowhere came a deafening crash…and there lay Fanny, flat out on the parquet like a green turtle. No movement, blood everywhere.

We hauled her upstairs and propped her up on a bed—hat and veil only slightly askew. A tentative search for injuries revealed nothing. Later it transpired she had gashed herself with her enormous rings. We went to warn Johnnie, who was sitting in his wheelchair by the dining-room fire, talking to admirers. We were worried the bloody incident might disturb him.

“Oh,” said Johnnie, noticeably undisturbed, “she’s done that again, has she?” He went on smoking his pipe. It was not my planned introduction to the Housing Committee.

They considered buying a pretty granite cottage a few hundred yards from us. We shivered a little, cautiously. In a way it was a shame. “Given a choice,” I said, “I’d rather keep a few parishes between us.”

This plan, like most of Fanny’s good intentions, did not go well. A pity. There should always be room for the outrageous and the eccentric—though preferably not living next door. Eventually they settled in Guernsey, creating waves and mutterings of discontent. She was always high-handed and difficult, leaving chaos behind her and so much unpopularity that a local bookshop refused to stock her novels.

Causing a minor car crash at a crossroads, she blamed everyone else. Confronted by photographic evidence, she smiled dismissively: “Just shows the camera can lie.”

We watched from the sidelines as her star dwindled. She shot herself in the foot on an Esther Rantzen programme, sneering at some poor housewife’s attempt to cook a banquet. She was crucified by unkind editing—though what could you expect? In a few moments she was transformed from likeable monster to cruel bully, and her television career was over. She was probably the first fatal victim of a reality show.

We saw her a few months after Johnnie’s death. Forlorn and broken, she was spending Christmas in a small Jersey hotel, doubtless one of those interesting little discoveries we had managed to avoid. She came to us for lunch and Valerie gave her a bulging Christmas stocking, full of delicious and caring goodies, but it hardly registered. The fire had gone out of her life.

Johnnie, hen-pecked and dominated all those years, had been her secret strength. Without him she let life go, and withered away. “Nothing separates us, except rugby and the lavatory,” she had said, but now she was just a shell. Her old pugnacious fury had evaporated.

Our sacred monsters are different now: more beautiful, less genuine, more confident, less intelligent. They are created by PR and by management, not driven ambition. We know more about them but there are fewer layers to explore and no surprises. Everyone needs to test his courage against a Fanny Cradock, that furious pink stripe in a grey world.