It is the centenary of the birth of Evelyn Waugh on October 28. His diaries have been published, as well as his letters and at least three biographies. Radio and television programmes proliferate and his novel
Vile Bodies has just been turned into a film, adapted by Stephen Fry under the title
Bright Young Things. I first photographed Waugh in 1959 and again on his sixtieth birthday in 1963. John Montgomery, of the literary agency A.D. Peters, had phoned me with a proposition. Would I go down to see this eminent, difficult and prickly man at his home in Somerset and take a family group of “all the Waughs”, who would be briefly gathered together?
EW had expressed a wish for such a photograph, though he didn’t want to pay for it. As a quid pro quo, I would be allowed to take pictures of anything I liked, and retain copyright.
At that time Waugh’s loathing of the press was legendary. Nevertheless, I agreed with alacrity and my wife decided to come with me to Combe Florey in my dilapidated Vauxhall Cresta, a middle-class car which should have given Waugh the shudders. Having been invited to lunch, we were anxious to arrive on time. But on the other side of Salisbury Plain we broke down and had to find a mechanic, and make a telephone call to the Waughs. The reply was chilly. The family were waiting for their lunch. Would we be as quick as we could? Not an auspicious start. We finally arrived about an hour later, and all the Waughs (there were six children) were sitting at the table looking hostile.
We muttered our apologies and sat down to a fish lunch, helping ourselves from the sideboard. Then started a mild quizzing. Did all photographers rush around in an absurd manner, and for what reason? I said it was certainly so in my case, and this reply was greeted with a disapproving sniff. The rest of the family remained silent. Only Mrs Waugh, Laura, tried to make us feel at ease.
I wanted to start photographing but, after eating, EW simply disappeared: he had gone out somewhere. This proved to be a good thing because Laura showed us round.
The house was a strange mixture of Victoriana and earlier period pieces. Laura had a bedroom with a four-poster. Another bedroom had a washstand by William Burgess, which had been presented by John Betjeman. It had come to be called the “Betjeman Benefaction”. I also photographed the library cum study, which after EW’s death was transported piece by piece to the University of Texas.
In a letter he urged me not to reveal his address in Combe Florey as “otherwise, burglars, Americans, journalists and sightseers pop in”. Later that afternoon I called it a day and went to the village pub, where we were staying.
The next day, up early and straight to the Waughs. No sign of EW. He wrote later to apologise for not being present to point out “more interesting pieces of furniture”. He reappeared in the afternoon. I started photographing. He was all good cheer, very kind to my wife, pointing out various books and pieces, discussed his book on Ronald Knox, the renowned Catholic thinker: “I don’t suppose you know anything about him.” In fact, I did know. I had photographed him at Stoneyhurst, the Catholic public school, and at the Farm Street Jesuit church.
Waugh’s son, Auberon, also appeared and was reluctantly persuaded to change into uniform to be photographed. He was convalescing from a serious accident: he had accidentally shot himself in the chest while on duty in Cyprus. EW became more relaxed, and so did I. He seemed to like me. It was difficult to tell why.
I photographed him in his study, smoking his cigar and writing with his ancient quill pen, a shot that has been used many times. I also photographed the entire family, both in the grounds and in the drawing room.
Waugh stipulated “on no account colour shots. I come out looking all pink.” I took no notice. Later, when I presented the transparencies, his only comment was in a letter: “They will please the simple tastes of my Italian servants.” He ordered masses of shots and sent stern instructions on which frames could be used. He admonished me for not taking more trouble over a dining-room interior: “It was careless of you to leave the gin bottles and not display more of the silver.” It was the only criticism. He thanked me for my “clever photographs” and presented me with an autographed copy of A Handful of Dust. I had a happy feeling. This was all in 1959.
In 1963, EW particularly wanted me to come down to Combe Florey and photograph him on his sixtieth birthday. I dropped everything and went — this time on my own. Waugh was alone, wearing the same suit and waistcoat as last time. Evidently, having liked a suit his tailor had made in his youth, EW had it copied at regular intervals.
He opened a bottle of claret and puffed at a large Havana cigar. He offered one to me as we finished the bottle. It seemed churlish to refuse, so I started to smoke. Within half an hour I had a splitting headache and was fit for nothing — certainly not photography. I explained my predicament to EW and asked for some aspirin, saying I needed to sleep. This cheered him up immensely. He offered me the tablets and his comfortable sofa with a triumphant smile. I awoke a little later refreshed, and started photographing. He was most co-operative, suggesting a shot of himself by his famous sign engraved in stone at the front entrance, “No Admittance on Business”.
Evidently my drunken collapse had done him the world of good. We went out into the garden and he pointed out two sphinxes which bore a startling resemblance to himself. He had recently bought them and intended to put them on the roof. He was very pleased with the purchase. I put them side by side and asked him to step into the middle “What’s all this about,” he asked suspiciously.
“Just stand there.” He glared — I took two shots and knew that I had a winner. The weather was poor and it started to drizzle. I said I must get back to London.
“Still hurrying,” a wry smile on his lips. “Give my regards to your charming wife.”
He looked almost benevolent.
It was the last I saw of him. Within three years he was dead.
The author, now aged 82, has spent more than half a century photographing writers, playwrights and poets. Many of his prints are in the National Portrait Gallery archive.
