Then I sat for another five minutes, but there was no draught or manifestation of any kind. The silence was deafening, and my mind was a blank. Finally I gave it up as a lost cause and turned on a light. Then I went into the living-room. The curtains had not been drawn, and outlined in the moonlight was the piano. I sat down and began running my fingers over the keys. Eventually I came upon a chord that fascinated me, and repeated it several times, until it vibrated the whole room. Why was I doing this? Perhaps this was a manifestation! I kept repeating the one chord. Suddenly a white band of light embraced me around the waist; like a shot I leaped from the piano and stood, my heart pounding like a drum.
When I had recovered, I tried to reason. The piano was in a recess by the window. Then I realized that what I thought was a belt of ectoplasm was the light from an automobile coming down the mountain-side. To satisfy myself, I sat at the piano and again struck the same chord several times. At the far end of the living-room was a dark passage and, across from it, the door of the dining-room. From the corner of my eye I saw the door open and something come from the dining-room and pass along the dark passage, a grotesque, dwarfish-looking monster with clownish white circles around its eyes, waddling towards the organ room. Before I could turn my head, it had gone. Horrified, I got up and tried to follow it, but it had vanished. Believing that in my highly nervous state a moving eyelash might have created the illusion, I went back to playing the piano. But nothing further happened, so I decided to go to bed.
I changed into my pyjamas and entered the bathroom. When I turned on the light, there was the phantom sitting up in the bathtub looking at me! I leaped out of the bathroom almost horizontally. It was a skunk! The same little fellow I had seen from the corner of my eye, only downstairs it had seemed magnified.
In the morning, the butler put the bewildered little animal in a cage and we eventually made a pet of it. But one day it disappeared and we never saw it again.
*
Before I left London the Duke and Duchess of York invited me to lunch. It was an intimate affair, just the Duke, the Duchess, her father and mother and her brother, a young chap about thirteen. Sir Philip Sassoon called later, and he and I were assigned to return the Duchess’s little brother to Eton. He was a quiet little fellow who trailed along as Sir Philip and I were escorted around the school by two prefects, who, with several others, invited us to tea.
When we entered the tuck-shop, an ordinary place selling candy and serving sixpenny teas, he remained outside with about a hundred other Etonians. Four of us sat at a small table in a crowded little upstairs room. Everything was going splendidly until I was asked if I would like another cup of tea and inadvertently said ‘Yes.’ This caused a financial crisis, as our host was short of money and was obliged to go into a huddle with several other boys.
Philip whispered: ‘I’m afraid we’ve caught them short for an extra twopence and there’s nothing we can do about it.’
However, between them they managed to order another pot of tea, which we had to drink hurriedly because the school bell rang; giving them only a minute to get within the school gates, so there was quite a scamper. Inside, we were greeted by the headmaster, who showed us the hall where Shelley and many of the illustrious had inscribed their names. Eventually the headmaster turned us back to the two prefects, who ushered us into the holiest of holy sanctums, the room that Shelley had once occupied. But our little Bowes-Lyon friend remained outside.
Said our young host in a most imperious voice to him: ‘What is it you want?’
‘Oh, he’s with us,’ interposed Philip, explaining that we had brought him down from London.
‘All right,’ said our young host impatiently. ‘Come in.’
Whispered Sir Philip: ‘They’re making a great concession allowing him in; it would imperil another boy’s career to trespass on such holy ground.’
Not until I later visited Eton with Lady Astor was I aware of its spartan discipline. It was bitterly cold and quite dark as we groped our way along the dimly-lit, brown corridor which had footbaths hanging on the walls next to each room-door. At last we found the right door and knocked.
Her son, a pale-faced little chap, opened the door. Inside his two companions were huddled over a handful of coals in a small fireplace, warming their hands. The atmosphere was indeed drear.
Lady Astor said: ‘I want to see if I can have you up for the week-end.’
We talked a moment, then suddenly there was a rap on the door and before we could say ‘Come in’ the handle turned and the housemaster entered, a handsome, blond man, well built, about forty. ‘Good evening,’ he said curtly to Lady Astor and nodded to me. He then leant his elbow on the small mantelpiece and began smoking his pipe. Her visit was evidently inopportune, so Lady Astor began explaining: ‘I’ve come to see if I could take the young one back for the week-end.’
‘I’m very sorry, but you can’t,’ was the abrupt answer.
‘Oh, come now,’ said Lady Astor in her cosy way. ‘Don’t be so recalcitrant.’
‘I’m not recalcitrant, I’m merely stating a fact.’
‘But he looks so pale.’
‘Nonsense, there’s nothing wrong with him.’
She got up from the boy’s bed, upon which we were sitting, and went over to the housemaster. ‘Oh, come on!’
