suitcase.) She also bought herself a strap for the wristwatch Taylor had given her the day before – a wind-up watch with a comic picture of Nixon’s vice-president Spiro Agnew on the face, dressed in ‘Stars and Stripes’ shorts and slippers, with gloved Mickey Mouse hands pointing to the numbers. My mum was well prepared; in return she gave Taylor a silk scarf that had belonged to her Romany grandmother; she’d taken it with her to Mexico just in case.
A handwritten letter from Taylor arrived shortly after my mum got back to London:
Dear Romany,
Thank you so much for the fantastic scarf. It was – and still is – my secret ambition to be a Gypsy. (Maybe that’s why I so enjoy the way we live.) When I was kid my fantasy was that Gypsies had left me on my mother and father’s doorstep and someday they (always a handsome young man on a white, equally handsome horse) would retrieve me – and I would live happily in the magic golden world of my people for ever more.
I have to this day all the fake jewellery, clothes, hairstyles etc etc ever attributed to anyone even resembling a Gypsy. I never thought I’d be so lucky as to have the real article – because I know you’re close people – at least according to my lore [ or love]. Maybe some of the magic will rub off on me.
Thank you so much,
Love,
Elizabeth
A year later, the Italian magazine Oggi carried paparazzi photographs of Burton and Taylor on holiday on the streets of Portofino. Taylor – sporting a variation on the vintage Romany fortune-teller look worn by my mum in San Felipe – is wearing a long pale Paisley kaftan and on her head is my great-grandmother’s scarf.
Chapter 11
‘Happy Christmas,’ I said, as I helped my dad out towards the car under the overcast afternoon sky.
It was Christmas Day 2002.
My mum had lingered at the care home after her operation but had been back at the flat on her own since the beginning of December, trying out some ‘independent living’, as the link worker had called it. It was a reprieve from looking after my dad full-time, but she was visiting him every other day. (‘Have bus pass. Have stick. Can travel.’) On Christmas Eve, my half-brother Toby had taken her over to his house near Esher for a few nights, but my dad hadn’t wanted to go. He had insisted on staying put at the care home (‘Less fuss, no children’) on the condition I took him for ‘a seasonal spin in the car’ after lunch.
‘You all right?’ I said, opening the car door.
‘All the better for seeing you.’
He had on his double-breasted navy blazer with the gold buttons, and his best tartan trousers. With clip-on braces they were pulled a little too high and I could see his camel-brown socks. On his feet he was wearing his special plum-red leather tassel loafers. Someone must have helped him into them – they needed a shoe-horn to get them on. His care assistant had taken me aside and told me he was up and awake at 2 a.m. The night staff had found him sitting on his bed. ‘What are you doing, Tommy?’ they’d said. ‘Watching out for Santa?’ He had got himself completely dressed and had pushed his curtains open and was looking up into the dark silent star-specked Christmas night sky, wakeful and expectant. ‘My son’s coming,’ he’d said quietly. ‘We’re going for a special drive.’ ‘He’s coming at 2 p.m. Not 2 a.m., ’ they’d had to say. ‘It’s the middle of the night, Tommy. You’ve got yourself in a right old muddle.’ It had taken them half an hour to convince him. They’d had to get him undressed and back into bed in his pyjamas.
The car was still ticking and clicking.
‘I’m not doing this every week for you,’ I said jokingly.
‘I have no intention of returning.’
I helped him into the car and shut the door.
‘Are we off for a spin?’ he said. ‘Nice car. You’ve always had good taste.’
His face looked tired and thinner.
‘That’s what you asked for. OK with
A handwritten letter from Taylor arrived shortly after my mum got back to London:
Dear Romany,
Thank you so much for the fantastic scarf. It was – and still is – my secret ambition to be a Gypsy. (Maybe that’s why I so enjoy the way we live.) When I was kid my fantasy was that Gypsies had left me on my mother and father’s doorstep and someday they (always a handsome young man on a white, equally handsome horse) would retrieve me – and I would live happily in the magic golden world of my people for ever more.
I have to this day all the fake jewellery, clothes, hairstyles etc etc ever attributed to anyone even resembling a Gypsy. I never thought I’d be so lucky as to have the real article – because I know you’re close people – at least according to my lore [ or love]. Maybe some of the magic will rub off on me.
Thank you so much,
Love,
Elizabeth
A year later, the Italian magazine Oggi carried paparazzi photographs of Burton and Taylor on holiday on the streets of Portofino. Taylor – sporting a variation on the vintage Romany fortune-teller look worn by my mum in San Felipe – is wearing a long pale Paisley kaftan and on her head is my great-grandmother’s scarf.
Chapter 11
‘Happy Christmas,’ I said, as I helped my dad out towards the car under the overcast afternoon sky.
It was Christmas Day 2002.
My mum had lingered at the care home after her operation but had been back at the flat on her own since the beginning of December, trying out some ‘independent living’, as the link worker had called it. It was a reprieve from looking after my dad full-time, but she was visiting him every other day. (‘Have bus pass. Have stick. Can travel.’) On Christmas Eve, my half-brother Toby had taken her over to his house near Esher for a few nights, but my dad hadn’t wanted to go. He had insisted on staying put at the care home (‘Less fuss, no children’) on the condition I took him for ‘a seasonal spin in the car’ after lunch.
‘You all right?’ I said, opening the car door.
‘All the better for seeing you.’
He had on his double-breasted navy blazer with the gold buttons, and his best tartan trousers. With clip-on braces they were pulled a little too high and I could see his camel-brown socks. On his feet he was wearing his special plum-red leather tassel loafers. Someone must have helped him into them – they needed a shoe-horn to get them on. His care assistant had taken me aside and told me he was up and awake at 2 a.m. The night staff had found him sitting on his bed. ‘What are you doing, Tommy?’ they’d said. ‘Watching out for Santa?’ He had got himself completely dressed and had pushed his curtains open and was looking up into the dark silent star-specked Christmas night sky, wakeful and expectant. ‘My son’s coming,’ he’d said quietly. ‘We’re going for a special drive.’ ‘He’s coming at 2 p.m. Not 2 a.m., ’ they’d had to say. ‘It’s the middle of the night, Tommy. You’ve got yourself in a right old muddle.’ It had taken them half an hour to convince him. They’d had to get him undressed and back into bed in his pyjamas.
The car was still ticking and clicking.
‘I’m not doing this every week for you,’ I said jokingly.
‘I have no intention of returning.’
I helped him into the car and shut the door.
‘Are we off for a spin?’ he said. ‘Nice car. You’ve always had good taste.’
His face looked tired and thinner.
‘That’s what you asked for. OK with
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