A Byronic Interlude

Extract from Seán Manchester's unpublished Memoir:

In the 1970s I felt as though I was walking in a direction that would eventually bring me back to my roots. It was a valuable period of self-discovery.

On a path of self-discovery in the 1970s.

The actress Catherine Hall would become an intimate friend. She very much empathised with Lady Caroline Lamb — perhaps too much for her own good — yet I felt strangely drawn to Catherine who was indubitably romantic. She was a product of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, lived in Knightsbridge, London, until the death of her parents at which time she purchased and moved to a large Victorian house in Chelsea. When we were first introduced, she was a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company. Her only sibling had died while he was relatively young, leaving Catherine morose and withdrawn. Drama allowed her to come out of herself, and when we were together she was more than able to do that.

She was tiny, delicate and with just enough Italian blood to make her as unpredictable and passionate as the nineteenth century Romantics she adored. Sometimes the immense sorrow that dwelled deep within her from the past would engulf and subsume her. Then she disappeared for months at a time. We were nonetheless close, and relished each another’s company on those occasions we did share, no matter how seldom.

This is Catherine's favourite portrait of her by myself.

Each time we met I would listen to all her latest adventures, eg taking off for Hawaii where she conversed with an old native who would talk for hours on end, allowing her to barely seeing anything of the islands; rehearsing a film role with Glenda Jackson who played her mother, all that went on behind the scenes; the Bohemian Chelsea set; the eccentric Byron Society people, etc.

The most endearing memory I have was our pilgrimage to Lord Byron’s tomb. We were invited guests of the Mayor of Gedding, Nottinghamshire, at the Town Hall prior to the church service at Hucknall Torkard. Catherine had reached Newstead by thumbing a lift off a lorry driver, having missed the main party in Chelsea who had booked a coach for the International Byron Society. I missed it, too, but managed to catch up with the coach in a taxi cab at some traffic lights not long after the departure from Byron House in Gertrude Street. Catherine and I met up at Newstead Abbey in Sherwood Forest, an early port of call on the day itself.

The Mayor cordially received us, and for the first hour we were besieged by a very eccentric lady from a poetry theatre group who spoke incessantly about Shelley, which seemed less than appropriate in the circumstances. Later, following the service at Hucknall Parish Church where I layed a wreath on the tomb of the poet, Catherine and I were left to reflect on Lord Byron as we stood close to his tomb in the nave. I sensed real affection from her, and felt that these surroundings allowed her to relax.

An undated letter, written from her during this period, touches on our rare contact, and provides a glimpse of the unique Catherine Hall as I knew her:

“So, I never write to you. I shall endeavour to solve this serious oversight immediately. However, it is so long since I wrote to communicate directly with another individual that I’m afraid this letter will be a faltering attempt. I answered the telephone thinking it was you and it was someone else. I was not so enthusiastic when I realised who it was, even though it is too late because he thinks I’m purring because of him. Oh dear — the telephone. Let’s throw them in the sea and let the mermaids scratch their tails with them!

“Yes, I would love to see you soon. Unfortunately next Sunday I am engaged, but unless something serious raises its morose head, let’s agree to see each other the Sunday after.

“I fear that I am so badly equipped to live in this world, and although I do make enormous efforts sporadically, the dishonesty of which really kills me, I find it easier to be reclusive and somewhat aloof. The result of this is that the rest of the so-called civilised population assume me to have an eccentric kind of mystical strength and wisdom, born out of physical privilege and emotional pain. They seem to think that financial security has bought me the time to sit around and become wise quite magically, and strong enough not to mind when someone doesn’t turn up, or pockets something irreplaceable on the way out. They are quite right, of course; I don’t mind.

“What does hurt is that unless I’m exceptionally guarded, I seem to attract these shallow, prideless, empty flotsam and jetsam who are so amazed when I know what they’re thinking. ‘Gosh Cath, you’re … ’ ‘Sorry, it’s Catherine actually.’ ‘Oh yeah, er, anyway — your’re so telepathic, so psychic, incredible, spooky etc.’ Oh dear, oh dear!

“I’m sorry. I’m having a whining session, and I’m sure that you have heard it all before. Whilst I’m on the theme of apology, I’m sorry about this French school notepaper. If I’d waited to find something more suitable another week might have passed.

“I experienced some truly beautiful things in Greece, especially from the mountain people in Crete, and a fishing family on Delos. So often there was no language barrier even though my Greek is minimal and their English often nil. I’ll tell you more when I see you.

“The enclosed photograph was taken in May. You haven’t seen me for a little while, so this is to save any shock or disappointment. Look at it carefully and you’ll see that it’s not as tough as it seems. In fact, if you talk to it very gently, it will possibly cry.

“Until we meet — Catherine.”

Catherine never disappointed me for a moment, and for someone accused of writing infrequently, she left a legacy of many delightful letters and poems. The above letter is particularly interesting because her experience with certain people over her sensitivity, or psychic awareness, is not so very different to my own. It might have been partly responsible for our affinity. Her letters came thick and fast toward the end of our meetings, as does life itself quicken like the sand in an hour glass.

“Dearest Seán,

“Your unexpected visit was a joy, neither an intrusion, nor an impertinence. However, it would make me extremely cross if I had to wait quite so long before I saw you again. That would be plain silly. I know that timing is almost everything, but I would love to hear your piece of music, which could perhaps be followed by my poem. I would rather read it to you than send it. I do hope you will be there on the 17th. I would be broken-hearted to be induced to make such a journey without you in sight.

“With love — Catherine.”

Her reference was to a public piano recital, interspersed with poetry readings. These were usually held in aristocratic houses and small theatres. The idea was to include Catherine as a surprise guest. However, Catherine was very unpredictable and hardly ever arrived anywhere on time. How did she survive as an actress, I often wondered? Sometimes her letters grew anxious. One summer epistle laments:

“It seems that you have disappeared off the face of this earth. I have dialled your number several times — but to no avail. So, I am forced to pick up my pen and write to you.”

And again, during the same period:

“I feel that in some way you have given up with me — please don’t — not yet. If sometimes I am silent, it is not because I do not care. Quite the opposite. I think of you many times in a day. I am frightened — especially when someone cares for me, and more especially when that someone is you because I cannot help but feel too. Do you wish to see me again?

“Tentatively yours — Catherine.”

Catherine, left;  Elma Dangerfield OBE, facing;  Canon David Williams.

Photograph taken by me following The Byron Society Memorial Service.

I liked Catherine enormously, and, I suspect, she also liked me. Though she identified totally with Lady Caroline Lamb, she had become more of an Augusta Leigh figure toward the end of our time together.

Our last meeting was on a snowy winter’s day after I had invited her to join me for lunch. We spoke about the spiritual struggle that is ever present in the world. She looked fragile and pale, and I sensed the moments together we had left slipping away.

                                    Today, I will seek not the shadowy region;

                                                            Its sustaining vastness waxes drear;

                                    And visions rising, legion after legion,

                                                            Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

She stumbled and slipped on the snow, as I walked her to the frozen, empty railway lines. Catching her, I held her close. We remained in that embrace until the carriages pulled by their grimy engine rumbled into the station and slowly ground to a halt. We kissed — an adieu kiss — and spoke of the next time we would see each other, knowing that there would be no next time. We each sensed it. We had become too close for the relationship to continue as it had been. It was all or nothing from hereon. Nothing prevailed.

I neither saw nor heard from Catherine again. Though in a strange way we continue to live in the memory of a past of our own making — truly phantoms wafting about in a time long gone.

*       *       *

Reflecting on the past at a time itself now swept into the bygone.

*       *       *

There were many who seemed to just vanish — as the 1960s spilled into the early 1970s — only to dissipate. Some of the people I had known from that earlier decade became peculiarly altered; some were never to be seen again; some became lost in the search for their particular ideal, dream or perhaps nightmare. Few would remain untouched by the experience of that time.