Free David Waddington Memoirs by David Waddington Page A

Rome and when we arrived at the Timeo Hotel in Taormina there was much tongue-clicking from the lady behind the desk who clearly thought I was a dirty old man who had run away with a child bride.
    Back in Lancashire in January we found that the little house we had created out of the stables at the top of my parents-in-law’s garden was not yet finished and when in February we did move in, it was freezing cold and we regretted having decided that central heating was a luxury we could not afford. What made matters even worse was that most of the curtains had not arrived – including the one designed to separate the living room from the dining room – and the bedroom was so cold that we woke up each morning with the top blanket soaking wet with condensation. But it did not seem to matter all that much; and I counted myself the luckiest man on earth.
    Those were the days before rampant inflation hit Britain and we converted the stables and furnished them quite adequately with a gift of £5,000 from my father and a wedding present of £1,000 from Gilly’s grandfather. I was earning quite a lot at the Bar and without any children and no school fees to pay we felt very well off. But I kept getting invitations to go before selection committees in the north-west and when, in 1959, Richard Fort was killed in a car accident and there was to be a by-election in Clitheroe, I was sorely tempted to go back into the fray. I realised, however, that it was expecting far too much of Gilly, and the temptation was resisted.
    Looking back on our engagement it does seem to have taken place in the most unlikely circumstances for we were often rendered speechless when in each other’s company. One night I took Gilly to a cocktail party at the judges’ lodgings in Salford and we reached Besses o’ th’ Barn on the outskirts of Manchester before I summoned up the courage to say anything. In fact, one or two drinks turned it into rather a good evening. At the party the judge who was our host became alarmed at the speed at which the drink was disappearing and, at 7 p.m. when we were just beginning to enjoy ourselves, he hammered on the table and rudely declaimed, ‘Gentlemen, all good things must come to an end.’ We slunk out of the front door like whipped curs but got back our courage when at the top of the drive we spotted a member of the Manchester Constabulary standing to attention in a mobile sentry box. One shove and the box began to trundle down the drive, not at a great speed but fast enough to make it difficult for the officer to leave with dignity. So he remained upright and travelled to the bottom of the slope, cheered on by the bibulous spectators.
    I am lucky to have some of Gilly’s school reports from Moira House, Eastbourne – better known as MoHo. They reveal an interesting state of affairs and how well qualified she was for marriage. Autumn Term 1951: ‘Seldom punctual for bed. Very untidy.Thirty-five order marks against her name.’ Spring 1952: ‘Too often late for bed. Untidy.’ Summer 1952: ‘Most unpunctual downstairs. Better in bedroom.’ Autumn 1952: ‘Gillian breaks rules without compunction and goes her own way regardless.’ Spring 1954: ‘Persistently late for bed through playing. Is vague over time. Late for breakfast nine times.’ Autumn 1956: ‘Very pleasant upstairs but she does not take enough responsibility.’
    If truth be told, Gilly was taking on an awful lot marrying when so young and marrying someone ten years older than herself. I think, looking back, that my insistence that we should marry before she had even completed her course at Brighton was quite unreasonable, but I can only say in my own defence that I was madly in love, that I knew a good thing when I saw it and I was simply not prepared to take the chance of waiting and her finding somebody else. I felt I could make her a good husband and I knew she would be a super wife, loyal and forgiving. For Gilly, marriage was an act of madness.