The author hard at work with Henry,
her first beloved pug.
I was eighteen when I started my first published book, CORONET AMONG THE
WEEDS, nineteen when I sold it, and twenty when it was published. My parents
were both professional writers, so I had the good luck to be encouraged in my
efforts. My first book, written at the age of ten was called DEATH'S TICKET.
They were sufficiently impressed with the storyline to think that I might go on
to make something of my talent. However, by the time I was a teenager the idea
of my wafting about the house with a dreamy expression was not encouraged;
indeed they were insistent that if I wanted to be a writer I had to be like my
father, have a day job, and pick up my pen at night, or at weekends. Naturally
I was rather against this. I always thought that wafting and writing were kind
of intertwined. (As a matter of fact I still do...) However in defiance of
their professional attitudes I made sure to always change into a long velvet
robe, not at all popular with the grown ups, but it nevertheless gave me
immense satisfaction. As a matter of fact I still like to wear poetic garments
when writing (see pic of Henry helping me with DEBUTANTES.) And I never quite
agree with their oft repeated stricture 'writing is nothing special, just a job
like any other'.
I still think writing is special and exciting, and
drifting around the house dreaming about the next chapter is one of life's
great pleasures.
A side
effect of having to have a normal job, which I duly found at the War Office,
was trying to find the hours in which to write. I left our Kensington house at
seven thirty in the morning, only arriving back at seven at night - always
providing the number nine buses were running. Aside from the evenings, there
was, however, the hour and half generously granted by the office for lunch. I
at once set about trying to use it for my own devices. Although writers don't
need total quiet (later on I met a very successful American novelist who swore
he could only write on the subway) nevertheless it does require a bit of elbow
room. Elbow room in Mayfair where I was working was not in abundance; worse
than that the price of a meal in a coffee bar was out of the question. After
some research I found the downstairs Ritz bar was only two and sixpence for a
tomato juice, plus unlimited crisps and olives. So there I would rush to
scribble CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS, under the benevolent gaze of Laurie the
barman, who always made sure I had a whole table to myself. Spoilt or what?
Finally
the book was finished. Where to celebrate? The Ritz bar, of course. I remember
sauntering down Bond Street on a mild April evening, spring weather, book
finished, what could be better? Laurie was surprised to see me of an evening,
and then astonished when I ordered a whisky and not a tomato juice. I chose a
whisky because having spent too much of my youth going to plays in the West
End, and Paris, I had conceived the idea that it was a very grown up drink, and
being suffused with the feeling that I might now be on the brink of becoming a
proper writer, I thought it was about time I was also a grown up. It was then
that I heard a familiar voice behind me saying 'what are you doing drinking
whisky on your own in the downstairs Ritz bar, may I ask, Miss Bingham?' The
voice belonged to Peter Watt, my father's literary agent. There was a short
exchange of light hearted banter while I pretended to enjoy the whisky, before
he insisted on my sending him the book I had just finished ~ which was to
become CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS ~ to read as he was going away for Easter.
It was because CORONET AMONG THE
WEEDS was a comedy written by a teenager that it attracted the attention that
it did. This very short book is thought to have started some sort of social
upheaval, as well as being vaguely scandalous, which only shows how times have
changed. It is quite simply written in the voice of a teenager making fun not
just of herself and her friends, but also of life in general. I have to say that
I did hope that I would sell it, and when I did I thought my cup was indeed
flowing over. What I never envisaged was that it would make me famous, selling
in ten countries, taking me all over the world on author tours, and engendering
more publicity than could possibly be imagined outside, well, a frothy
Hollywood comedy, really..
What
happened was that the book was bought by Charles Pick at Heinemann within two
days of my father's agent reading it and offering it to him over dinner at the
Garrick Club. In fact the publisher Victor Gollancz also wanted to buy it, but
since Gollancz was my father's publisher I didn't think it a good idea to be at
the same house.
So there
I was, with no real previous writing experience, at one moment writing in the
Ritz bar during my lunch hour, and at home in the evenings, and the next
walking past vast bill boards of my photograph what seemed like a mile high on
every street corner. This was because the editor of The People newspaper had
decided to serialise the book, and although CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS was, by his
own admission, completely wrong for his newspaper, he said he laughed so much
when he read it that he decided to pay whatever it took to buy it for his
newspaper ~ and besides, 'it was my birthday present to myself!' he told me
when we lunched.
However
this was just the start of the excitement. Soon I had only to step out of our
front door for photographers from all over the world to start snapping - one
newspaper even hired a flat opposite the house to get a better shot of this now
notorious young author. LIFE MAGAZINE rang and wanted pics. They lit the
outside of the house and photographed us all in silhouette. They then shot me
in a ball gown and tiara with a host of bowler-hatted young men in attendance.
PARIS MATCH photographed me, also in a bowler hat. The Italians changed the
tone, making me look more Fellini than David Bailey. America rolled out the red
carpet down which I trod with assumed ease. Aside from doing an author tour, I
went on live television in a show called TO TELL THE TRUTH (audience across the
US and Canada 84 million) Together with Mary Quant I was one of the Women of
the Year, and was honoured by Christina Foyle giving a Foyles Literary Luncheon
for me at the end of which I had to give a speech. Imagine never having spoken
in public before, and just four months out of the typing pool finding yourself
sitting surrounded by famous literary people all waiting for you to open your
mouth.
I went so
white that the press table seated below the top table kept sending me notes
saying, in very different ways, 'cheer up it will soon be over!' Happily, due,
I always think, to my extreme youth, the speech received a great ovation, and
the following day I was sent a bouquet from the press table, which was more
than generous, and not at all deserved. Years later when I came to live in
Somerset a local shopkeeper said to me 'we've had many more famous than you
round here - we had John Steinbeck staying up at Redlynch!' Well, as it
happens, John Steinbeck was also honoured with a Foyles Luncheon, but
apparently his nerves overcame him so much his agent had to read his
speech...Mr Steinbeck, wherever you are in your particular part of heaven - you
have my deepest sympathy!
It is
always difficult to match a first success, particularly one that takes you all
over the world by the age of twenty. Since CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS I have
written many books, plays, and television series with Terence Brady, and we
have always both been of the same mind, that nothing matches the very first of
something. The first burst of laughter at your first comedy show, the first
night of a successful play, the first time you top the ratings. So it was with
CORONET AMONG THE WEEDS, my first book, my first success - the first time you
see the words 'hereinafter called the author' on your first contract. It's a
May morning of a moment, the scent of old English roses, dew on the grass felt
through sandals - no, it is none of those things. It is your first success!
Terence Brady and Charlotte Bingham at home in London 1982
Copyright Charlotte Bingham 2012
