A Different Class of Ghost
Gold leaf...
In your cocktail? Yes, Cliveden House can provide it. Private boat trips down the Thames taking in all the sights, including, if you’re lucky Lorraine Kelly reading the morning paper outside her riverside house? Yes, that too…but ghosts? You stay at Cliveden for the spectacular, not the spectres. However, after my experience there, I believe it’s not just the ghosts of a certain scandal that haunts these hallowed walls, but a much darker one who kept me awake begging for daylight to come.
A History of Scandal.
Once the ancestral home of the Astor family, Cliveden has become infamous because of its links to The Profumo Affair. Returning back to the house one night after dinner with his his host, Lord Astor, John Profumo, the then Secretary of State for War, ran into a young woman by the house’s swimming pool. An encounter that would end his career, almost ruin her life and eventually bring down the Conservative government.
In 1961, Christine Keeler was a beautiful young woman who sought fame and fortune in a world run by powerful men. A recipe for disaster one way, or another. Taken under the wing of Stephen Ward, a highly regarded London Osteopath, social fixer and artist, she was moulded into a woman whose company was desired by both the most powerful and deranged of men. A pawn in a game she wasn’t aware she was playing, or at least might have seemed amusing to a nineteen year old, she couldn’t have foreseen was how her seemingly exciting lifestyle was about to blow up. And blow up it did, in a spectacular fashion which would see her hounded, painted as the harlot and end Stephen Ward’s life. Meanwhile the other powerful men retreated back to their country piles with their (now flaccid) tails between their legs.
The reason for the downfall? While having a sexually unfulfilling relationship with Profumo, there were whisperings that she was also involved with Captain Yevgeny Ivanov, a Soviet naval attaché. An ever so slightly, possibly, maybe, definitely conflict of interest re national security. Oooops.
As the other bit part players picked up their lives over the years, Christine never quite recovered hers. There is a peculiar penchant to shame women like Christine, a girl who, to quote an 80’s songstress ‘just wanted to have fun’. Sexually active, shamelessly flirtatious, it’s an imagine of a young woman that many still find uncomfortable. That she, a working class woman, and her friends lived off gifts from rich men and enjoyed a lifestyle otherwise denied, so what? Perhaps though, maybe, if you’re going to do this…don’t do it similtaneously with a war minister and his international rival.
Attitudes toward her have somewhat changed. Today one of Stephen Wards portraits of Christine hangs with pride at Cliveden. She is no longer seen as a disgrace, but is now seen as a riveting and enticing part of its cultural history.
But Back to the Ghost.
Yes, back to my experience of Cliveden in all its elegant glory. It was my third visit when I experienced something strange that kept me awake through the night, and in my case it wasn’t the greasy touch of an MP (honest m’lud).
Cliveden House really is a beautiful place, sparkling high above the Thames and surrounded by National Trust gardens. From the moment you walk in you are surrounded by history and beauty. The attention to detail is second to none and your eyes are drawn in every direction admiring the art work and decor.
When I first walked into the Canning Suite I was giddy with love. I have a thing for wood panelled rooms, very different from the wood chip walls I grew up with and would idly pick from the walls (sorry mum). A four poster bed draped with heavy velvet curtain and an open fire place, what more could you want? A good night’s sleep maybe?
There are different types of darkness when the light goes out, there is the soft darkness that eases with time, until you can make out the furniture in a room by the shadows that fall. I am used to darkness, I live in a remote place, and even with no street lighting my eyes will still eventually see through the dark.
As soon as the lights went out in the Canning Suite I was thrown into pitch black darkness that felt as though it were pushing against my face. I had stayed in two different rooms previously and had no such experience. No matter how I blinked and tried to work out the layout in the night, I couldn’t. I slept fitfully, waking up occasionally, still blinking, still in darkness. Perhaps the wooden walls had magic powers to hold the dark, perhaps.
At precisely midnight I was jolted awake by the telephone in the room ringing. I put a light on, thankful for the excuse to see around me and walked across the room to pick up the phone, only to find the line dead. Assuming it was a mistake, perhaps room to room calling, I replaced the receiver, went to the bathroom eyeing the etched portraits of previous visitors with suspicion. In the early hours I woke again, feeling like something was in front of me, but unable to see anything. I lay there for awhile just hoping daylight would come.
The next night I decided to sleep on the other side of the bed, with only a a couple of feet between me and the wall, surely better sleep would come. Again a dark feeling came over me and when the telephone rang again at midnight I was already awake. I barely slept the rest of the night, just staring into the dark telling myself over and over again it will get light soon, it will get light soon. All the time feeling a strange presence around me.
The next day I told reception about the calls to the room and she said maintenance would take a look at it. The day passed beautifully, walks in the garden, a boat trip down the Thames and wonderful food and drink, then it was the last night.
I should point out I sleep very well normally, I go to bed early and wake early, little disturbs me and bed is a blessed place. But by the third night in that room I was dreading lights out. The feeling of something wrapping itself around me, someone, somewhere hiding in the claustrophobic darkness. At least now, I thought to myself, the telephone had been fixed…and then midnight came and it rang once more.
As we checked out I felt I had to ask if there had been any other mentions of ghosts in the room. I’m pretty sure whatever else the impeccably polite staff are taught at hotel school, it is to quash any such chat at reception, unless of course their patrons are here for that experience.
‘No madam, i’ve never heard anything like that.’
When I asked if someone had taken a look at the telephone she told me they had,
‘It’s an old phone, he said there was no way it could be a room to room call, that system isn’t available. There was no alarm on it and clearly no-one from the front desk would call it without good reason.’
Seeing the colour drain a little bit from my face she reached behind and offered a bottle of champagne for the inconvenience. I could have asked more, I could have voiced my worries about the strange feeling and asked about it’s history, but sometimes you just have to take the booze and go.
During the journey home I reached for my phone and did what I’d avoided doing during my stay. I Googled hauntings at Cliveden and just one result came up, an essay on the refurbishment of the hotel written by Sophie Dhal. In it she says;
‘The massive and sensitive refurbishment over the last two years has driven away the ghosts at Cliveden (although maybe not in the Canning Suite).’
I will go back to the beautiful and historic Cliveden one day, but it will most definitely be in a different room. You don’t always have to see a ghost to know they exist, sometimes just feeling their presence is enough.