There is general excitement among the legions of fans of A Dance to the Music of Time: next week a plaque to Anthony Powell will be placed on 1 Chester Gate, the house where he started to write the many-volumed work of genius. I have a particular interest in attending, not only because Powell was married to my father’s sister Violet, but also because I took advantage of the relationship to lodge for several years in Chester Gate. This was when my parents chose to live maddeningly in Hampstead Garden Suburb and at the age of about 17 I was beginning to go to parties. Go to them? But how to return? That was the problem. No taxi would go so far. I batted my eyes in vain. Fortunately, Violet was one of the kindest and most tolerant people I have ever encountered. She welcomed me, listened at breakfast to my (enhanced) tale of what had taken place the night before, before asking me to clear the table: ‘Uncle Tony is writing a novel.’ I was happy to help for a few weeks, but after about a month I suggested that the novel might be soon coming to an end. ‘People like short novels these days,’ I contributed helpfully. When I watch the plaque being unveiled and consider the wondrous 12 volumes of the celebrated work, I shall be grateful like the thousands of Powell fans that my cheeky literary advice was ignored.
The great Edna O’Brien suggested that August was a wicked month, with husbands and wives taking advantage of the holiday season; but in our family it was the birthday month, beginning (in order of birth) with my mother on 30 August, then myself on 27 August, my brother Thomas under a year later on 14 August.
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