Section 1

THE QUEST FOR COOLEY


Ottoline, by Paul Delprat

 

THE SEARCH FOR THE TRUTH about Kangaroo - my Quest for Cooley - followed another literary project: my wife Sandra's biography of the Bloomsbury salonniere, Lady Ottoline Morrell. (Sandra's biography, Ottoline, was published in New York in 1975 and in London in 1976.) I edited that work, and helped with a minor part of the research. Her well-received biography was, however, entirely her own work. In mid-1975 it became known in literary circles in London that a new "Bloomsbury book" was about to be published. (Michael Holroyd's magisterial life of Lytton Strachey had been the first major Bloomsbury biography, published a few years previously. Michael, generously, gave Sandra much help and support with her biography.) Soon literary London began to invite Sandra to its various literary salons. She was the new biographer on the block. By far the swishest salon was Olga Deterding's, held in her three-floor penthouse in Piccadilly, overlooking Green Park. (Olga was the Shell oil heiress.) I accompanied Sandra to some of these pleasant affairs, mostly held on Sunday afternoons, as "the partner of the author". One smaller salon was held in a basement flat in Chelsea. While Sandra was the centre of most attention, I flittered around the periphery, trying to appear as literary as possible. I joined one group of three or four ladies who were discussing some book matter, and tried to look interested. A pause came in the conversation, and one of the group, a dragon of a female, turned to me and inquired whom I might be. I told them my name. The formidable-looking lady looked down her nose at me and asked: "And what do you do, Mr Darroch?" I fumbled for words, then said (hoping to justify my literary presence): "Well, I'm just about to go back to Australia and look into DH Lawrence's novel, Kangaroo." The literary lady's brow knitted a trifle, as the others in the group peered closer at me. "And what is Kangaroo about?" she asked, imperiously. Taken aback, I could not find anything substantive or intelligent to say in reply. "I, er, I don't really know yet," I mumbled helplessly. The group looked at me as if I were someone out of an HH Bateman cartoon - "The Man Who Did Not Know what Kangaroo was About." It was not an auspicious beginning to our new research project.

 

 

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