Robert was a manic-depressive often portrayed as an artistic genius, but also a crazed, self-obsessed monster. He came into my life when I was four, and to me he was the gentlest, cosiest man possible.
He and my mother had a son, Sheridan, and a year later, in 1972, they married and we moved to Kent.
The day after my mother died, I had lunch with one of her oldest friends. She smiled indulgently and shrugged, but I was too numb and exhausted to pursue the conversation.
I remember thinking that perhaps there was something else I should be doing. Afterwards I called my sister Evgenia and told her what had happened.
I was about six years old when Mike began to visit me in my bedroom.All three were beautiful, charming and, thanks to the popularity of the black stout beer whose name they bore, very rich. When my grandmother needed to go to the lavatory, a maid would warm up the seat before ‘Miss Maureen’ was allowed to sit down.She grew up to marry a dashing marquess and had three children – the eldest of whom was my mother, Lady Caroline Blackwood.I had a long-standing game called ‘Off Ground He’ that I played with another of the workmen called Perry.Every time I saw Perry I would have to run and find some way to get off the ground.