Ever found yourself bored to death at dinner? Nick Peto has learnt from bitter experience how not to be dull
At a dinner party in Ireland recently, I became concerned for the very attractive woman directly opposite me.
She was next to an old man who was going on and on about himself and his life. He had, he bragged, been a brilliant sportsman; tremendous across country on a horse; one of the finest shots; could put a fly on a sixpence at 50 yards with his 16-foot split cane rod and so on. In fact, he enthused, he had simply excelled at everything he turned his hand to.
As dinner was drawing to a close, he said to the woman, ‘Well, I must drag my Cynthia over there home now. She’s off hunting at dawn. I won’t be, of course; I’ll be in the land of nod until the old girl is almost back.’
As he stood up, the pretty Irish lass put her hand on the man’s forearm and said, ‘Before you leave, sir, I just wondered if there is anything you’d like to know about me.’
‘Good heavens, have I been talking about myself? Naturally, I’d like to know about you. Um, um, er – tell me about your husband.’
It is so important for us older fellows (I am 85) not to become ‘I’ specialists – I, I, I. We are not the centre of the universe.
My mother told me, as many mothers have, that however dull the person next to you appears, it is up to you to find out what makes them tick. Everyone, whatever their appearance, has a tale to tell.
The most enjoyable placements I’ve ever had were the times I drew Lady (Kisty) Hesketh (1929-2006).
No one could sit next to her without coming away feeling better for the experience.
Intelligent, charming and witty, Kisty was always a giver, not a taker, and, despite many personal sadnesses, she radiated happiness.
At dinner at Easton Neston, the Heskeths’ beautiful Hawksmoor house in Northamptonshire, I once asked her to describe the most difficult person she had ever had to sit next to, and how she had coped.
Kisty thought for a while and then said, ‘Years ago, I was President of the WI in Northamptonshire. We were about to have our bi-annual lunch and I spotted an aggressive-looking, mustachioed lady sitting on her own in a corner. I bet I draw her.’
And she did.
After a few pleasantries, Kisty said to the lady, ‘I wonder what has been the most extraordinary day so far in your long life.’
The woman looked astonished and, after a pause, said, ‘Well, I have never told anyone this, but I am going to tell you, Lady Hesketh. ‘Back in May 1943, I was 23 years old and a reasonable-looking girl – although that might take some imagination now, I know.
‘I was engaged to a lovely young man who was a rear gunner in a Wellington bomber, and we were to be married that summer. I drove over to pick him up at his base after his squadron had returned from a bombing run over Germany. His plane slowly came to a standstill and the other four crew members climbed down onto the runway – but not my Terry.
‘I said to the pilot, “Where is my boy?” He told me that Terry must have fallen asleep, as they had not encountered any enemy fire during their sortie. He climbed back into the plane, and there he found Terry draped dead over his gun. He had caught a piece of flak in his forehead.’ The old lady told Kisty that she had persuaded the skipper to let her go up with them that evening, on their next trip over Germany. She had donned Terry’s flying kit and, when they were approximately over the spot where he might have ‘caught it’, the skipper shouted, ‘Now’ – and she was the one who pulled the cord to release their stick of bombs.
Only Kisty could have got this extraordinary story out of her lunch neighbour – no one else. That was her gift – and it is something to which we should all aspire. The other day, at a dinner near my home in the Cotswolds, I was seated next to a vivacious, wide-eyed woman of about 25. I was in the middle of what I considered to be one of my very finest stories, when I lost my way.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to her. ‘I’ve forgotten the thread – where was I?’
She replied, ‘Well, if you don’t know, I certainly don’t, ’cos I wasn’t listening.’
Will I ever learn?
