Philip Townsend
(who took all the photogaphs in THE STORYTELLER on this website)
At 19, Philip Townsend was emulating society photographer Patrick Litchfield, the late Lord Litchfield, but then he decided to throw himself into the hurly-burly of Fleet Street journalism, because he had itchy feet and a yen to travel and seek adventure, and he realised that a good place to start would be the French Riviera which was then the leading holiday resort in Europe, visited by Churchill and Aristotle Onassis and all the stars at the Cannes film festival, and with Prince Rainier and Priness Grace, Somerset Maugham, Picasso, Jean Cocteau and Graham Sutherland permanently in residence, and a constant stream of occasional vistors throughout the year.
The guest list at the hotel Voile d'Or in Cap Ferrat read like the cast list for a major film: Elizabeth Taylor and Eddie Fisher, Curt Jurgens, David Niven, Alec Guinness, Eddie Constantine and Jack Hawkins all stayed there, some while their houses were being built or made habitable, others for the ambiance, for it was part-owned (with R.A.Butler the politician) by one of Britain's best film directors, Powell, of Powell and Pressburger, who had made The Red Shoes and Ill Met by Moonlight and other classics which later inspired many Hollywood directors.
Quote, from DON'T TELL MY MOTHER I'M A NEWSPAPERMAN, Chapter 12:
"Here's the fair Miss Frigidaire now," said my colleague, as a highly-polished limousine swept up and Princess Grace, the former American film star Grace Kelly stepped from the back. "Go on, Philip, take your 'snap'. She won't bite you. He pushed Townsend forward and he fumbled with the camera, shy and awkward, managing to get in one shot before she swept into the Summer Sporting Club.
"That's not how you take Press pictures," my colleague said. "Step in front of her, so that she either has to pose or walk around you. She'll pose. What do you think? Have you ever met an actress yet who doesn't want her 'fohter took' fer Chrissake. Be brave -- barge right in there."
"We had a tip off one night on the Express..." I said.
"Were you on the Daily Express?" asked Philip the photographer with a note of respect and admiration in his voice.
"Yes, and this photogapher called Reg Davis charged right into a theatre where the Prime Minister, Macmillan, was sitting in the third row with his whole family. The play had started. Do you think Reg gave a big rat's arse? No. He barged right into the row, making the first five in the audience stand up so that he could get his shot and banged off a flash right in Supermac's boat-race. Marvellous picture. Made the front page. Actors were miffed at being interrupted of course, but not when the bookings came in from all the Hooray Henrys who wanted to see the same play as the PM."
"I wouldn't have the nerve," said Philip.
"You would if you had a mortgage to pay, a wife and hungry kids at home, or a big picture editor ready to fire you if you came back empty handed," said my colleague.
"Can we have a drink together afterwards?" asked Philip.
"Photographers don't drink."
"I once knew one who had a brown ale," I said.
"Who paid for it? They're always saving money for a new car."
"And objecting to drunken reporters stubbing out their cigarettes on the walnut dashboards of their sports cars," I said, "And now they're agitating to become members of the Press Club."
"Insolence" said my colleague, trying to keep a straight face.
"Where are you staying?" I asked.
"Oh, we've got chambers in a flea-pit hotel above the railway station. My mother's there, too. She's playing the tables, and losing, as usual. Still, she's safer here than in London..." Philip said thoughtfully.
"Why is that?"
"She has this habit of going into Harrods and ordering stuff on her account."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Well ... she doesn't have an account," said Philip.
Time passed noticeably..,
The move to Vence took only one day as the entire possessions of the directors of Vista News amounted to two typewriters, three suitcases and a load of typing paper. We decided to take Philip on as an apprentice photographer, and my colleague's wife gave him a very comfortable cupboard to live in in the flat, which was, in fact, a small annexe of the dining room, so small that when his head touched one wall, his feet almost touched the other.
Vence was a beautiful, unspoilt village. D.H. Lawrence had lived there and visitors to his former residence were surprised to see his sewing kit, a sad sight amongst the relics that Lawrence had left behind in the house he had scrubbed and cleaned and where he had darned his own socks. Marc Chagall had also lived in Vence, and they were building the Gallerie Maeght to house Giacometti's sculpture.
The whole menage was scarcely installed when a crisis arose:
Philip knocked an elderly Frenchman off his bicycle in Nice while driving in the narrow back streets and he had been arrested and cautioned to return the next day to be charged with careless driving, and he might have to face the possibility of paying the hospital bills for the Frenchman whose leg had been broken in the fall.
We immediately alerted the British Consul who promised to keep a watching brief on the case, but it turned out to be a false alarm: when Philip returned to the Gendarmerie next day the sergeant behind the desk said in English:
"We 'ave bin polisihing our boots this morning, Mr. Townsend. There is no charge. You are free to go. The French police 'ave no desire to derange a member of the British royal family. He was bowed out of the premises and realised that the mistake had occurred because he had given them his mother's address: Mrs. Sylvia Townsend of Buckingham Palace Mansions, Victoria, London. This was a fading and ancient mansion block opposite the railway station.
"They must have thought you were related to Peter Townsend" I said to Philip later.
"No. They thought I was Peter Townsend," said Philip.