This Much Is True

He used to ask me, ‘How much are you earning now?’ Usually, in the early days, the response would be, ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Later, as I got wealthy, he’d respond with pleasant surprise: ‘Oh! Really?’

I’ve always tried to keep a balanced attitude, erring on the side of generosity where possible, because I think meanness is horrible. Like my mother, I’ve been canny with my investments. It was never expensive clothes and cars with me — it was always houses. I didn’t have any children (a lifetime’s investment in themselves); that meant I could afford to buy property. Twice I’ve bought houses with other people. I advise young people to pool their resources with those they trust, and buy at auction, having had a surveyor’s report. And have an agreement drawn up, with three important headings: Usage, Maintenance and Disposal. This will lower the chances of a breakdown in communication.

One of the main things that Heather and I have done together is buy houses and restore them. You can’t do things like that when you have children. You either have to have houses or children. Unless you’re exceedingly wealthy. People have always said, ‘Oh, you must be sensationally rich to have all those houses!’ Actually, no: I’ve never made exorbitant amounts of money, but I have always bought cheaply — and wisely.

The first house was a 300-year-old farmhouse with eighteen olive trees in Tuscany, which we bought in 1973 for 12,500 Italian lira. For our second holiday together (our first was on the Isle of Skye; I was desperate to get into Heather’s bunk on the overnight sleeper but it proved impossible: they’re not generous, width-wise), Heather and I went to Rome. My mother’s favourite au pair, Francesca, had become an air hostess and she invited Heather and me to stay in her apartment while she was away flying for a couple of weeks. It was in a lively part of the city and we had the place to ourselves. Rome was gorgeous; we walked everywhere, never tiring of the buildings, the statues, the noise, the life of the city. The Vatican offended me; I stood there, thinking how wrong it was that so much money should be spent on all that gilt and lavish decoration, while there were so many poor Catholics in the world. I rejected the Holy City but I loved everything else about Italy and the Italians.

I came into a bit of money when Mummy died. I said to Heather and our friend Peter Lavery: ‘Let’s go and buy a house.’ She thought it was insane but fun, and while Peter couldn’t join our Tuscan house-hunting trip, he was in — sight unseen. I’d researched Tuscan places for sale and we took the night train to Italy. We stayed in a cheap hotel in Siena and took buses to the surrounding villages. Once established in the village cafe, we asked people if they knew of a good property. We had several exciting rides in the back of Fiat 500s, and eventually found the farmhouse of our dreams. We met an American architect, William Broadhead. I gave him power of attorney, so he could complete the contratto. He was in charge of all restoration and La Casella, Montisi, has been the joy of our lives ever since. William died two years ago; he was one of the most honourable men I’ve ever known, and his perfect taste and honesty made such a difference to our lives.

Then, I was on a roll… I was happily living in my rented flat in Gloucester Terrace when, one day, Peter told me that he’d seen a nice house just around the corner from where he was living in Clapham, and suggested that I should have a look at it. I said, ‘Well, I’m not living south of the river!’ (I have a silly habit of making knee-jerk and somewhat dogmatic statements which are rapidly proved wrong. For example, ‘I am not going to have a German car’; the first car I had was a Volkswagen Beetle.) I went to see this house in Clapham and I loved it immediately and I bought it. You see, I can change my mind.

It’s a Victorian semi-detached house, built in 1856, with a big bay window and steps up to the front door. In those days it wasn’t smart at all; it was rather run-down, but I loved its big, spacious rooms and garden. I had asked Jan Taylor’s husband (I’d done a puppet show with her) to come along and view the house with me. He was in property, and he said, ‘It’s a good house, Miriam.’ The asking price was £21,500 (for a four-storey house), which he said was not bad. I decided to buy it. I went to the estate agent in Streatham and put in an offer. The agent said, ‘I ought to tell you, that a chap is coming to see it with his surveyor this afternoon, and he’s told me that if the surveyor’s report is OK, he’s going to pay the full asking price.’