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BURTON TWO-TIMING LIZ!
To the seaside town of Aberavon — not far from Port Talbot, South Wales, where Richard Burton’s sister Cecelia lives — did Burton take Elizabeth Taylor one day early last September. To the scene of his boyhood fun he led her — where one could still stroll along the wide boardwalk and smile down at the groups of happy-faced biddies who sat on gay-colored beach
chairs, in small, tight, semi-circular clusters on the sand, so as to protect their already ruddy complexions from the stinging breezes that swept in from the Bristol Channel, behind them; where for nine pence one could still buy a small but succulent beef-and-kidney pie, not to mention a cup of piping hot tea or a warmish and darkish glass of beer; where for another
few pence one could still ride the bang ’em cars, the creaky and timeworn caterpillar, and, of course, the wonderful, ancient carousel.
“Give it a go?” asked Burton of Liz at one point — indicating the carousel and smiling. Liz nodded, not smiling. “Get aboard, then,” said Burton. Silently, Liz climbed on.
Suddenly a tin organ began piping its merry
and empty little tune ; suddenly the carousel began to move. “Aren’t you coming, Richard ?” Liz called, a bit nervous.
“No,” he called back, laughing, “ — you take this one alone, sweet.”
And so she stood there now, clutching to a cold pole — roundabout, roundabout the carousel moving— catching small glimpses of him every twenty seconds or so —
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