Dear Lumpy (16 page)

Love to all,

XX D

The Randalls (my parents’ faithful gardener and his lovely wife) certainly made the most of their increasing years and spent more and more time on coach trips.

24 October

Dearest L,

Thank you so much for your letter. Yes, our holiday was a fiasco due almost entirely to bad weather. The villa was very comfortable, had a marvellous view, a charming garden and a lovely pool but the rain teemed down continuously. The local tavernas were repulsive, and revolting food was served grudgingly by dark, hairy women who looked like Welsh rugby forwards. The Robins had bad colds, Nidnod ’flu and I weighed in with diarrhoea. Coming home we drove like demons in heavy rain to get to Faro airport in time only to see a notice posted saying that owing to crew shortage our flight was delayed by six hours! Luckily we had not handed in our rickety hired car, so went on a tour and after a lot of sticky drinks in peculiar bars found a seaside grill where a huge man dished out the best fried sole I have ever eaten. We arrived at loathsome Gatwick 9 hours late but luckily our hired car (Mr Robey of Highclere) was waiting for us (his bill for the 2 journeys was £100 and it was money well spent) and we reached home knackered to the tenth degree at 10 p.m.

We got off lightly in the storm. One wall down (£1,200 to repair), a big shrub uprooted and various tiles dislodged. Lambourn got away with it completely. We only lost electricity for 12 hours whereas the Parkinsons were without power for 5 days. The poor Robins had a terrible time in Jersey and had no electricity or water for over a week. The drive was blocked by fallen trees and they could only reach the road by driving over fields. They lost over 100 trees and their lovely woodland garden has literally ceased to exist. My friend Tom Egerton had an avenue of 120 chestnuts, every single one blown down. Lavinia Norfolk was found in tears surveying the damage at Arundel. St Peter’s, Eaton Square, where I went to the children’s services over 70 years ago, has been destroyed by fire, and Chester Square is in a fearful mess with fallen trees.

I first met Lester P when he was a boy of 15 staying for Brighton races at the Royal Crescent Hotel by himself. He was lonely and I used to drive him to the races, and if it was fine we sat on the beach or even bathed in the morning. Owing to his speech and hearing difficulties, conversation was not easy. He told me about his life at home and said that to keep his weight down he got very sparse meals. He complained of being undernourished and said that whenever he caught a cold he came out in running sores. The sad thing is he never got any fun for his money.

Nidnod is cubbing today. I hope that old horse does not die on her. It’s about your age! I’m sorry for your friends with kidney stones. I’ve had them and I’m told it’s as bad as having a baby. Sorry Rebecca is idle; I do sympathise with anyone who takes life easy at school. I was always unwilling to exert myself.

Best love,

D

My father had a soft spot for Lester Piggott and was visibly upset when he was convicted of and jailed for three years. In the end he served 366 days.

The Miller’s House

Sunday

Dearest L,

How are you all? The season of runny noses and racking coughs is just beginning! I was hoping for a quiet morning here but Otto has had diarrhoea and has been sick over my bed. Thanks very much! On Wednesday I dined out with Mrs Surtees at West Ilsley. I got home soon after ten, intending to enter the house by the electrically operated garage door. However, on pressing the appropriate button nothing happened. I had locked up carefully before I went out and there was no alternative way in. Realising I was for a night in the open unless I extracted my finger, I drove to Hungerford Police Station and explained my little predicament. The police were most helpful and two young constables returned home with me, guaranteeing to get me in somehow. They failed to force a window in the sitting room but eventually, by means of a jemmy, forced open the window of the downstairs loo. Luckily the burglar alarm was not working. Nor were the lights, and once I had remembered where the switch-box was (in the gent’s loo) it was found that the trip switch was nonoperational and thus the garage door was not working, nor anything else operated by electricity. I eventually crawled into bed, very weary, long after midnight. The next day I had a puncture in Kintbury but luckily found a man keen to change the wheel. Your mother is due back today and I think has enjoyed her visit to Jane. I couldn’t find much I wanted in the kitchen and have been living on stewed apples and grape-nuts. Desmond Parkinson had a birthday party on Friday and provided an excellent lunch. Otto came in for a bit and was not worse than fairly objectionable. I have bought two new pairs of spectacles in Hungerford but don’t see very much better. I saw Aunt Pam yesterday looking rather haggard. She had come to lunch here the previous Sunday and there was a deathly hush when Lady Carden said ‘I suppose you are Cynthia’s younger sister’! Nidnod was wearing a new chestnut wig that looked like a broody Rhode Island Red. Lupin was here, looking seedy and complaining about his leg. I do wish he had better luck with his health. Aunt Joan wrote to complain that her friends have developed a tiresome habit of dropping down very dead indeed.

Love to all,

X D

My father’s life still seems full of adventure. Having reached the age of seventy-eight he would rather have opted for an easier life.

The Miller’s House

19 November

Dearest L,

Thank you very much for your saucy card which I greatly enjoyed. Nidnod drove me to London and we gave Aunt Joan a birthday lunch at the Turf Club where the chef must have been having an ‘off’ day. The trifle was like a mauve cowpat. Aunt Joan is pretty good for 80 and has never needed a pair of spectacles. I look forward to seeing you on Nov 27. I have ordered an uncomplicated lunch in the hope that the chef cannot make a cock of it. I had a Christmas card today from Basil Madjoucoff, as usually a very holy one. I am tempted to send him a cutting from Playboy. I am in for a merry afternoon, having some false teeth fitted (at hideous expense). I expect after a fortnight I’ll give them to the Boy Scouts Jumble Sale (White Elephant Stall).

Best love,

D

Basil Madjoucoff was my father’s interpreter during his time in Palestine before the Second World War. He never failed to send my father a Christmas card, including all his news, every year for some sixty years.

The Miller’s House

20 March

Dearest Lumpy,

I enjoyed seeing you last Sunday. Come again soon. I’m sorry you are having rather a worrying time due to the recession and the general financial situation. I’ve been through the mill myself. I worked for the ‘Sunday Times’ for 28 years and during that period it changed hands twice, each time for the worse as regards individuals such as myself. I never knew if I was going to be taken on by the new lot. I have worked for ‘Raceform’ since 1946 and more than once they have tottered on the brink of insolvency. I shall never get a golden handshake when the time comes for parting as apart from them being hard up, they are very mean indeed! I once got a job on the ‘Sunday Times’ for a man who was a bit pushed for Lsd; once he was settled in, he tried desperately to secure my job. Thanks awfully! His son got 12 months inside for stealing books from his College Library at Cambridge. If things get a bit sticky at your end, don’t hesitate to call on your parents for help. We can probably dig into our jeans for a few quid even if it means flogging a couple of pictures or some Scott silver. Items like school fees are so desperately expensive nowadays. I think when I went to Eton it was something like £80 per term and a suit of grey flannels was £5. I enjoyed my lunch in London on Monday. I don’t often sit down with a Bishop. I remember the Bishop of Lincoln as a young officer with the MC. He was in the running for Canterbury. Also there was the Regius Professor of Modern History at Oxford. He had a good war record. The Duke of Devonshire said he remembered the bad language I had used to him when he was a cadet in the Eton OTC. I sat next to Lord Sinclair, a truly delightful person I had last seen in hospital in Edinburgh in 1945. Brig Robin was there and we both regretted we were too old to go and see an improper film afterwards.

Love,

D

Nidnod had a blow-out at the Berkeley with her old boy friend Rodney Carrott.

Despite my father moaning about a lack of treacle, if there was a specific problem he would always dip his hand into his pocket and magic up some lolly.

The Miller’s House

23 March

Dearest L,

Thank you for your letter. I’m delighted to hear the children are flourishing. Your mother is hunting with the Vine and Craven today but it is very wet and there is talk of cancelling the meet. Brig. Lemprière-Robin is staying here but has a fearful cold. I’m glad I didn’t go to Cheltenham; I believe it was hell, especially on the Thursday. The poor old Queen Mother was forcibly embraced by an inebriated butcher from Roscommon. Democratic days! My few remaining teeth are all falling out and I can hardly bite into a blancmange. We had a very good lunch on Sunday with Miss Pope and Nidnod made sheep’s eyes at an old major from the 17th/21st Lancers. We looked at the hospital Nidnod is going to. It appears clean from the outside which is something. It is not a very pleasant operation but she is facing up to it with her usual pluck. I went to a big lunch at the Hyde Park Hotel and sat next to a very agreeable MP (Labour) who is member for a Newcastle constituency. He is nuts on golf and thinks Willy Whitelaw is marvellous. Cousin John is very lame with a poisoned bunion.

Best love to you all,

D

Just over a year after my father’s death, the family gathered for ‘The Roger Mortimer Memorial National Hunt Novices Race’ at Sandown; one of his favourite racecourses. My mother and Lupin were invited to join the Queen Mother for lunch in her private box. Towards the end of lunch, the Queen Mother and the other guests’ attention was drawn towards the balcony where my mother was jumping up and down, shrieking in support for jockey Gardie Grissell (a family friend) who was neck and neck on his way to winning the Memorial race. Unfortunately my mother’s wig flew off her head. Unabashed she picked it up, placed in back on her head and carried on as though nothing had happened. Rather generously the Queen Mother and Lupin agreed between them that as this was my father’s race, my mother should be allowed her moment. I am told the other guests in the box looked on in horror.

The Miller’s House

28 September

Dearest L,

How are things going with you? I’m pleased to hear that Henry has had a bit of luck. One needs that in life more than anything. It has not been exactly hilarious here: Nidnod has got fearful depression which does not make her exactly easy. I dare say I’m both exacting and annoying, a really irritating type of old man. I haven’t been all that well and at times my favourite reading has been catalogues from cremation companies, including ‘Special Offer’ services. I don’t fancy a recorded service with prayers by the Rev. B. R. Morgan-Jones. The moment the coffin starts sliding out of view can be trying for anyone at all fond of the corpse. At that moment in the cremation of an unpopular bookmaker one of his Clerks was heard to whisper to another Clerk, ‘For Gawds sake don’t press Button B, we might get the Guv’nor back.’ A bookmaker’s family was returning home from the old man’s funeral. En route his son said to the sorrowing widow, ‘Mummy, Daddy did die of diarrhoea, didn’t he?’ ‘No dear,’ the widow replied, ‘not diarrhoea, gonorrhoea. Daddy was a sportsman, not a shit.’ I don’t think that’s a very nice story and I ought not to have related it to a pure and innocent girl like you. Piers and Nicholas are staying here for two nights and I hope they’ll cheer Nidnod up. Lupin seems quite happy and his work with that Pimlico antique firm keeps him busy. Uncle Ken was knocked over by a woman backing her car yesterday. Shaken, but not seriously hurt! John Surtees paid an unexpected call here. He is now 72, has shed two wives, but looks young and healthy. I fear he has lost quite a wad of money in the Lloyds affair and has had to give up his London flat. Luckily an ex-girl friend has invited him to use hers when he needs to. Offer accepted! I have known John for 51 years, including 5 years in prison. We saw a lot of each other after the war before I took Nidnod to the altar and we had some very good times which I have no intention of letting you know about. Anna was my first god-daughter; I’m afraid her husband is seriously ill. The Parkinsons are in Paris for a week. I first went to Paris in 1928 when I was just 18. The exchange was very much in our favour and I had a marvellous time on very little money. Here again my lips must remain sealed! The Burnaby-Atkins have just left on a 3 weeks safari in Kenya. I have had no adventures in the Far or Middle East but I went fishing off Suez in 1937 with a very nice Italian who made lavatory seats. I came under fire for the first time in my life in Jerusalem in 1938 when a cross-eyed Arab had a pot at me when I was inspecting a Jewish school. With slightly better eye-sight I think he would have got me. It was in Palestine I had to see an Arab hanged before breakfast. He had committed a rather nasty murder but I felt sick. I liked Palestine; I had Christmas in Bethlehem, Easter in Jerusalem, but the one place I liked was the Garden of Gethsemane maintained by German monks.

I was on parade in Hyde Park in 1936 when some tipsy Irishman tried to shoot the King but missed with ease. It was about that time that I was on Bank of England Guard and before I left at 6.30 a.m. I filled in a form saying nothing unusual had happened during my tour of duty. Unfortunately there had been a rather bad burglary but no one had bothered to wake me up. I got into a little mild trouble. I took part in two Aldershot Tattoos; the first one I was a Roman soldier taking on Queen Boadicea; the second time it was a drill display with no words of command given. At one of those performances a charger trod on his groom’s foot and the groom’s comment ‘Get off my fucking foot’ re-echoed around the arena as unfortunately the groom was standing just by the microphone.