The Arrival Of The Kennedys In London, 1938
‘Coming out’ had a different meaning in 1938 from what it has today. The last London season before the Second World War followed much the same pattern as it had done before the First.
For a small section of people there were three frantic months of entertainments. For eighteen-year-old girls and their young men-friends there was a coming-out dance (and sometimes two) four nights a week, and often one in the country on a Friday night (not on Saturdays, because it was not seemly to dance into Sunday morning) from early May till the end of July. The bands, led by Ambrose, Carroll Gibbons and, best of all, Harry Roy, played all night every night for our pleasure.
We took this strange state of affairs for granted; it was part of life, to be enjoyed or endured according to temperament. There were country weekend parties in the houses of debutantes’ parents, race meetings – from Ascot and Goodwood to the local point-to-point – topped up in August by Highland gatherings, which included the jolliest and rowdiest of reel parties.
1938 was a vintage year for beautiful girls. Hollywood would have nabbed any of June Capel, Clarissa Churchill, Pat Douglas, Veronica Fraser, Jane Kenyon-Slaney, Sylvia Muir, Sissie Lloyd Thomas, Elizabeth Scott or Gina Wernher.
Our lives were ruled by invitations, lists of girls and young men, trying to keep up with clean, white-kid gloves, including elbow-length ones for the evening that gave such style to the wearer, and shoes that suffered from being danced in all night. I longed for another evening dress. Mine were home-made by our retired housekeeper (£1 a time) but some of the girls had enviable clothes from Victor Stiebel and mothers who were dressed by Molyneux or Norman Hartnell. Hats came from Madame Rita in Berkeley Square. We wore silk stockings in London and lisle in the country and all the extras that seemed so essential then.
It was at the beginning of the 1938 season that the new US ambassador to the Court of St James arrived with much friendly publicity. Joseph P. Kennedy, his wife and nine children were warmly welcomed to London. Such a crowd of good-looking boys and girls had never been seen before among diplomats and they made an impact that was never forgotten.
The fourth of the nine was eighteen-year-old Kathleen, called Kick. Her initiation into the English season was to spend a weekend at Cliveden where the American Nancy Astor was the most famous hostess in this country. The Astors had four sons. The two youngest, Michael and Jakie, inherited their mother’s brilliant talent to amuse and were the best company for any girl lucky enough to be invited to that Thames-side palace. Kick was understandably nervous when she arrived among the typical Cliveden mixture of young and old, politicians and religious leaders from all over the world, with the Astor boys poking fun at pompous guests as only they knew how. She emerged with flying colours, having charmed the lot of them.
Kick fell happily into this frenzied social activity and became the centre of attention. She was not strictly beautiful but differed from English girls in her infectious high spirits, lack of shyness, ability to play games, as well as talk politics with the older generation. Above all, her shining niceness came through. Because of her charm and lack of cattiness, none of us natives resented her, in spite of her success with the young men who were fascinated by the American phenomenon. She had the advantage of having two older brothers, Joe junior and Jack, who could take her around with her mother’s consent.
The Kennedys lived in Princes Gate, round the corner from my father’s house in Rutland Gate. There was much coming and going between the houses in company with Billy Hartington, Dawyck Haig, Andrew Cavendish, Hugh Fraser, David Ormsby Gore, William Douglas Home, Charlie Lansdowne and his brother Ned Fitzmaurice, the Astor boys, Charles Granby, Mark Howard, Robert and Dicky Cecil and various Woods and Stanleys – all undergraduates at Oxford or Cambridge.
Joe Kennedy junior was handsome and dashing but he preferred more sophisticated women to us eighteen-year-olds. Jack, who was just twenty-one, already had something about him that separated him from the crowd. He was very thin, the legacy of serious illnesses, but he put everything into the moment, which in 1938 was to enjoy himself. My mother, watching him at a dance and impressed by what she saw, said to Andrew, who never forgot it, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if that young man became president of the United States.’
A year later came the war. The frivolities of living for pleasure ended with a bang, and we all went our separate ways. Kick and her family returned to the States, but she had made lifelong friends in London and was soon back wearing American Red Cross uniform. Billy Hartington had been one of her crowd of suitors for some time. He eventually won the prize against all comers and, after what seemed endless negotiations over her Catholic and his avowed Protestant faith, a compromise was reached about any children they might have. They were married in London on 6 May 1944.
The double tragedy that was to follow is well known. The Hartingtons spent only five weeks together before Billy’s battalion was ordered to France. On 10 September he was killed by a sniper’s bullet. After four years of widowhood, the twenty-eight-year-old Kick fell in love with Peter Fitzwilliam, another of those irresistibly attractive men who loved her. They were planning to marry and were on their way to the South of France in a small chartered plane when it crashed in a storm over the Alps and all on board were killed. So a life of such promise was extinguished. Kick is buried in the churchyard at Edensor, by Chatsworth Park. On her headstone is engraved, ‘Joy she gave. Joy she has found.’
To all of us who had known and loved her it was impossible to believe that she was dead, just as it was impossible fifteen years later to believe that Jack had been assassinated. The sheer vitality of brother and sister made us think them immortal. Alas, they were not.
May 2006
President Kennedy’s Inauguration, 1961
After the marriage of Andrew’s brother, Billy, to Kathleen (Kick) Kennedy, and their tragic deaths, Andrew, his two sisters and I were treated as part of the family by the Kennedys. This was the reason for our invitation to the inauguration of John Fitzgerald Kennedy as president of the United States of America in January 1961. Andrew was intrigued by the invitation and also realised what an honour it was to be asked. I did not want to go. There were engagements I was looking forward to at home, including the last shoot of the season. But it was so good of them to think of us that we accepted and set off for this unique celebration. The British ambassador, Sir Harold Caccia, and his wife put us up. These are the notes I made at the time.
The jumble of impressions of the last three days is so thick with oddness and general amazement it’s very difficult to put them in any sort of order. The utter sweetness of our ambassador, Andrew hopping about being humble and saying that his job as parliamentary under-secretary makes him a very junior minister, the deliciousness of the brekker, the warmth of the embassy, the dread coolth of outdoors, the friendliness of the Kennedys and the extraordinary informality of the most solemn moments. My word, it is an odd country.
Thursday 19 January
The first day was mercifully quiet after the journey, which was very long (we came down at Shannon for some strange reason also the plane from New York was late so we arrived at the embassy at what was 4.30 a.m. for us, having left London at 2 p.m. the day before – fourteen and a half hours).
They raked in some embassy people for lunch, so that was easy. Then it started to snow and it snowed and snowed, and although Snow Plans A, B, C and D were put into operation, the capital city of the USA pretty well seized up, as they are not prepared for such an eventuality. Cars were abandoned in the middle of streets; engines chuck it very easily it seems and snow gets packed under the mudguards so that the wheels won’t go round.
We were given tickets for the gala performance which was to raise money for the Democrats, who are $4 million in debt after the election (seats $1,000). So we buggered off to the place called the Armory, which is about twice the size of Olympia and the same idea. The embassy gave us a car while we were the
re, a very old-fashioned English thing called an Austin Princess. It took two and a half hours to get to the blooming Armory. It should have taken twenty minutes but the traffic was solid and so many cars broke down in the queue to get there. Our heater broke and I had only a fur cape, my word it was bitter. Andrew panicked all the way as the tickets said we had to be there at 8.30 and the President Elect was due at 9.00. At about 10.00 he said we’d better give it up and go home but luckily we couldn’t as we were hemmed in on all sides by dread cars. The cold was extreme, about twenty degrees of frost, snowing hard and a bitter wind.
We finally loomed and by a miracle arrived at a very good time, viz. about ten minutes before the Kennedys. We needn’t have worried as people were coming and going all the time, which we weren’t to know. I thought it would be like a royal do in England but it was far from it.
We had marvellous seats, next to the Kennedys’ box and between two very grand senators and their wives, who looked slightly down their noses at two complete strangers having such good places, till various Kennedys came and were fearfully nice, especially Bobby (who turns out to be attorney general with a staff of 35,000) who hugged us. Old Joe Kennedy, that well-known hater of England and the English, was very welcoming, and to crown all Jack came and said hello, to the astonishment of our senatorial neighbours.
The performance included all my favourites: Frank Sinatra, Jimmy Durante, Nat King Cole, Ethel Merman, Tony Curtis, Ella Fitzgerald, to mention a few, also Laurence Olivier and the chief American opera singer called Helen Traubel, who sang in a huge voice some ridiculous verses about the Kennedys’ baby. It was WONDERFUL, especially at the finale when they had all done their turns and they ended up doing skits on popular songs with topical words. So unrehearsed were they that they had to read their lines and somehow it was so funny, just like Women’s Institute theatricals at home, but when one looked again, there were all those famous faces. I adored all that.
We got home at 3 a.m. The heat in the house was fantastic. I opened all windows and slept with one blanket but it was still BOILING.
Friday 20 January
Next day was the actual inauguration. Left the embassy about 10 a.m. in order to be in our places at 11. Long queues of cars as we neared the Capitol. Anyone of note – ambassadors, senators, governors of States – had their name or country on the side of the car. We were next to some ratty-looking souls from Bulgaria in one traffic block, it made one think.
Eventually arrived at the Capitol. Horrid getting out as it was so cold with a cruel wind. The ambassadress had given me some long nylon stockings and knickers combined, also some rubber boots to put over my shoes. It was fearfully cold with these things – without them, heaven knows, I think I would have frozen to death. They gave Andrew a flask of whiskey but he still shivered throughout and put his scarf round his head (like the Queen). We were told to wear top hats and smart things – both absolutely unnecessary as people were dressed for the Arctic. Some women had come in ridiculous flowered hats, which they soon covered up with scarves, rugs and anything to hand.
It was difficult to find our seats, no one knew where anything was, not even the few policemen who were about. When we eventually found our places they were very good for seeing – we were on street level, immediately in front of the Capitol where the ceremony was to take place, on a large balcony, high up but all plainly visible. Our seats were wooden strips, no backs, no floor and snow everywhere. No numbers or reserved places, one just sat where one liked on forms like at a school treat. Next to us were two Pakistanis with cameras. Just in front of me was old Mrs Roosevelt who had arrived an hour before we did and must have been terribly cold. The organisation seemed so vague I was afraid it would all be very late and we would be pillars of ice but in fact it started only a quarter of an hour after the appointed time.
The balcony of the Capitol was full of senators and congressmen sitting either side of the roofed pavilion from where Jack was to speak. The Capitol is faced with gleaming white marble and looked fine against the blue sky and snow, though the dome is painted just off-white, which slightly spoils the brilliant effect. Various members of the Kennedy family arrived. The girls – Eunice, Pat and Jean – were without hats, which seemed surprising for such a formal event. One could pick out the Eisenhowers, Trumans – Margaret and hubby – old Joe and Mrs Kennedy, but they were about the only people I knew by sight. Nixon and Mrs soon joined them.
Tension was mounting for Jack’s arrival but it was badly arranged from a dramatic point of view – so different from things in England. No proper path was made for him through the crowd – people started shouting and suddenly there he was. Jackie looked very smart indeed in plain clothes of pale beige; the only woman who looked dressed at all.
There was a long pause after his arrival. People were cold and were stamping their feet. The star was there but nothing was happening. Eventually, the master of ceremonies announced some tune by the band and a famous gospel singer, Mahalia Jackson, whom I’d never heard of, sang ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’. Then the swearing-in and four prayers – Roman Catholic cardinal, Jewish rabbi, Greek Orthodox priest and a Protestant – all much too long and not at all moving or impressive. Nobody paid the slightest attention and even the senators took photographs throughout, moving about to get in better positions. Some people in our row didn’t stand up for the prayers. My Pakistani neighbour, at the third one, gave me a wink and said, ‘Let’s sit this one out’, which I was going to do anyway as the rug fell in the snow every time we stood up.
Jack’s speech was wonderful, the words were so good, almost biblical. Everyone was thankful to get up and move when it was over as we could only think of getting out of the cold and wind. We were told there was a bus reserved for the Kennedy family which we were to get on, but it seemed impossible to find. No one knew anything and there was no official-looking person to ask. After pushing and shoving and, in desperation, even stopping to ask a police car, we found it at last and the relief of getting into an overheated bus was wonderful.
In the bus we found Eunice and her husband (whose Christian name is Sargent, if you please, fearfully nice though). We were driven to a hotel for lunch with the family and close friends. Lots of grandchildren milling about, lots of delicious buffet food. Jack and Jackie, and Bobby and Ethel had lunch in the Capitol with the Cabinet, so weren’t there. Back into the bus (which had a label on it ‘Kennedy Family’ like ‘Chatsworth Tours’) and through the guarded gates into the garden of the White House, whereupon all the people in the bus gave a loud cheer, led by Eunice, and shouted ‘Here we are’.
As I got into the hall of the White House, a Marine stepped forward, gave me his arm and armed me all the way through the house to the president’s stand, from where we watched the parade. Andrew and I had seats several rows back. (All the seats were marked with people’s names. The Marine asked me mine, I said, ‘Devonshire’, so he said, ‘Mrs Devonshyer, you are heeere.’) Next to us were Mr and Mrs Charles Wrightsman, who never turned up because they thought it too cold. The box had a roof and was enclosed at the sides with perspex but it was still extremely draughty and bitterly cold, even though there were army rugs on each seat.
The stands were gimcrack and the decorations practically nil, just a few small flags. Queer for such a rich country. The diplomats were next to us, sitting on raised forms, completely in the open. The Eastern ones looked so cold I felt terribly sorry for them as there was no escape and they couldn’t leave till the parade was over.
The parade itself was an extraordinary mixture of army, navy and air force with girls’ bands, majorettes in fantastic uniforms with long legs in pink tights, crinolined ladies on silver-paper floats, horses from the horsy states all looking a bit moth-eaten, army tanks, dread missiles (rhymes with ‘epistles’) on carriers, bands everywhere. One man marching by in an air-force contingent broke ranks, whipped out a camera, took a photograph of the president and joined in again. Imagine a Coldstream guardsman doing the same at Troo
ping the Colour.
The television cameras and a host of other photographers were immediately opposite the president’s stand. The cameras were on him the whole afternoon. The informality was so queer – the president drinking coffee and eating a biscuit as the parade marched by. But he stood there for over three hours.
After about an hour and a half a message came, Would I go and sit beside him. It was the oddest feeling I’ve ever had, finding myself a sort of consort, standing by this man, talking to him during lapses in the parade. The telly people were stumped by the advent of a strange English lady; they knew the politicians and the film stars but not ordinary foreigners. We told Sir Harold Caccia when we got back and he said no English woman had ever done that before, so I did feel pleased.
Jack Kennedy has got an aura all right and he was obviously enjoying it all so much. After about three-quarters of an hour he said would we like to go with his father to the White House for tea, which I took to mean I’d been there long enough. The White House is very good inside, big rooms covered in silk, one dark red, one dark green, a huge creamish-coloured ballroom and a rather awful round room covered in a horrid blue Adamdesign silk, which everyone seemed to like best. The diner is green, I’m sorry to say, painted solid gloomy green, pillars and all. Pictures of presidents all over the shop, all ghoulish.
We didn’t see the president again as he was still at the parade when we left after tea. Got back to the embassy about 6.15 to be told dinner at 7.15, so I rushed to dress for the ball. Luckily I didn’t take a tiara, which various people said I ought to have done, as no one wore one and I would have looked like a daft opera singer dressed up for Wagner. Mercifully only the Caccias for dinner. Afterwards we were taken by them to a party given by some cinema people. Lots of ambassadors and grandees there, a sort of after-dinner cocktail party. They don’t mind the press like we do, and no wonder as they write in a very different way from ours, perfectly friendly and no sting in it.
All in One Basket Page 20
