Father Dear Father

by Petronella Wyatt

  ‘Roy, old boy, I don’t want to. Besides, I don’t know very much about that side of racing.’

  ‘Never mind. You’ll soon pick it up.’

  Roy was obdurate. He wore Father down. Reluctance was natural. The job was hardly a plum sinecure. The salary was barely reasonable and the task ahead was about as glamorous as a strangled corpse floating in the Thames. Father said he would do it for four years at the outside. In the end he stayed for twenty-one years.

  He became very partial to the racing world and its self-contained set of values, which were louche enough some of the time, and quite rigid the rest. The racecourse had an etiquette of its own. No umbrellas, they would frighten the horses – literally. No trousers for women, unless they were culottes. And of course there was the whole dress code for Ascot – at least if one wished to pass through the social Outer Hebrides of the grandstand into the Royal Enclosure.

  Under Father’s stewardship the Tote began to make, for the first time in its history, a substantial profit. It was partly to do with his ebullient mode of work; his notoriety reflected on the Tote and endowed it with a certain élan. An annual lunch was instigated in the gold and ivory dining room at the Hyde Park Hotel. Everyone remarked on the longevity of Father’s chairmanship of the Tote. He succeeded in outlasting four Prime Ministers and scores of Home Secretaries. The longer he stayed the crosser some people became. Why on earth was Woodrow Wyatt permitted to remain? Every year journalists predicted his retirement. It never happened. They stormed with impotent fury, but the Tote’s profits continued to rise and, for the first time, the company had achieved public recognition.

  These years encompassed two alterations in Father’s status. When he took over the Tote he was plain Mr Wyatt. When he left he was Baron Wyatt of Weeford, in the county of Staffordshire.

  The offer of a knighthood came when I was fourteen. I recall that Mother had roused me out of a half-slumber. There was an excited lilt in her voice. ‘Your father’s a bit tight,’ she said. At least that was what I thought I heard, which was quite possible, as our family frequently suffered from what a cousin of mine used to call the Irish disease.

  What she actually said, however, was, ‘Your father’s to be a knight.’ She repeated it.

  Father, a knight? This was head-swimming romance. It was a subduing experience therefore to hear that all it actually entailed was a small ceremony at Buckingham Palace, even though this was one that Mother and I might attend.

  When the day came, Father put on his morning suit and a top hat. We drove to Buckingham Palace; in the cool morning light it resembled a marbled barracks. Small crowds of people, mostly tourists, had gathered outside the gates and were pressing inquisitive faces through the bars. I cannot say that the inside of the Palace impressed itself upon me. Aside from the public rooms, it seemed remarkably drab. A smell of fish and cabbage wafted from corridors. The overwhelming sense was one of greyness and brownness. But then we passed into a room enlivened by gilt and galleries. Huge carpets sprawled there in somnolent splendour. Father bit his nails, an uncharacteristic indulgence. Suddenly a band struck up some musical tunes by Rodgers and Hammerstein.

  Father was not the only person being knighted that day. There was a small assembly-line of people who were to receive honours – they were still and quiet, as though waiting for the Queen to arrive before throwing themselves into exuberant freedom. Mother and I were seated on some gold chairs. Fifteen minutes later a flunkey announced Father’s name.

  Father strode forwards, his bow-tie even bigger than usual, almost covering his ears. Then he knelt down before the Queen. She looked tiny in the scale of the room; she was pretty, with a surprising feathery flimsiness. When they handed her a huge shining sword, I was amazed she could even lift it. Her voice was so small one could scarcely hear what she was saying.

  ‘I dub you Sir Woodrow Wyatt,’ I believe Her Majesty mumbled.

  Mother was now Lady Wyatt. Father was much amused by this, and took to using her title at home as if they were characters in Jane Austen. But although Father liked being a knight, he secretly longed to become a peer. This was not out of any desire for social advancement: he had advanced thus far as plain mister and had no interest in straight-up snobbery. But he wanted to sit once more in the Houses of Parliament and the only way he could do that was through a life peerage.

  He had to wait only four years. Early in 1987, father received a telephone call from Mrs Thatcher. ‘Woodrow,’ she asked, ‘would you like to become a peer?’

  Wouldn’t he just. But once the first feelings of euphoria had worn off, he told her he had no intention of taking the Tory whip. He would sit on the crossbenches as an independent.

  I always laughed at father’s attempts to illustrate in public his detachment from Margaret Thatcher. He praised her in the newspapers but refused to go to a Conservative party conference, saying, ‘If I do, someone might think I’m a Tory.’

  When I questioned this logic, he became angry and derisive: ‘I’m not a Tory, nor is Margaret. The Tories are shits. She just makes use of the Tory party. Winston Churchill did the same.’

  To become a peer in the full sense one had to be introduced formally to the House of Lords. For this father needed two supporters. This was not because he would be high – on other spirits besides his own – but because each new peer was required to be introduced by two fellow peers.

  Mother was very pleased, but I remember thinking she had a more raw deal from it all. Father became Lord Wyatt but she stayed Lady Wyatt. ‘The Lady Wyatt,’ Father corrected. The Lady Wyatt? As opposed to what?

  Still, she was able to attend the State Opening of Parliament and wear a tiara. As the Communists had confiscated the family jewels, Mother had to borrow one from a friend. It arrived by courier in a brown paper bag but was too big for her. No matter how Mother tried, she could not prevent it from slipping from her head, except by securing the ornament with a pipe cleaner.

  The morning brought showers – an enlivening spray dispelling the muggy cloud that had encompassed the city. Mother and Father drove to Parliament. When they alighted from the car they noticed that a group of people had gathered to review the spectacle. They admired Mother, dignified in her splendour; they looked at Father and must have been more disappointed by his robust and smiling figure. People expect a Lord to be reserved and haughty, just as they expect a comedian to be cheerful and animated.

  The scene inside was sobering. In the House of Lords, the massed ranks of the English peerage were assembled in all their finery. Mother, whose idea of bliss differed from Wordsworth’s more egalitarian one, found it very heaven. Father felt likewise, though for a different reason. His eyes were firmly fixed on his fellow life peers, and almost everywhere he looked, he saw a familiar face from his days in the House of Commons. There was Roy Jenkins, there Jim Callaghan, there Denis Healey.

  For Father his elevation to the Lords was like a coming home. During afternoons when the Tote made negligible demands upon him, he would set off for the Lords. Every peer had his own coathook in the cloakroom with his name printed above it. These were arranged alphabetically, so that Father’s was close to that of Harold Wilson. The temptation to tweak his old adversary’s nose was great. When Wilson next left his coat hanging on the hook, Father removed it, placing it on his own.

  Presently the former premier emerged from the chamber to collect his belongings. But what was this? His peg was empty. His coat had gone, vanished into thin air. Wheeling around, Wilson noticed on Father’s hook something suspiciously like his missing garment. But he had not spoken to Father in years and he was chary of breaking his silence over a coat – it seemed too insubstantial a cause to renege on one’s principles. So Wilson went out coatless into the cold night and continued to do so until the perpetrator replaced it a few days later.

  ‘The nice thing about the House of Lords,’ Father said some time afterwards, ‘is that one enters it in one’s second childhood, expecting to find a dull finishing sch
ool. Instead one stumbles upon the most delightful nursery.’

  25

  Father entertains Royalty

  FATHER LIKED TO whip you up into a frenzy of frustration before he told you what you wanted to know. In the summer of 1980 a hush had fallen on Cavendish Avenue. Mother and Father went about whispering to each other as if they were afraid to awake some djinn from its bottle; they quietly vibrated with a suppressed secret.

  Attempts to worm it out of Father were doomed to failure. It would, in any case, only have spoiled his fun. He only did it to annoy because he knew it teased. For him a great deal of pleasure was to be extracted by the simple expedient of rolling his eyes until the whites showed, putting a finger to his lips and saying mysteriously, ‘All in good time.’

  Time was rarely good with Father in this mood. It trundled along in a most laggardly fashion. On this occasion, though, it put on Mercury’s winged sandals. Within an hour, Father had confessed; he could no longer keep it, in his trembling excitement. He clasped my hand and asked,

  ‘Little Petronella. Can you guess who is coming to dinner next month?’

  ‘No.’

  Father paused. He spoke the following words like an invocation. ‘The last Empress of India.’

  Initially I was baffled. The Empress of India? India didn’t have an Empress. It had a prime minister who was called something like Mrs Bandy. Father was not impressed by my grasp of political history.

  ‘Don’t they teach you anything in that expensive school? The last Empress of India is Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother.’

  I gasped in surprise. The Queen Mother? Coming for dinner? It could barely be imagined. I knew Father had met her on the racecourse. I knew, too, that they had exchanged letters. But this deity placing her gold and ivory foot through our front door? Indeed I could not have been more incredulous if Father had said that Julius Caesar was dropping in for a cup of tea.

  Truth of course is not always what is believable. In fact I have found that this is very seldom the case. In a few days, preparations had already begun for the occasion. Mother had to submit a list of proposed guests to Clarence House, the Queen Mother’s residence, for approval. I supposed if she had written the names Hugh Hefner, publisher of Playboy magazine, and Reggie Kray, convict, the Queen Mother would have cancelled. But Clarence House sent back a reply to the effect that all the guests were perfectly satisfactory.

  After that, Mother was entirely preoccupied with the menu. Never before had she set her dainties before a Queen. It wasn’t as if one could say, oh sod it, and open a can of Heinz ravioli. For people who like this kind of thing, a cheese soufflé was chosen as the first course, followed by roast veal and summer vegetables arranged on huge trays almost the size of bath tubs. The pudding was soft white peaks of meringue adorned with berries. As for the wine, father rootled around in the cellar until he found a magnum of Grand Vin Château Lafite. He decided to serve Imperial Hungarian Tokaji with the pudding as a gesture to both his guest’s majesty and my mother’s forebears.

  How I wished I was old enough to participate in the regimented magic kingdom that our normally chaotic household had become. After tearful pleading on my part, Mother said I might watch the Queen Mother arrive, from the top of the stairs.

  At eight o’clock I was in my eyrie. The other guests had already arrived; the men grave and resplendent, I thought, in black tie, the women, gay and even more resplendent, in many-coloured evening dresses.

  It began with the gentle hum of a motor. A large black car drew up outside the front gate, held open by a nervously nodding waiter. The door of the car was flung open and out she stepped, the last Empress of India. The last Empress of India stepped out and I was amazed.

  What a piece of magic to set before a child. She wore a long chiffon dress that might have been fashioned out of icing, it was so slippery-shiny and light. Her eyes were like emeralds, but without their mineralised remoteness. Her complexion seemed to be made not of ivory and gold but ivory and rose petals. Her smile was like the benediction. And the jewels. She appeared to be wearing the treasures of King Solomon’s Mines. A ruby necklace nestled on her breast, each stone glowing with a divine fire. The piece was matched by an exquisitely crafted pair of earrings, the gift of some long-dead potentate. A diadem glittered in her hair. If Hera had come down from Olympus, the sight could not have been more glorious.

  I watched Father bow low like a willow, awed by the splendour of the sun, and lead her into the drawing room. How I longed to be among the others. In my fanciful mind I imagined that just by touching that lily-pale hand one acquired a sort of immortality, a talisman against evil.

  Mother said afterwards that she asked for a martini, a drink to which she was very partial. Father was no adept at the art of the cocktail, but he executed the task without mishap. The Queen Mother liked it so much she asked for another. She giggled and said,

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m naughty, Sir Woodrow.’ Father was entranced. He danced before her, hopeless, as she played her merry pipe.

  Afterwards Father was delighted by the way the evening had gone, for Queen Elizabeth asked if she might come again. He was not the only person so affected. Mother told me later that Luisa, our cook, was so overcome that not only did she swing perilously from a connecting door to take a look at Queen Elizabeth but she refused to wash any of the glasses out of which she had drunk. As the Queen Mother had drunk out of six, Mother became exasperated.

  ‘You can’t keep these glasses dirty for ever. We need them.’

  The cook looked at Mother as if she had uttered the most devilish of heresies. She placed a hand on her breast in an ancient and thrilling pledge.

  ‘I will never clean them,’ she said. ‘It would be like putting the Shroud of Turin in the washing machine.’

  Father was in high spirits during the next few days, and he even bought Mother a ring as a present. A few days later he received a handwritten thank you letter that ran to four pages. It was the longest thank you letter he had received from anyone. That it came from a Queen was even more remarkable. He showed it to me.

  ‘How on earth did she find the time to write all this?’

  ‘Because she is a lady,’ said Father, his eyes brimming.

  His love for Queen Elizabeth rivalled his passion for Mrs Thatcher. I think he loved the Queen more purely, just as Melbourne loved Queen Victoria. It was a crystalline devotion, the waters of which were never seweraged by argument or politics. They continued to exchange letters and sometimes Father sent her books. She derived particular enjoyment from E.F. Benson, and thrillers. But the highbrow also had its appeal. Father was asked if he might introduce her to the elderly philosopher Isaiah Berlin. He enquired if she knew the story about Isaiah Berlin and Churchill.

  Apparently, during the war Churchill was told that a Mr Berlin was coming for lunch and assumed it must be Irving Berlin, the American songwriter. When Isaiah arrived, his scholarly mien left his host a little mystified, as did his heavy European accent and his references to Hegel.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Churchill. ‘When are you going to play the piano for us?’

  Berlin was astonished.

  ‘The piano?’

  ‘Yes, I had a Steinway specially put into the drawing room for you to entertain everyone.’

  Berlin thought he must be joking but that he must humour the great man. ‘But really, I don’t play the piano.’

  ‘Don’t be shy, Mr Berlin. We are especially looking forward to your playing “This is the Army, Mr Jones”.’

  At last Berlin rose up and defied him. ‘Really. I am sorry to make a fuss. But I have never played the piano in my life. I am a philosopher.’

  ‘But aren’t you Irving Berlin?’

  ‘No, I’m Isaiah Berlin.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Churchill.

  Queen Elizabeth enjoyed jokes, particularly when they pertained to other people’s embarrassment. Yet I have never known anyone so graceful at putting people at
their ease. When I was twelve, Father finally consented to allow me to meet her. I was permitted to come in for drinks before dinner and then told to slip away uncomplainingly upstairs. All day Father had me practise my curtsies.

  ‘Down, up. No! Don’t stick your knees out. You look like a pantomime horse.’

  Apparently the mode of address was Your Majesty on being introduced and thereafter Ma’am. Ma’am, but that was what they called all the female protagonists in Westerns, including those who, for some mysterious reasons were Ma’am, but not ladies.

  At seven o’clock Mother put me into a black dress, the material of which seemed to have been geometrically rolled on and off again. Promptly at quarter past eight I was led trembling with fear into the drawing room. It was not that I wasn’t pleased with the way I looked; examining myself in the mirror had been a reassuring experience. I was still unsure of my curtsy. But it was too late for doubts. Suddenly I was in the room. I heard Father mumble something and then I saw her walk towards me. She looked even more magnificent than before, indeed close to her eyes were larger and more vital. She smiled and held out a plump hand. I had a wild impulse to bury my face in her bosom.

  ‘How do you do, Ma’am,’ I said.

  Then I remembered the curtsy. The carpet was thick. One of my heels caught in its threads. Fate propelled me on to my inevitable humiliation. I fell over. What is more, in the process I had capsized one of Mother’s pot plants. Earth was everywhere. I hoped the carpet would swallow me up. Then I heard her laugh. It at once commanded mirth in the mouths of others. My Father didn’t shout at me, he laughed too. I felt like a heroine. Someone helped me to my feet. I was flushed with excitement.

  Queen Elizabeth said, ‘Have a little drink. There’s nothing like it to get one over an awkward moment.’