Wait for Me!

by Deborah Devonshire

  On an official visit to Europe in June 1963, Jack was to have talks with Uncle Harold at Birch Grove in Sussex, and came to visit Kick’s grave on his way. Kick was generally agreed to have been his favourite sister and the two had been very close. Edensor was full of Secret Service men during the days before the President’s arrival and one of them asked me what sort of people lived in the village. At that moment, Francis Thompson emerged from his house on two sticks, looking as old as the hills. ‘That’s the sort of person,’ I was able to say. The visit was kept secret and our local police on duty had no idea why they had been summoned to this backwater.

  Air Force One took Jack to Waddington RAF base in Lincolnshire and a helicopter brought him on to Chatsworth, landing as near as possible to the churchyard. Andrew and I were there to meet him. He came down the steps, obviously suffering from the back pain that plagued him but was never mentioned. A temporary wooden bridge had been built over the ha-ha that divides the park from the churchyard; we went across it together and then left him on his own by Kick’s grave.

  When Jack joined us at the car, he said he would come to Chatsworth, which he had never seen. This was against the wishes of the Secret Service who said they could not ensure his security because it was open to the public. On the short drive to the house, Jack described the helicopter that had brought him. ‘It’s even got a bathroom,’ he said proudly. ‘A bathroom? What on earth for?’ I said. ‘You couldn’t possibly need a bath on that short trip.’ What he meant was that it had a lavatory. When we arrived at the house, we joined the public who were making their way up the stairs. They looked at Jack, looked back at each other and looked at him again in a classic double-take, astonished to see the President of the United States sharing their staircase.

  Jim and Alvilde Lees-Milne were staying with us, as was Yehudi Menuhin (the latter surprised me by practising scales for four hours at a time, which I could hear coming from his bedroom. I thought he knew all that and would not have to bother). There was time for a quick cup of tea then back to the helicopter and its bathroom. Jack was late for his appointment with the Prime Minister and a headline in the newspapers read, ‘MAC MADE TO WAIT’. The next day I was talking to an Edensor resident. ‘Wasn’t it exciting to see the President?’ I said. ‘I didn’t think so,’ came the reply, ‘that helicopter blew my hens away and I haven’t seen them since.’

  Andrew and I were in London on 22 November 1963. I heard the news of Jack’s assassination on the wireless and, like the rest of the world, could not believe it. Andrew had to make an after-dinner speech that night; he kept the engagement but wrote in his memoirs, ‘Whatever I was saying was of no consequence since all our minds were elsewhere.’ We went to the funeral, which was arranged in three days and was, not surprisingly, rather chaotic. We were offered a lift to Washington in the plane chartered for Prince Philip, who was representing the Queen. Also on board were the Prime Minister, Alec Douglas-Home, and the Leader of the Opposition, Harold Wilson. Just as at the Inauguration, Andrew and I were included as part of the Kennedy family. We were closer to the tragic events, therefore, than almost anyone else present – certainly closer than heads of state who had come from all over the world to attend. We were both aware, once again, of our privileged position among the late President’s friends. I made notes immediately after the funeral and these, too, appear in an appendix to this book.

  Over the years, various members of the Kennedy family came to visit Kick’s grave. Bobby stayed with us at Edensor in 1948, shortly after her death. It was summer and he wore shorts and ankle socks; I had never seen the combination and thought Bobby Socks must have been named after him. I loved Bobby, his directness, his blue eyes fastening on the person he was talking to, his quick questions, fired as though from a gun, about old times in England or anything else that came into his head. Like Jack, he was a mixture of childlike lack of sophistication and tough political acumen and, like Jack, he was a schoolboy until you hit the steel.

  When visiting Ireland in 1966, I saw the dire state of the finances of the Queen’s Institute of District Nurses of Eire. It occurred to me that Bobby might consider a donation to a charity that gave such important service to the people of Ireland. I boldly wrote to him and got a series of comical letters back. ‘Dear Debo,’ he replied, ‘I am at last working on your project . . . I am sorry I have delayed but I love you and I hope it is still mutual. Bobby.’ There was a note in the margin pointing to the crossed-out ‘still’, which said, ‘I thought this might be a rather unfair assumption.’ He then more or less instructed the regional director of the United States Post Office, Sean Keating, who was about to retire, to hand over the proceeds of the retirement luncheon being given in his honour.

  Sean Keating kindly agreed but wrote to Bobby that he had spent many sleepless nights since receiving a copy of my letter, and that if his patriotic ancestors knew that he was having anything to do with a project called the QUEEN’S Institute of District Nursing, they would turn into the ‘whirling dervishes of their respective cemeteries’. He ended, ‘With the devout prayer that God and my sainted ancestors will forgive me.’

  I got another letter from Bobby. ‘Good news!’ it began:

  Sean Keating who is going to raise all the money for your damn nurses is going to Ireland. He would like to go fishing at our family estate which is presently in your name. Could he? Would you let him? He will raise even more money.

  You would love him although I don’t know if you will even be in Ireland at the time of his visit. Obviously that would not be necessary. He just wants to fish + he says all the fish in Ireland are kept by the British + especially by the Devonshires.

  Lots of Love,

  Bobby

  The correspondence went to and fro between Bobby, his secretary, Miss Novello, Sean Keating and me. The retirement luncheon raised over $10,000 and Bobby duly sent me a cheque, with a covering letter: ‘Why the hell do you write Miss Novello & Sean Keating and not me? I like to receive letters from you. Love Bobby.’

  When Bobby was assassinated in 1968, I could not go to the funeral but Andrew felt he should represent the family. Moucher thought it important for the Kennedys to know he was there, so on the train that carried the coffin to Washington after the Mass in New York, Andrew made his way down the carriages to take his place among other mourners waiting to have a few words with Rose Kennedy. He found her composure extraordinary. ‘We talked of Bobby and Jack and of other members of the family,’ he wrote in his memoirs.

  She did not mention the actual assassination, but rather talked around it. When I felt my time was up I made my farewells and found Mrs Martin Luther King waiting to make her courtesy call. I have often thought about that afternoon, and I believe her amazing resilience in the face of the family tragedies was entirely a matter of her religious faith. No matter how shocking the events of this world that had overtaken her family, they were secondary to the expectations of the next.

  Rose stayed at Chatsworth in July 1969. Andrew found her interesting to talk to and the time passed quickly, but not without a minor incident. At lunch she waved away the dish I had planned, saying, ‘I’ll have roast chicken.’ There was nothing to be said but, ‘I’m awfully sorry, Mrs Kennedy, but there isn’t any.’ For some reason, people often thought Chatsworth was like a hotel and could produce anything on demand. She wanted to go for a walk, but not in the way most of us would, to see something in the park or garden: for her it was a question of counting the steps the doctor had ordered and hardly looking up at what Chatsworth had to offer. Andrew took her to see Hardwick Hall and from there to catch a train from Chesterfield. They found themselves with half an hour to spare, so he walked her round the town which he knew well from his days as a parliamentary candidate. Rose’s political antennae were sharpened and she became animated as he pointed out the various public buildings: town hall, school, hospital and the rest.

  Teddy Kennedy came to Chatsworth more than once. The last time coincided with a visit from the
Prince of Wales. They each planted a lime at the end of the avenue that borders the drive to the Golden Gates and marks the three hundredth anniversary of the creation of the Devonshire dukedom. Looking back, it is a strange quirk of fate that we should have had such a long connection with the Kennedys, who had such powerful political influence yet were visited and revisited by tragedy.

  18

  Public Life

  T

  HE ORGANIZERS OF charities, both local and farther afield, often asked Andrew and me to open their money-raising events. As there were so many of these, we soon learned that it would be better to divide them between us. Where possible, I interested myself in charities close to home and was well aware that in the beginning I was invited because of whom I had married and not because of any merit of my own. People were used to female members of the Cavendish family being involved and I was simply following the tradition. Andrew had his own list, which stretched to Eastbourne and London. He was brilliant at public speaking: no matter what the subject or who the audience, he held them in the palm of his hand. Instead of finding a stuck-up fellow full of his own importance, they found themselves laughing at his self-deprecating words; the barriers came down and they sat back and enjoyed it. One of the first charities I took on was the Children’s Society and I soon found myself president of five different committees: Bakewell, Buxton, Chesterfield, Burton-on-Trent and Ashbourne, and a week was set aside for their AGMs. Then every church in the district seemed to be in trouble: the roof was leaking, the heating was broken, so was the organ (things do not change), or the Red Cross needed support. Events to raise money were ever in search of someone to open them and, as a result, Saturdays in summer and those leading up to Christmas were quickly booked up. The events were arranged months in advance, so you were pinned down if something thrilling turned up on the same day.

  The local Women’s Institute was a top priority. I inherited a love of the WI from Muv. She founded the Asthall and Swinbrook branch and gave talks on her three favourite subjects: Queen Victoria, Nelson and Bread. I was president of the Chatsworth WI for twenty-one years – a rule now stipulates that no one can be president for more than three, a much better plan. For those who do not know about the WI, it is to the country what the Townswomen’s Guilds are to towns. Ten years ago it hit the headlines when delegates from rural England gathered in the Royal Albert Hall in London for their Annual Meeting and slow hand-clapped the speaker, who was none other than Prime Minister Tony Blair. He had broken one of the WI’s basic rules, which is No Politics. He was not accustomed to such treatment, especially from women, but was up against it that day and his discomfiture showed.

  The WI is a great teacher. Once a year, every officer has to stand and sum up the year’s activities, which is a marvellous lesson for anyone frightened of talking in front of a crowd, however small and familiar. It certainly helped me. Granny Evie, who was founder and president of the Derbyshire branch of the Red Cross, used to get in a terrible state of nerves before opening a fête or bazaar in one of the neighbouring villages. This was in spite of the fact that the Red Cross devotees were delighted to see her; it was not like electioneering where you could be heckled and hustled about or be the target of a bad egg. For two days beforehand Granny Evie was fidgety and unhappy, and sometimes took to her bed. Once the ordeal was over, she was a different person. There was no way of helping her overcome her nervousness and she never grew out of it. It seemed to me extraordinary that the daughter of a Viceroy of India, brought up to public life, married to a man who had been Governor General of Canada, mother of seven, the chatelaine of four enormous houses in England and a castle in Ireland, who was Mistress of the Robes to Queen Mary for forty-three years, should nevertheless have been terrified of the platform and a friendly audience.

  I did not realize that I would be just as nervous myself, and I did not have Granny Evie’s experience of public life to fall back on. I knew I had to do it but, like her, I dreaded even the smallest event when I had to talk to an audience. The worst moment came after the flattering introduction, so well meant but which made me squirm and go pink with embarrassment. There would be a silence and then the fatal sentence, ‘Now I will ask Lady Hartington to say a few words.’ All eyes on me, just what Nanny said would never happen (‘It’s all right, darling, no one’s going to look at you’). My mouth went dry and my legs felt like giving way.

  Clutching my bit of paper, I began: ‘Mr Mayor, Madam Mayoress, Chairman of the County Council’, or whatever organization was represented, ‘Thank you so much for inviting me . . .’ then heard myself trotting out, ‘Best of good causes’, ‘obvious hard work of the organizers’, ‘please spend’ and other tired expressions, before sitting down with relief to listen to a fulsome speech of thanks by someone else on the platform. My voice sounded all the more ridiculous in front of an audience of Derbyshire folk, who have their own, more harmonious way of talking. I was made acutely aware of this when speaking too loudly one day to a friend in the garden at Chatsworth. I was stopped by a stranger. ‘I’ve read about a 30s voice,’ he said, ‘but I’ve never heard it before. Please go on talking.’ So I did and we were doubled up with laughter at ‘lorst’ and ‘gorn’ and other old-fashioned pronunciations.

  One day I was thrown in the deep end. I was staying in Sussex with Kitty Mersey, who was secretary of her local WI. On the day of their meeting, the speaker failed. ‘Please,’ said Kitty, ‘you must talk to them. Tell them about Chatsworth.’ No prep, no notes (something I had never before been without) and off I launched. I cannot say I enjoyed it and cannot believe the audience did either – in deepest Sussex they had never heard of Chatsworth – but it passed off all right and I realized for the first time that I could make people laugh. (It is easy when the audience laughs with you but it is out of your hands if they laugh at you.) When we got home, Kitty showed me the programme and the topic on which the real speaker was to have spoken: ‘Ramblings of an Old Woman’. Exactly. The experience encouraged me and I dared to follow it up with after-dinner speeches to various agricultural organizations. The first, at the Oxford Farming Conference, was especially frightening as the guests were scientists, lecturers and heads of this and that.

  I have given many talks since but always had to have the words in front of me and the nightmare of leaving my speech behind still haunts me. The nearest I ever got to disaster was to forget my specs; bad enough for me and maddening for the audience. Other hazards lurk. One evening I was to give a talk for charity to an audience that had paid what seemed to me vast sums to hear my twaddle. No sooner had I started than I realized the projector was not working. My talk about Chatsworth was useless without slides and while everyone excuses the odd upside-down picture, when the whole apparatus seized up I felt I was drowning. I sat and stared at the impatient rich people in the rows in front of me kicking the floor and feeling for their car keys, while one or two amateurs pushed and pulled at plugs – all to no avail. A few pictures eventually came through but it was no pleasure to anyone; the thread had been broken and could not be repaired. It was a miserable experience.

  American audiences are indulgent. They are interested in Chatsworth, both the house and the garden, and one year I boldly accepted an invitation to talk at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. This was thanks to Jayne Wrightsman who knows more about the contents of museums worldwide than most professors and who, with her late husband, is one of the Met’s munificent benefactors. The event was merciful in that I was not introduced; I just walked on to the stage alone, like Elvis, and started.

  It was on this occasion that I realized an odd thing: the larger the audience, the less frightening it is. The lecture hall at the Met held some seven hundred people and to my astonishment it was sold out. A huge black space stuffed with faces is so anonymous that you can imagine there is no one there, but a drawing room with, say, twenty-five friends of the host, who have been told they must come whether they want to or not, is terrifying. This happened to me in San Fr
ancisco and, in spite of the audience’s kindly good manners, I sensed at once that they were neither interested nor amused. But I had to battle on. I have found talking in public easier as I have got older, perhaps because I no longer care what I look like or whether my stockings are straight. But, oh, the apprenticeship is hard! I love the questions, some so deadly serious on a light-hearted subject; but they keep the audience awake. Recently I gave a talk about my childhood and someone asked me, ‘Your sisters are buried at Swinbrook, are you going to join them there?’ She did not add the word ‘soon’ but that is what she meant.

  It seems that people now prefer showbiz to open their events. It has taken a long time but even the dimmest actor in the dimmest soap now draws a crowd. I saw the first signs of this many years ago when the chairman of a bazaar in north-east Derbyshire said in his introductory speech, ‘We asked Mrs Dale of Mrs Dale’s Diary, but there was to be a charge. We asked Dr Finlay of Dr Finlay’s Casebook and he wanted a fee. So we had to ask the Duke of Devonshire.’ One organizer said to me about showbiz, ‘It’s great when they come, but “charge and chuck” is the risk you take.’ Apparently showbiz has no compunction in chucking (with the shining exceptions of Alan Bennett and Tom Stoppard who do what they promise). Luckily the formality of the old days is fast fading and events now open themselves: simpler for all concerned.