Darling Monster

by Diana Cooper

  All love to you both,

  John Julius

  THERE ARE NO letters in the second half of 1947, simply because I was with my parents for almost the entire time. I left Strasbourg at the end of the university term in June and expected my call-up on or about my eighteenth birthday in September. In fact it came only at the very end of the year, and almost simultaneously my parents left the Embassy.

  We had been expecting the sack for a long time. The 1945 general election had brought in the socialist government of Clement Attlee; why should my father, a conservative politician who had resigned from the Foreign Service in 1919, have been kept on in Paris for another two and a half years? His staying power can I think be attributed only to Ernie Bevin’s personal affection for us. Ernie must have had to withstand immense pressure from his Cabinet colleagues – and indeed from the Foreign Office itself, which took no pleasure in seeing its most desirable post in the hands of an outsider.

  Expected our dismissal may have been; but it was still a major upheaval. Both my parents would have welcomed a couple more years; but my mother, I suspect, missed the Embassy life a good deal more than my father – perhaps only because he was far more reticent about showing his feelings. It was not that she particularly enjoyed being an ambassadress – though she turned out to be a perfectly brilliant one; but she loved hard work, and the Paris Embassy was very hard work indeed. Life at Chantilly, she feared, might leave her seriously underemployed.

  On the other hand, it was Chantilly that made the whole thing bearable. By now we had no other home. Gower Street had been bombed, Chapel Street sold. Bognor was being sold too; it was perfect for summer weekends but impossible for anything more. Chantilly on the other hand was ideal: just the right size, less than an hour’s drive from Paris, with a perfect library for those of my father’s books which he had not presented to the Embassy. It was also a remarkably beautiful house.

  The Château de Saint Firmin, therefore, was to be my parents’ permanent home, with a rather dark, depressing little flat at 69 rue de Lille as a Paris pied-à-terre. I certainly had no objection. The Navy and Oxford would take up a good deal of my time over the next five years, and then I should have to have a job; but a house in France would be fun for my friends.

  Inevitably, the déménagement brought about a change in the letters. No longer did my mother have the whole Embassy life to describe and discuss; henceforth she writes above all of her friends. One of these, who seems to play a major role at this time, is Evelyn Waugh. He had been a regular visitor at Bognor before the war, and now the war was over he came back into our lives. He had always been a little bit in love with my mother; she had always been a little bit afraid of him. There was never anything remotely physical in the relationship; his devout Catholicism would have seen to that. What she feared was his manner, his prickliness and not least his intelligence, for which she felt herself to be no match. An additional complication was provided by my father, who went through periods of disliking Waugh intensely – the feeling being entirely mutual – though they made it up in the end.

  There are two other features of these later letters that are, I think, worth mentioning. This first is my mother’s (to me) rather surprising emphasis on her health. She was always a bit of a hypochondriac – though she never worried about her own well-being if she could worry about my father’s – and now that she had relatively little else to occupy her she gave in to it more readily than she had been able to in former years. Physically, there was nothing wrong with her at all – now in her middle fifties, she was to live another forty-odd years – but she had always had a weakness for an annual retreat at a spa or health farm, in which now she had more time and leisure to indulge.

  The second new feature is my parents’ successors, Sir Oliver and Lady Harvey. She had, of course, every reason to envy them, but – apart from what they did to my father’s beloved library – no real grounds for dislike. And, it has to be said, she did not behave well. In diplomatic circles it is not usually considered good form to remain in a country to which one has been recently accredited. My parents admittedly had little choice, but the Harveys surely had the right to expect a little more support from them, not to find my mother going round Paris telling everyone how awful they were. Finally the situation became such that it furnished Nancy Mitford with inspiration for one of her funniest novels, Don’t Tell Alfred.

  My joining the Navy came as no surprise. Compulsory service in the armed forces – occasionally commuted to work in the coal mines – continued for fifteen years after the end of the Second World War. Every public school had its training corps, and the hours I had spent crawling on my stomach through Windsor Great Park on sodden November afternoons had determined me to put myself down for the Navy – which, thank heaven, had accepted me. There were drawbacks. Unlike the Army, there was no question of my getting a commission; I should remain firmly on the lower deck. Nor was it guaranteed that I should go to sea. Still, I was pretty confident that it would be more fun, and on the last day of the year travelled down to HMS Royal Arthur at Corsham, Wiltshire, with a light heart.

  Chez Antoine

  December 31st, 1947

  You poor mite! And it’s snowing to boot. I’m cold for you and have got a night-club headache for you. I can see the skilly they are setting before you at this moment. My legs itch from the rough serge and my neck shortens its bareness with chill.

  I rang up Droitwich and find that they are closed and reopening on the 11th so I shall go that day, Dr. Cohen permitting. He comes to look me over today week. What will he find? I should like to have those increasingly unattractive blisters taken out of my lids (Papa will oppose). The scars will mend at Droitwich behind black spectacles. I’ll work out some halfway meeting place. There must be a Bath–Birmingham train with a town where I could go for the day so that I should see you.

  Is there any hope of (1) reading a course on one subject that interests you and instructs (2) if you can practise Mr. Ruben’s harmonies1 (3) if there is any hope for a Linguaphone (4) any classes – educational – shorthand for a journalist’s future?

  Midnight. Papa and I went to a matinée – Dark Summer – a serious good play. He cried buckets to my dry eyes. Then I tried to sleep my night off from six to eight but was too nervous. So I’ll say goodnight to my dearest boy. This hammock is horridly deceptive. Will it roll me out like a barrel before my leg has to be shown? Ugh, the cold and the smell. I feel for you but always remember it will get better. Drink less for your health and looks and charm’s sake, beware of unclean whores, love your mother and sleep deep.

  London

  January 2nd, 1948

  At last a postcard. I’ve been working myself into a fine fuss, you having promised to send me some kind of word immediately, and that’s four days ago. So I couldn’t send my first instalment, and my nerves drove me (I’d just found myself looking in the Evening Standard for Boy Murder) to shooting a telegram into the vasty deeps of the R.N. which may well embarrass you. I didn’t sign it. I thought Honey Mummy would make things worse. Don’t forget Papa is now Sir Duff 2(kill Sir Alfred if you hear it said) and the Government true to form dims what lustre there was on the honour (an almost automatic one) by giving it simultaneously to the successor3 who has not yet worked the day through. No matter – the worse and the more maladroit the better.

  The 31st of last year I wrote you my dull little saga but I could only post it now because of hearing nothing. What happened the 31st? O yes, a day given to frantic hunts for disguise.4 Evelyn Waugh paid me a morning call, portly as an alderman, dressed in loud and shapeless checks. He’d been obstreperous the night before and broken his host’s decanters, so I had to dedicate an hour of my brief time to buying amendes5 with him and a distinguished green cloth cloak to conceal Papa, topped by a tricorne. I found, later, enough at Nathan’s6 where there was a scrambling mass from the Smart Set, but a mask for his poor face I had to hunt for. ‘We’re not making any’ (one sees why). At last having r
ootled out an unsuitable orange velvet dainty butterfly-shaped mask, I turned my mind on myself. I had sent to Paris for (1) my smart yellow satin full-skirted dress which at a pinch, with hat and mask, would have made a Venetian Carnival belle, (2) the old Russian tartan silk, an ally in a thousand balls, having already done duty as Lady Macbeth, Flora Macdonald, Prince Charlie and numerous Tchekov plays.

  My object today was to find a Highlander’s fantastic hat of ostrich – higher and better angled than a Guardsman’s bearskin, with a long cascade of ostrich tails (if tails they have) falling over profile and shoulder. No luck – costumiers and Scotch shops laughed me to scorn. Evelyn bet I’d never get one. White’s [Club] came to the rescue. Wu was sent to find me a Highland bar-propper. He found me Andrew Scott who promised to do his best while promising nothing. So to lunch with Pam Berry in an ice-house together with Ann Rothermere and Lord Pakenham. He’s a Catholic which makes a weird combination of faiths and he’s a trifle unbalanced.

  I got home at four. No parcel from Paris, no headwear. In despair I started ringing up all the barracks, adjutants, etc. no one naturally understanding what I was at. In the middle of the screaming a page brought into the room two cylinders or infernal machines with St Paulian domes, and these contained a choice of Scotch bonnets – not lousy and greasy from a private’s head, but new as new and as becoming as haloes. My relief was a little dimmed by a call from Paris to say the dresses were to leave on the morrow – but the hat, I felt, could stand on its own. With an ordinary black dress and inspiration of details, it could steer me to Victory at the Albert Hall. So off again with the faithful David to a variety of Scotch shops where after usual frustrations I bought for 10 shillings and four coupons,7 four mufflers which joined together by Wadey made the most ravishing of ‘plaids’ or shawl. Can you see it? Draped with my great skill (a piece flowing behind and the folds held in by my diamond roses), the hair lightly powdered, the ears ringed, a sprig of bay (stolen from the standard trees outside Mrs. Spry’s shop, washed and oiled for the nonce) for Victory and Madame Bonnet’s black gloves slashed with bottle green. O! I was good. I seldom say it. Belle of the ball and no mistake.

  Dinner first – twenty strong at Warwick House (Esmond’s), Laura,8 an exceedingly common cow-girl, her lover Gerry,9 a commoner chef (the last resource and humiliation of the dresser-upper). Ann hoped to be a sea nymph but became a classical Widow Twankey thanks to an unfortunate vermilion wig. Then there was Dick Wyndham, a realistic Arab, walnut-juice and all, and Frank Owen, the pirate school. I sat next to him (he’s an old friend and editor of the Daily Mail). He has not learnt to suppress gros mots – not the coolest sentence is said without a shock. There was the wraith Clarissa10 and one or two pretty nondescripts in their mother-in-youth clothes – 1900.

  The Albert Hall (when we got to the haven of our box that was sandwiched between friendly boxes) looked as it always did – too big and too exciting ever to plumb. Raimund, pretty tight and moustached, took me round and round the room – not dancing but staring at the ground-floor boxes and with the lack of inhibition that travesti11 gives you, criticising the revellers to their faces. ‘You’re good’, ‘I don’t think much of you’, etc. In the old days these balls were dry, so that people had not only to take a box for secret drinking but also wear clothes – crinolines for example – that could smuggle in bottles in their folds. In these austere days all that has changed and there is champagne in the taps and the fire extinguishers, in the lily cups and loos. It’s nicer because friends are welcome in every box and the drink seems to be pooled. I really enjoyed it very much.

  I had two protestations of love – one from Christopher Sykes (another Arab) and one from Philip Jordan in civvies. I stood it till 3.30 and then started to wilt and when I tried to get Papa home he said he was staying. At the moment he had got on his lap a lady I’d christened ‘Meat’. Her two gigantic though shapely legs seemed to cover him quite, so I gave him up and stumped off irritated, with Clarissa. No transport and determined drizzle made one’s exit less dramatic, so Papa had time to stumble down and say ‘You can’t walk’ but we started off and in a minute had been offered a lift with some strangers Hampstead-bound. I was put down at the Dorch. and Clarissa at her destination, and Papa went back to his meat for another half-hour or so and reeled home before I was asleep.

  New Year’s Day was general Hangover Day. Not for me, I felt bobbish enough and pleased with my success of the night before. I lunched with Mr. Wu at Wilton’s because Wu’s snobbery forces him to this place where there is only a choice of oysters and lobster (neither of which I wanted) and sherry at 9/- a thimble, and friends on one’s lap and breathing and whispering all around one – no privacy and no focusing on your vis-à-vis. He took me (lunch over) to see a picture he was having framed. A1, half life size, a lady and gentleman engaged to be married, a priest they are calling on at his bureau de travail (1880). It is called An Awkward Question. Impossible to discover which character has asked what. We dined at the Hoffs – Isaiah and Venetia.

  January 8th, 1948

  Let’s go back to Victor’s party. It was a thumping success. I met Victor at the Savoy in the morning, there to sift out the placement and worse, to argue against the horseshoe table. We compromised on two tables and my placement (gold to Victor’s copper). I asked tentatively if he knew anything about the conjuror. ‘No,’ he said, ‘only that he’s good.’ Through it all we were stuffing down canapés of smoked salmon, cheese, blubber and what not, and munching olives and dropping their bothersome stones behind sofas and tables, and flinging back martinis and telling Pam Berry, who had barged in, not to interfere. So it was happy and funny and I felt secure about the candles and went off to lunch with two enormous women at your club, the Allies. Moura and Juliet were the giantesses and we were cheerful enough.

  The party started at 8.15. I’d taken an admirer called Mr. Philip Jordan for whom I felt responsible and Victor had Prof. Blunt12 and a Mrs. David who were weighing on him. Mr. Wu is always a souci but these disturbances were quickly quieted and we settled down in candlelight. The women were lovely. Judy, looking very pretty, was the plainest, Dolly Rothschild, Venetia and your poor mother the least fresh, but Pempie and Angie13 and Freda14 and Liz and Caroline and Pam and unknown Mrs. David were all dreams. Marietta Tree was the Widow Twankey but a pretty one. I sat between Vicky (he was sweating and mopping away with anxiety and with desire for success) and Mr. Wu in mellow mood. The conjurer was the worst ever – dropped all the cards, returned you your marked one without the mark, no livestock, kept one hand permanently in his pocket changing false for real, did the old sham-thumb-cigarette-extinguisher trick, but it didn’t matter. The horror of his patter made up for weight of hand. No one attempted to move till 2.30 a.m. and then we all went to our separate homes blessing Victor for the elegant treat.

  January 9th. Yesterday it was Brighton for the day, a jaunt for Papa and me, Mr. Wu, Daisy and Lord Sherwood. We piled into the Southern Belle at eleven. Lord S. travels with a large-size bottle of Worcester sauce in his pocket to lace his Bovril. The idea made my mouth water for so delicious a reviver and my disappointment was acute when the attendant said they’d run out this morning. With seven minutes still to go before eleven, my weak condition still allowed me to tear down the platform bluffing and thrusting to the Tea Buffet. ‘A small pot of Bovril please, quick, quick.’ ‘Can’t serve you until you are seated.’ ‘I’ve no time, no time to sit, just a little pot of Bovril please quick.’ ‘I’m sorry, you must sit down.’ So I plumped on to a chair divorced from its table looking grotesque and again panted my request. No good, no Bovril. Off again to Lunch Buffet. ‘Any Bovril?’ ‘Yes, if you sit down we’ll give you a cup.’ ‘No, just a pot, small please, quick, quick.’ ‘I’m sorry we’re not allowed to sell it that way.’ Screaming something about ‘this country’ and frustration and Labour Government I tore back and just hopped the moving train.

  Brighton was flooded in sunshine and Mr. Wu and I took a Liberty Bo
at15 while the others piled into a taxi. Meeting place to be the Albion. I had a crise of rage, as once before in the Venetian Piazza when, after waiting for the taxi riders, they drove up licking their chops and much brightened by an oyster and stout collation. Then Papa walked me halfway to our real destination, No. 1 Chichester Terrace – a flat owned once by Rufus’s father and now the property of Lord Sherwood, dolled and daisied up into an aggressive Regency. Lovely too. I could spend a week happily in this large room, sun-flooded usually, warmed and luxurious, with Dr. Brighton treating me to health. Lunch was on the sticky side, but once swallowed Wu and I got away to give Rottingdean the once-over. Wu had never seen it and was interested not only as a Catholic to see Maurice Baring’s home or as a short-story writer to see Kipling’s home, or as a pre-Raphaelite to say ‘There lived Burne-Jones’ but because the village church is said to be the model for one of the churches at Forest Lawn, the crematorium at Hollywood that he has written a book about.16 He was disappointed, as it bore no resemblance to its imitation, which carries not only a shrine for ‘Recessional’ (‘God of our fathers’ – Kipling) but also a copy of National Velvet treated with the reverence that might be used towards The Imitation of Christ MS.17

  It appears that two people recently visited Rottingdean church and asked the verger if this was the church that had inspired Kipling to write ‘Recessional’. ‘Yes,’ said the verger, ‘and Enid Bagnold to write National Velvet.’ Now we know that Kipling having scribbled down ‘Lest we forget’ threw it straight into the scrapbasket whence a niece retrieved it and saw merit, so Uncle Ruddy said she could keep it. This we know from Nephew Bloggs.18