Not to be outdone, my father purchased a suitably posh chum for Sir Peregrine, a sandy-coloured little snapper named Baron Otto. These two canine pixies learnt to live alongside each other. Lashings of love were showered upon them.
The sexual antics between Otto and Perry were conjugations that could easily be overlooked, or looked over – owing to their tiddly size. I still can hear my mother chiding them indulgently for being such ‘randy little dogs’.
These little yappettes thought nothing of making deposits around the house. When I tentatively mentioned the tiny dog turds which regularly lurked under a smart chair in her grandsons’ bedroom there, my mother retorted, ‘Damn it all, it is their house!’
Dogs can be a rewarding conduit through which the British can express emotions more readily than as human to human; in this case creating an equation where their tenderness for their individual dogs added to the sum of love between my parents.
In the last eight years of her life, as a widow, my mother was comforted by a Chihuahua of great sweetness, little nut-brown Danny, who lovingly attended my mother’s every hour until he pre-deceased her by a month. At her thanksgiving service a few months later, a talented young singer gave a rendition of ‘Danny Boy’ which did not leave a dry eye in the house.
The dogs and their escapades scamper constantly through my father’s letters.
My Dearest Jane . . .
Barclay House
24 October [mid-1960s]
There was quite a nasty moment last week when the abominable Pongo sprang into a car and I thought for a moment he was going to devour a pink and succulent baby on the front seat. Fortunately he contented himself with licking the infant’s features. After that traumatic experience no doubt the infant will turn out to be a second Himmler or Christine Keeler, according to sex.
Budds Farm
Tuesday [1967]
Charles’s boss plus wife arrived here on Sunday on bicycles without warning. I think they wanted to see what sort of a nuthouse Charles lived in. I liked them both. They were accompanied by a large, shaggy, elderly dog (male) whom Pongo engaged in unspeakable acts twice, once in the water trough by the tool shed. Really the modern dog is almost human in his shamelessness.
The Biological Stains Research Centre
Wedgwood Benn House
Much Dithering
Wilts
[1971]
We have the Burghclere Horticultural and Canine Show shortly. Pongo is going as Jilly Cooper, Cringer as Wedgwood Benn. I am going flat out to win the Mrs Swingthorpe Cup for Home Produce with a stuffed marrow. The local council are busy having trees felled at the top of Harts Lane. I almost admire them for their determination to make the countryside hideous in the sacred cause of motoring.
c/o Bishop of York
Ebor Castle
York
[1970s]
In the Burghclere Show dogs fancy-dress competition, Pongo is going as Mrs Whitehouse, Cringer as Margery Proops. They are both transvestites at heart. I am entering a thermos of nettle and dandelion soup for the Home Produce competition.
c/o The Official Receiver
29/31 Carey Street
London EC2
16 October [mid 1970s]
Pongo has dug a huge hole in the lawn; frankly I would like to bury him in it. He has also been voted ‘Dog of the Year’ for making, in the kitchen, the largest, most offensive mess ever achieved by a member of the canine race.
Budds Farm
28 August 1974
On Saturday the Wrights and Pockneys came to supper. Your dear mother had prepared an elaborate spread including a most complicated and doubtless delectable pudding. Just to annoy me, she released Pongo just before dinner. After Pongo had knocked over two glasses in the drawing room, he retired downstairs and consumed the pudding. I must say for once your mother’s admiration for Pongo showed signs of dwindling.
The Scorchings
Burghclere
12 August 1974
Pongo collapsed after a long walk on the downs and I thought he was a goner. However, I revived him with damp towels and cold water, drawing the line though, at the kiss of life.
Castle Gloom
Burghclere
7 February [early 1970s]
I took Cringer for a walk this afternoon in the Palmer Memorial Park, Newbury, which is very agreeable if you are keen on discarded cigarette packets, dead shrubs, dog turds and used contraceptives.
Budds Farm
[Early 1980s]
I have just retrieved the Cringer from his canine hotel – £14 for 5 days, about the same as my honeymoon stay at Claridge’s.
Chez Nidnod
Burghclere
[1979]
Your mother is in brisk form – our Welsh holiday was a great success. Solomon’s name has been changed to Canute on account of his absurd conduct on the beach.
The Maudlings
Heathcote Amory
Berks
[1970s]
Cringer keeps rolling in the remains of a dead hare and comes home stinking in a very vile manner. The habits of dogs are most disgusting. No wonder people say they are ‘almost human’.
Asylum View
Much Twittering
Notts
10 July 1970
Cringer has just been revolting with two young dogs; no wonder in the East the dog is the symbol for shamelessness. I always give the big Ha Ha when old ladies describe their dear doggies as ‘almost human’. I reckon they must have known some curiously uninhibited humans.
The Old Dosshouse
Burghclere
[1970s]
Cringer is in disgrace following a lengthy absence. I find the concern shown for this animal by myself to be wholly discreditable but what can I do about it? Answer comes there none.
The Sunday Times
[1969]
Cringer is in love with the Bomers’s dog and only looks in here for an occasional nap or meal. Faithless beast! The more I see of dogs, the more I prefer human beings and believe me I don’t like them all that much!
Le Petit Bidet
Burghclere Les Deux Eglises
Sunday [1970]
Cringer is back home and apparently entertains an insatiable sexual appetite for Pongo who is permissive but bored.
Budds Farm
18 August [1970s]
Your parents pushed their rather leaky old boat out yesterday and had 20 middle-aged, middle-class locals to what Nidnod calls a ‘buffet’ lunch. Saturday was blazing hot: I tidied up the garden while Nidnod worked endlessly in the cook-house. As it was so hot, we decided to take a chance and base operations on the garden. During the afternoon the boiler went wrong and no one could be found to deal with it. No hot water! In the evening a girl arrived to help Nidnod with the food. She chose to bring 2 dogs with her, one of which at once made a mess an elephant would have been proud of outside the drawing room. At 8 p.m. Mr Thorn arrived to cope with the boiler but unfortunately left the door open and Solomon bolted. I spent hours searching for him but when at last we went to bed he was still absent and your mother was in a fearful twit. At 6 a.m. the Bomers rang up; they had heard a noise in their swimming pool and on investigation had found an exhausted Solomon trying to get out with little hope of success. The pool had been covered and Solomon had gone through the plastic top! He was lucky not to be drowned.
xx D
The Crumblings
Burghclere
16 October [1970s]
I have just left poor Tiny Man (the Cringer) at Highclere kennels. The English upper and middle classes are really very weird. They feel guilt and remorse at boarding their dogs for a week at enormous expense and in luxurious surroundings: yet they have very little compunction in sending off a little boy of eight or nine to a place where the standard of living would have caused rumblings of discontent among Spartans, where they will be ill-treated by their companions, felt by the masters, and are more or less certain to be very unhappy indeed. The excuse that
‘it does the boy good and makes a man of him’ is just hypocritical balderdash; the real object of the exercise is to duck out of the inconveniences involved in having the boy at home; just as nannies got mothers off the fatigues of nappy changing, looking after the sick and doing all the chores involved in bringing up young children.
Chez Nidnod
15 August 1981
The Cringer was 2nd in the Veterans Class at the local dog show and was inclined to be truculent afterwards.
The Miseries
Busted
Herts
11 May [1970s]
A lot of people to supper last night including a fairly tiresome female who gave animal imitations. I was pleased when Cringer, resenting her familiarities, bit her nose quite severely.
Chez Nidnod
21 March 1982
I don’t think I can face another winter in a house that is never really warm: thumping away on an ancient typewriter wearing three sweaters and with my fingers numb with cold is not all that amusing. As a matter of fact I may not have to: The Cringer and I are both deteriorating physically ‘au pas gymnastique’ and it is just a question of which of the two elects to give up the pointless struggle first. The poor old dog now finds difficulty in jumping into my car while arthritic joints make it hard for me to climb out of it.
The Bog Garden
[1982]
Poor Old Cringer is showing signs of wear and tear. I fear he may not see the winter through. Judging from the odd looks he gives me from time to time, I have an idea he feels the same about me!
Age Concern House
Burghclere
10 October 1982
Poor old Cringer is getting old, feeble and gaga, like his owner, but Nidnod keeps him going in a remarkable way.
The Miller’s House
17 October [mid 1980s]
Just a line to say how sorry I was to hear about your well-loved dog. I remember how miserable I was when poor old Cringer’s life ended. Anyway, all my sympathy to you both.
I may not be quite as dog-orientated as my parents, but I have loved several dogs dearly. Our sweet and handsome Labrador, Timber, had met his end, hit by a car.
The Miller’s House
22 August [late 1980s]
We drove to Stow-on-the-Wold on Saturday to look over David Nicholson’s stable. There was a big crowd there and there were constant appeals on the public address system to release dogs who had been left in cars with insufficient air. I sometimes wonder if the English are really fond of animals. I am careful not to let our little dogs stray. Baron Otto bit a cross-eyed youth delivering an order of white wine this morning, in the ankle. I hope I don’t get a summons.
La Maison des Geriatriques
27 February [early 1980s]
Peregrine does not care for children.
Hypothermia House
22 February [early 1980s]
Your mother is furious with our neighbour, portly Mrs B, who has made disparaging comments on Peregrine’s domestic and sexual habits. She will never be forgiven!
Budds Farm
[Late 1970s]
Nidnod’s dog will sit on my head in the car which I don’t fancy all that much.
Budds Farm
[Late 1970s]
Your mother is in very good form as Peregrine was judged ‘Champion of the Show’ at the Burghclere Flower and Dog Show.
The Miller’s House
May [mid 1980s]
I read Jilly Cooper’s book ‘The Common’ and rather enjoyed it though doubtless I should find her and her dogs extremely tiresome.
The Miller’s House
[Mid 1980s]
Otto has not been worse than moderately tiresome. He is apt to hide when I am in a hurry and he plays ‘hard to get’ underneath beds. His breath is not un-reminiscent of a station lavatory in Suez.
The Miller’s House
15 May 1987
Otto, who recently bit an Olympic Games gold medallist, sends his love.
D xx
There were a number of politicians whom my father would not have minded setting his miniature sabre-toothed Chihuahuas on. Some of Roger’s funniest but fiercely felt commentaries involved the supposed great and good of British politics and they feature in the next chapter, offset by his most frivolous jests, japes and tomfoolery.
12
Stray Bats from the Belfry
Little Hangover
Great Pissups
Berks
[1970s]
Dearest Jane,
Your pig mask which you so kindly gave me is proving a great success down here. I had an appointment with Mr Lipscombe, manager of Lloyds Bank, Newbury, and Chairman of the Rotary Club. I slipped on the mask just before entering his office. On seeing me he sprang to his feet and turned quite pale, evidently taking me for a masked robber. When I told him I was rather concerned about a missing share certificate, he was much relieved. Where will demon pig strike next?
Best love,
xx D
Out of Roger’s bran tub came jokes, poems, quizzes, bizarre tales – and news items. He was sometimes moved to poetry, attributing his verse respectfully to a ‘W. Wordsworth’. He taught us to recite by heart from Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes by Harry Graham – not compulsory on any curriculum today.
‘There’s been an accident’, they said,
‘Your servant’s cut in half, he’s dead!’
‘Well,’ said Mr Jones. ‘Then please
Give me the half that’s got my keys.’
I spent my 2/- (10p) weekly pocket money on practical jokes that hung from a board at the local post office, rarely attaining the audience glee I was banking on. Once I nearly blinded my father by spraying his nose with sneezing powder. A sobering moment. I blame him entirely – he was the leader in tomfoolery.
One day he returned home from London to find his wife and young family gathered round the tea table. ‘How was your day, darling?’ asked my mother. ‘Well, the most extraordinary thing happened to me, in Harrods . . .’ There followed with a long tale of misadventure, culminating in my father’s arrest by the Harrods store detective, charged with shoplifting ‘As the detective led me away,’ he said gravely, ‘I kept protesting my innocence.’ My mother’s face creased with concern. ‘And then, the detective got hold of my leg and simply would not let go. He starting pulling it . . . as hard as I have been pulling yours for the past ten minutes.’
A few minutes later he let out a yelp. It seemed that he had knocked out his two front teeth on his teacup! One hand over a groaning mouth, he held his purchase from the Harrods jokes department aloft: two large bloodied fangs. My innocent mother was around the table in a flash. ‘Poor Roger! Darling!’ First aid was essential! Her arm round him, she steered him towards the door. My tall father, intent on hamming his part to the maximum, walked bang into the door frame, resulting in a giant bruise and twenty-four hour concussion.
Sensible in his study, his attention turned to other matters – current events and politics. His omnivorous appetite for news might incite him to letters purple with disparagement and despondency, redeemed for the reader by the pithiness of his delivery.
My father’s path sometimes crossed the intelligentsia of his day. He relished encounters with those on the inner circles of power and influence. It would have been entirely out of character for him to display any degree of obsequiousness. The qualities he admired were courage, honesty, kindness, humour, a sense of duty – and intelligence well used. He was very disinclined to be impressed by money even if he might appreciate the perks it could purchase. To prick the balloon of pomposity or humbug was his regular delight. His unashamed glee in provocation often led him to adopt the opposing position in any political dialogue with a defender of convictions either to the extreme right or left. Naughty Roger – he found subversion irresistible.
The troubled 1970s – involving the stranglehold of the trade unions, at whatever cost to the country – represented what he saw as the nadir o
f political life in Britain. He was far from being alone in his despair on the evident decline of values and standards in society overall. That the country was being brought to its knees by intransigent union leaders and inept politicians was profoundly disillusioning to the World War II generation who had given six years of their lives to fight for their country. They felt betrayed. My father could be award-winningly gloomy and, to crown it all, there was the decline in the newspaper industry on which he depended to make his living.
The vehemence in his letters washed over this daughter at the time. In the 1970s I was happily absorbed in looking after my family, creating a home for us in Northumberland, making friends – and running my small bookselling enterprise. Unwittingly, I left the hard realities of the world beyond to my husband who, as an industrialist on Tyneside, was at the sharp end of events.
His political and social comments – these stray bats from Roger’s belfry – swoop in randomly, true to the usual style of his letters. Curious guests at a dinner party, his dog’s’ repellent behaviour, tycoons at Ascot, flowers in the garden, a local scandal, my mother’s mood, nostalgic memories of the past and Lupin’s and Lumpy’s antics in the present all run together in a seamless flow with barely a paragraph break in sight. As a voracious reader, Roger’s literary enthusiasms and critiques enhanced many of his letters. The following extracts veer from his gravest national concerns to his naughtiest observations on provincial life, further lightened with crackers full of treats and teases, and punctuated by his regular ‘Thought for the week’.
My Dearest Jane . . .
Hypothermia House
[1980s]
I think letters, like sermons, should start with a suitable quotation. My text this week comes from G. K. Chesterton: ‘A good wife stands by her husband through thick and thin, even though she realises that his head is extremely thick and his excuses extremely thin.’
Chaos Castle,
Burghclere
20 August [early 1980s]
Which well-known headmaster made himself unpopular by getting tipsy on speech day and declaring that ‘Cricket should only be permitted in private by consenting adults’?
Dearest Jane... Page 26
