by Pamela Hicks
My mother was able to take a break from her tour and took Patricia and me for a bus trip to the country – although at first we took the State Hospital bus by mistake. A couple of weeks before she was to return to England, Bunny arrived. He had been sent to New York as an intelligence officer. It was lovely to have him come to visit us and we all went to the movies to see How Green Was My Valley and then, when that made us all sad, to the new Walt Disney film, Dumbo, which of course I loved.
It was not long before Bunny saw what my parents had failed to see: that I was miserable in America, being cooped up with Zelle and her unrelenting French. He and my mother had several conversations with my sister in which Bunny argued that it would be far better for me to face the bombs in England and be happy than to stay here and feel wretched. Patricia decided that as there were only six months until she graduated from high school, it was important she should stay so she could leave with qualifications. She agreed that it would be best for me to return to England with my mother.
On 26 November we arrived at La Guardia at seven in the morning. The press had also got up early that morning and their presence rather curtailed an emotional goodbye with Patricia. We ended up smiling inanely at each other, giving the photographers some posed shots: she, a sophisticated young woman, tall and elegant, carrying a neat little handbag and white gloves, and me, a child in a little short-sleeved dress with a white collar, wearing a black beret and with a white cardigan draped over my left arm, just as Mrs Vanderbilt had taught me. You might have thought we were relaxed and calm, but if you looked closely you could see that I was gripping my sister’s hand, gripping it hard, as if I never wanted to let go.
My mother and I flew to Bermuda. I wrote Letter Number 1 to Patricia. Then on to Lisbon, where I wrote Letter Number 2 to Patricia. Unfortunately my place on the London leg of the journey was suddenly required for the mail, and when the plane stopped for refuelling, I was told I would have to remain in Lisbon for another ten days. My mother arranged for the naval attaché and his wife to look after me and I ended up having a good time with Commander and Mrs Billyard-Leake and their twelve dogs. Someone told me that I was one of two thousand people waiting for a flight, and I saw in a flash that a twelve-and-a-half-year-old just might not be a priority to the war effort.
The day before I left, the Japanese attacked the American fleet at Pearl Harbor. As I boarded the plane to complete my journey home, both the country that had hosted me for over a year and the country to which I was returning declared war on Japan. I was worried about Patricia and longed for her to come home too.
7
Broadlands had been transformed. It was now an annexe to the Royal Southampton Hospital, humming with civilian ambulances and nurses buzzing about in starched white uniforms. There were men and women walking around in slippers and dressing gowns, together with a rather alarming white shed, protruding from the central columns of the Georgian portico, in which bedpans were washed out and cleaned. It all seemed very strange, and although I was curious, I knew I must not get in the way and kept to our private wing.
Having been president of the Hampshire Division, my mother was now superintendent-in-chief of the St John Ambulance Brigade Nursing Division, the highest position a woman could hold. She was responsible for the supervision of mobile medical units, rest centres, first aid and medical posts in the underground shelters; forever away in towns and cities across the country organizing 60,000 volunteers and 10,000 cadets and visiting convalescent homes, blood-transfusion centres, hospitals and air-raid precaution posts. In London, if she wasn’t driving out to the scene of a horrific bombing, she was on the roof of the Joint War Organisation’s headquarters, watching for incendiaries.
Back in Broadlands it was impossible not to be aware of the loud drone of the German bombers returning from their missions over London as they jettisoned their unused bombs over our park and estate – luckily some considerable distance from the house – before flying back across the English Channel. As one of England’s most important ports, Southampton suffered catastrophic destruction from bombs and I would say a prayer, asking God to spare people’s lives, as I saw the afterglow of the raids from my bedroom window. Finally, following several weeks of bombardment, the city authorities constructed an enormous ‘lure’ at the edge of the Broadlands estate that was lit at night with the intention of confusing enemy bombers into thinking it was Southampton. Mr Diment, who farmed at the edge of the estate, came to tell us he was delighted that ‘defences’ were being built to protect him. His face dropped when my father explained it was precisely the opposite, that the bombs might soon be falling a little closer to him.
Out riding one afternoon, I watched two planes locked in a fight high above the Hampshire Downs, and a few weeks later, a German Heinkel crashed on nearby Green Hill, killing all the crew. The previous year, while I was still in New York, a Messerschmitt had been shot down over Town Copse, the pieces falling near Home Farm. As soon as Grandmama heard the news, she rushed out with the sole intention of taking the propeller. She was terribly annoyed to find that someone else had got there before her. Just as well – the propeller would have been much larger than her small frame, certainly too heavy for her to drag all the way home. She did salvage several chunks of metal, however, two bits of which my father had mounted on silver boxes that were inscribed for Patricia and me. I kept mine proudly on my dressing table, a tiny trophy.
It was wonderful to see Hanky again, although many of the other familiar faces had either vanished or been conscripted. I felt much happier back in Broadlands, away from the loneliness of the past year. Compared to living in New York, everything here felt so real, especially down at Home Farm. I loved to take the dogs down there, particularly if the blacksmith was shoeing at the forge. I watched the cows being milked, let the calves suck on my fingers and stood mesmerised by the sawmill, cheerfully dodging the wood-cuttings. My grandfather’s black and white Friesian cows, which at night looked liked a group of sheets floating about in the field, had not been tested for tuberculosis so had to be replaced by a herd of Guernseys that were much better milk producers. My mother had heard that Suffolk Punches were dying out, so she had recently bought some for breeding. Sadly the experiment was a disaster because, unlike our docile shire horses, these feisty beasts kept running away with the plough.
For the first time in his naval career my father was neither at sea nor bound for it. As Chief of Combined Operations, he was now a commodore, and the four gold rings of captain had been replaced by a dazzling broad gold stripe on both his sleeves. He was busy planning the Commando raids against enemy territory, all very hush-hush. We heard from Patricia regularly – she was doing well in her classes, working hard towards her exams. Bunny also continued to be a good correspondent, writing of his new posting to Washington. One of his first tasks had been to break into the safe at the German embassy – it had been completely empty except for the keys to the British embassy’s safe. We had heard little from Yola in occupied France but we did know she was still alive. A few letters had trickled through but they were simply dated ‘jeudi matin’ or ‘vendredi soir’ with no hint of a date, month or year, which naturally drove my father to distraction.
As always, there was a constant flow of guests, which sorely tested the humour of Hanky, Chef and our butler Frank, as they had little help. Now that my mother had become ‘serious’, all our visitors were too. Our guests were now usually serving officers or people whose help my parents wanted to enlist in some way. My father’s flag lieutenant was often at Broadlands and once my father invited the most senior officer in the Royal Navy, the First Sea Lord, to come for a quiet weekend, ‘to get away from it all’. It didn’t quite go to plan – during the night so many incendiary bombs fell that the poor man’s bedroom window was constantly lit up by flashes and he had little sleep. Peter Murphy was still a regular, and luckily some of the serious guests were good fun too. My godfather, Prince George, the Duke of Kent, was just such a visitor. He and m
y mother got on very well, sharing an interest in the arts. He came down to stay just after Christmas and I accompanied them both on a visit to the hospital wards next door. There I saw at first hand how brilliant my mother was as she talked to the patients – she always had something to say, a genuine expression of concern or a cheering remark, and she had an innate sense of just how long she should stay and when to move on. Everyone we met seemed not only delighted to welcome her but also massively cheered to be visited by a member of the royal family. I followed silently behind, in my smart wool dress and thick brown lisle stockings, proud to see what a difference my mother could make.
As 1942 drew to a close, my parents told me that from the New Year, I was to attend Miss Faunce’s PNEU – Parents’ National Education Union – School in Dorset. My cousin Mary Anna, whom I had never met before, was a pupil there. Mary Anna was now an orphan, her mother having died when she was very young and her father dying in Cairo less than a year before we met. Now she was cared for by her guardian and his family. They lived in Crichel, her enormous Palladian family home, and she was both understanding and outraged that her relatives were using all her family’s china, silver and bedlinen. ‘And’, she added with great irritation, ‘it’s ridiculous that they’ve allowed Bryanstone, a boys’ school, in . . . But don’t worry, Pammy, I’ll get them out.’ Mary Anna was strong willed and not afraid to voice her opinions – she was like a breath of fresh air and we quickly became best friends.
Miss Faunce’s school had been evacuated from London and was now situated in St Giles House, the Dorset home of Lord and Lady Shaftesbury, who also happened to be Mary Anna’s grandparents. She spent as much time as she could with them in their private wing, much to the resentment of her guardian and his wife. It was easy to see why she was so happy in their company, as Cousin Tono and Cousin Cuckoo (as I knew them) were eccentric and affectionate, and they adored their granddaughter. We sixty or so Fauncites saw them regularly – especially in church on Sunday. Cousin Cuckoo often popped into our classrooms to say hello or to leave food out for the mice. She carried off a distinctive look – she wore white woollen stockings and bronze pumps with bows on, her hair was always braided and coiled around her ears like earmuffs and she was accompanied either by a beautifully behaved black chow or a wretched little Yorkshire terrier that would bite you at every opportunity. She was a bit of a maverick – distributing food to anyone in the village who might need it, while also smuggling in supplies of Jersey cream, a somewhat embarrassing incident for her husband, who was Lord Lieutenant of Dorset.
I enjoyed school – it was structured and the teaching, across the disciplines, was stimulating. The overriding philosophy was that we should be inspired by as broad a curriculum as possible. So, in addition to my favourite subjects of English, history and scripture, I was privileged to be taught botany, the myths of Greece, Rome and Scandinavia, picture study, ballet, ballroom and tap dancing, as well as receiving the once-a-week update on the progress of the war, using maps and newspapers. As the school was now in the magnificent grounds of St Giles, with its avenues of beech trees, a lake and outlying fields and woods, we had to go for an early-morning run six days a week – quite a shock to my system. Miss Faunce was a small powerhouse of a woman who was such a brilliant speaker that, when she read to us, the characters danced off the page. We were filled with dread by her instruction in narration, however, during which we had to take terrifying turns, standing up and paraphrasing back to the class what we had just been taught. Unfortunately Miss Faunce – who always wore black and smelled of death – did not like me much, describing my behaviour as ‘wild and uncontrolled’ in my end-of-term report. Unlike Patricia, who had been head girl, I did not register as one of her favourites; indeed, I even overheard her telling another teacher: ‘That Pamela Mountbatten, you would never know she was Patricia’s sister.’ Every night we had to say goodnight to her by shaking her hand and curtsying, and if she was displeased with you for some reason, she would curtail the handshake by shoving your hand away without looking in your eyes. She rarely looked me in the eye.
The Shaftesburys were very High Church and insisted that the school respect this. Even though we were all Anglicans, we had to address the priest as ‘Father’ Janson-Smith. As the church was within the school grounds we saw him regularly but we weren’t allowed to talk to him if he was on his way to give someone communion. Cousin Cuckoo went to church three times on a Sunday, her smaller dog, Simmy, the Yorkshire terrier, always tucked under her arm, and for the early-morning service she would set off in a sheepskin coat and a yellow bath hat that was intended to hide her curlers. By the eleven o’clock service she was in her best clothes, hair neatly coiled, and this would last until evensong, where she would inevitably be engaged in a battle with Mary Anna, who would stand rigidly upright as her grandmother tugged at her skirt trying to get her to genuflect. Thanks to Cousin Tono’s insistence, the incense, swung around with gusto by the altar boys, was so strong that often one of the girls became dizzy and fainted.
The first winter of my school attendance included the coldest February since 1914; the water on our bedside tables froze as we slept and there was a mass outbreak of chilblains. Combined with the rationing of food, heating and bathwater – we were allowed a bath only three times a week and the water level could not come above the five-inch mark that was clearly painted inside the tub – it was a pretty miserable few months. As Miss Faunce said, however, ‘If it’s good enough for the King . . .’ and we were certainly not alone, suffering with everyone else in the country. Even my mother, usually insulated by her wealth, ran out of fuel and had to live without heating or hot water. We also knew – being well-informed Fauncites – that our discomfort was nothing compared to that being suffered by our troops. Once again, I was enthusiastically ‘knitting for the Navy’, and this time the recipient of my scarf, one Engineer Slater, took the trouble to write and thank me. I was thrilled to bits.
The horror of war did not intrude too much. We learned what to do in the event of a bombing raid – throw ourselves to the ground, lie flat on the floor and leave our mouths slightly agape until the teachers had checked with their fingers to see whether they were open wide enough. Our gas masks were tested from time to time down on the village green by a man with a strange sort of van, and if the sirens sounded near by, the teachers would summon us by calling out ‘Chocolate and biscuits in the cellars, darlings!’ If it was night-time we would grab the dressing-gown belt of the girl in front and walk quietly downstairs. In the daytime the cook would serve up lunch or supper and as soon as the food appeared our favourite occupation was to pull the stringy fat off our meat and poke it into the cavities of the cellar walls behind us. All this was tedious rather than exciting, and even rumours that a mother had supplied Miss Faunce with a gun in case of an invasion did little to stir us. We were young girls, on the cusp of adolescence, more excited by the rare appearance of a man than by wartime logistics.
Actually, men were so rare that when the dance teacher brought her uniformed fiancé to the school, excitement bubbled contagiously along the corridors. When John Ashley Cooper, the Shaftesburys’ youngest son, returned home on leave, excitement levels reached such heights that we all hung out of the windows trying to catch a glimpse of him – even Mary Anna, and he was her uncle. After he had been back for a week or so, a few of us were summoned to Miss Faunce’s office. She accused one of us – and she was going to wait until the culprit owned up – of sneaking down to the lake to watch John Ashley Cooper fishing. As none of us had actually committed this terrible sin (I stood there thinking: why didn’t I think of that?) we stood in painful silence as Miss Faunce turned to Anne Maude: ‘Your father is a lawyer. You must say what you think has happened.’ I was glad my father was in the Navy.
As we travelled home for Easter, I was met off the train by my father’s good-looking flag lieutenant, which left my travelling companions somewhat speechless. And things only got better. My father had arrange
d for me to attend filming of Noël Coward’s In Which We Serve, which was based upon my father’s adventures in HMS Kelly, on the day when the King and Queen and the two princesses were also due to visit the studio. I went in the car with the girls, and as we drove through the small crowd that had gathered near the studio, Princess Elizabeth kept reminding her sister that she ‘really must wave at the people’. Noël was in his element that day – he adored being centre stage, even if he did have to share it with the King – and we were allowed to stand on the ‘deck’ as the storm scene was being prepared. The deck had been constructed so that it could pitch and roll in the ‘swell’, and after a few minutes the princesses and I felt so sick we asked whether we could climb down. Although at first the Admiralty and the Ministry of Defence had been dead against a film showing a British ship being sunk, the film went ahead, and in fact turned out to be a huge and lasting success.
My parents had some entertaining friends, none more so than Douglas Fairbanks Jr, who had been assigned from the US Navy to my father’s Commando staff. He was as dazzling as a film star should be and a joy to be around, full of laughter and good stories. I loved the one about the sergeant and the wall, especially the lively way that he told it: ‘You see, Pammy, when I was training over here we had to do this hellish exercise. You know, running around over and over, under and under, over and under, that kind of thing. And at the end there was this enormous wall. Impassable, as far as I was concerned. So I just stood there, catching my breath, working out how to get over the damn thing, and my sergeant comes up and yells, “Come on, Fairbanks . . . Over you go . . . Like in the films, you’ve done it before.”’
