In Tearing Haste
Page 34
Masses more but for my next . . .
Much love
Debo
29 April 1993
Mani
Darling Debo,
I was so sorry to see about Elisabeth Frink [1] and rang you up, but you were at Lismore.
Love
Paddy
[1] The sculptress died of cancer on 18 April, aged sixty-two. Her husband pre -deceased her by a few months.
24 May 1993
Long Crichel House
Wimborne
Dorset
Darling Debo
Here, embedded in the leaves and cow parsley with the nearby click of croquet balls and cuckoos in the middle distance, takes some beating. Carrington was right, in her letters, to say that cuckoos here and there give a great feeling of dimension to a landscape, and I see exactly what she meant. They’ve now gone to bed in their far-flung usurped nests.
One of the most tiresome aspects of medical matters is the hanging about. They can’t have me in Sister Agnes till tomorrow week. [1]
I’ll keep in touch.
Tons of love to you and all from
Paddy
I went to see a film called Indecent Proposal [2] last week. Don’t miss it. I’ve been brooding on it ever since.
[1] PLF was going into King Edward VII’s Hospital, Sister Agnes, for a back operation.
[2] Starring Demi Moore as a married woman who agrees to sleep with a billionaire, Robert Redford, for $1,000,000.
SUNDAY [June 1993]
Stolen stationery
Sister Agnes really
White’s
37 St James’s St, SWI
Darling Debo,
Hooray! This morning I’ve been in the underground swimming pool for the second morning running, while a beautiful physiotherapist gyrated among the patients – three of them – telling them when to twiddle their legs and shake their hips, as though training tadpoles; and, what’s more, my stitches were taken out ¼ of an hour ago, all 27. Not stitches at all of course, but just like paper staples. They come out with a slight but transitory sting, and now twinkle on the pad at my side. All this means that departure impends – next Teusday morn, when this Golden Coach turns back into a pumpkin. Then, crawling about London for a few days. Weekend recuperating chez George Jellicoe. I’ve got to be in Athens on the 25th, to be made a doctor of Humane Letters, with Niko Ghika. Finally, home.
The point is, will you be down here at all? If so what about a feast, or a drink, or 200 slow yards in Hyde Park?
Fond love,
Paddy
28 November 1993
Mani
Darling Debo,
It’s all very odd here. After months and months of drought, reducing all the olive-growers in the Mani to despair – there’s nothing else, only a few fishermen – the heavens suddenly opened a fortnight ago and swept the road that comes down from the main one to our bit of sea, clean away! Nothing but rubble and mud and enormous boulders and tomb-like holes ten feet deep, and acres of silt spreading into the sea at the bottom of each canyon and torrent-bed, like ogres’ ping-pong bats. Our motor-car is safely perched on our headland, thank heavens, but can’t go anywhere. We can only get to the village by muddy trudges across fields and up lanes, otherwise we’re completely cut off. But we’ve got lots to eat and drink, plenty to read and masses of logs for the fire, so, in a way, it’s rather nice.
It was my name day (Michael, here in Greece, as ‘Patrick’ always turns into ‘Petro’) – 8th Nov, the day after we got back, and, after church at the tiny chapel of SS Michael & Gabriel two fields away, half the village came here for food and drink and then music and dancing, all morning, wonderful black-coiffed crones skipping along like flappers round the drawing room, then out onto the terrace and round the fountain in a double chain, interweaving like oranges and lemons. They love it, and so do we after the initial anxiety.
What a fascinating and memorable man Canon (?) Beddoes [1] is! It’s such a rare name, I’m sure he must be a relation, or descendant, of the poet Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803–1849), just looked him up in the DNB. When he was still at school, he wrote a play, never published, called Cynthio and Bugboo. He was best known for a long poem called Death’s Jest Book, which was the one I’d vaguely heard of. He died at Bâle, and sounds a riveting and very strange character.
I loved our visit, too, and thank you so much. It was marvellous seeing Andrew moving about so featly, wielding his crutch like a field-marshal’s baton. [2]
Tons of love,
Paddy
P.S. I’ve reopened this, because they’ve just telephoned – i.e. this morning – from Dumbleton, to say that poor Graham has died in bed from heart failure. It’s a shock but of course a relief. He would have hated to go on vegetating, if he had realised (and he did in a sort of way) and was bewildered and depressed by it. We’ll both come back for the funeral next week – Wednesday I think – driving straight there from Heathrow and stay two days at Dumbleton, and then back here, I think. It’s a beautiful old church there, and they will certainly sing ‘Fight the Good Fight’, written by Joan’s and Graham’s great uncle, a canon of Worcester, and a favourite character of J Betjeman. [3]
[1] The Very Rev. Ron Beddoes (1912–2000), Provost of Derby Cathedral 1953– 80 and semi-retired vicar of Beeley and Edensor 1980–97. ‘He was a compelling preacher who often fixed his blue eyes on you and made a questioning sound “Hm?” to sharpen your attention.’ (DD)
[2] Andrew Devonshire had had a hip replacement.
[3] John Betjeman (1906–84). The Poet Laureate, a friend of Joan Leigh Fermor since the 1930s, admired the hymns of John S. B. Monsell (1811–75).
16 April 1994
Mani
Darling Debo,
I don’t know what’s happening to the Greek posts, your letter took a fortnight to get here, then we had to go to Athens to see a specialist – Joan had a false-alarm heart irregularity, all over now, but anxious for a moment: cardiogram first like a row of Salisbury Cathedrals, and now like a well-tended country hedgerow.
About the Nancy–Evelyn letters, [1] I’m all for. Both are tip-top, Evelyn’s always amusing and intelligent, only spoilt now and then when he seems to assume a slightly tiresome role as backwoodsman stickler. Nancy is eerily wise, always funny, often learned, or fascinated by the scent she is following, never affected or showing off. I treasure the vol. you gave and have just been dipping here and there. They are like a shot in the arm.
I must dash for the last post before the weekend.
Lots of love
Paddy
[1] The Letters of Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh, edited by Charlotte Mosley (1996).
17 July 1994
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Lunch for Daph’s 90th birthday at Longleat (‘in my new penthouse suite’ said Ld Bath, [1] viz. part of that wonderful library under the roof ). It was odd beyond everything. Everyone except grandchildren pretty ancient to go with the 90 yr old and by gum there was a STEEL BAND which made such a racket you couldn’t hear yourself, let alone anyone else, which in my case was dear good Dirk Bogarde who I hadn’t seen for YEARS & Jim [Lees-Milne].
Daph was the other side of Dirk & Andrew was on her left. She was best at hearing of anyone. Coote arrived late, I didn’t hear why, & was dressed like Daph, nice snap, same robe I mean. Caroline [Beaufort], thinner, nice as ever, & a little old person with straight white hair, children’s socks in bedroom slippers. She said ‘Are you Debo?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I’m Oonagh.’ [2] Oh I did think of R Kee & the source of his Irish love. ‘Do you ever see him?’ ‘No.’ She has gone back to live in Ireland but can hardly bear the climate. So an ancient who has been with her for 40 years comes in with the brekker & every morning says the same words about the weather, ‘raining & blowing again.’ Poor Oonagh gets doured by it & her & no wonder. She said ‘I’ve got Alzheimer’s. I packed my best skirt & then thought why have I done that
, I shan’t want it, took it out, & of course I did want it for this lunch & look what I’ve got on.’ ‘Lovely,’ I said. Oh dear me.
We got a kind welcome from mad Bath & a mouthful of beard & other extra hair.
His son looks normal & charming.
Much love
Debo
[1] Alexander Weymouth, 7th Marquess of Bath (1932–). Daphne Fielding’s eldest son, the hirsute, bohemian owner of Longleat House in Wiltshire.
[2] Oonagh Guinness (1910–95). One of the three blonde sisters, known as the ‘Golden Guinness Girls’, married in 1936, as her second husband, 4th Baron Oranmore and Browne. Famous for her wild parties at Luggala in County Wicklow and for her many lovers, who included Robert Kee.
7 December 1994
Mani
Darling Debo,
I got a letter yesterday, from friends and neighbours of the sweet Northamptonshire folk I was farmed out with in WW1. She writes in a prim rustic hand, though migrated to Greenwich: ‘Please sign the enclosed book for my father as he knew you when you were a small boy. He is now 92 but saw you last when he was 16 and you were three. His name is Philip Redwood and he lived with his mother and his sister Gladys and his aunt Nellie Barker just near the Martins (brewery people who looked after me), when you lived there while your parents were in India. My father thinks you came to live there when you were one. He remembers the first time he saw you, you were sitting up in Mrs Martin’s arms. He remembers you being called Paddy Mike by them. He says you were a dear little mite, a joy to have around. He remembers clearly one evening when it was still light, hearing you call: “I don’t want to go to bed!” The last time he saw you was the day the family moved to Woolaston, where my grandmother was a nurse. He remembers you helping him to tie up some garden tools on the garden path, and you put your finger on the knot for him to stop it slipping . . . Priscilla B. Hedly.’
I’ve just sent the book off: T of Gifts, containing a description of Kaiser Bill and Little Willy being burnt on the fire celebrating peace day, carried on Margaret Martin’s shoulder – and being rushed home piggyback, because a boy, dancing around with a Roman candle in his mouth for a lark, swallowed it and died in agony spitting stars.
But it’s all fascinating and makes me come all over queer. My word, they were all nice.
Lots of love,
Paddy
Orthodox Easter [10 April] 1995
Mani
Darling Debo,
Easter morning, before everyone is up.
Just before Good Friday, a chimney expert came to alter a smoky chimney, and started by throwing petrol up it, and setting it on fire, very exciting. At the same moment, a terrific noise came up from the olive groves below the house: 100 sheep came bounding about, baa-ing in every key, and fighting for room, all with huge curly horns. They had been brought to eat up the long grass which had choked the whole place, so tore away at it for three days, then buzzed off. They were four-legged scythes, really, bleating lawnmowers. It was living in a whirl.
Tons of love,
Paddy
23 September 1995
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Now many serious questions re Charlotte Mosley’s editing of Nancy/Evelyn letters. She’s sent me the typescript. Oh dear me I sit & laugh & laugh again. Her intros aren’t there yet. Anyway, to help her with her notes I’m HOPING you’ll kindly answer the following:
What did Rose Macaulay look like?
Do you agree – or don’t you – re Chagford (and name of hotel please) that it was ‘an establishment run expressly to suit the needs of writers where Evelyn had retired to work on Brideshead’? Enlarge please.
Do you know who the love of Richard Hillary’s [1] life was?
Thanks in advance for answers to all above tiresome questions.
I haven’t finished it by the way, so I’m sure I’ll have more questions, real life intervenes as you can picture. Evie WAS odd, wasn’t he.
Much love & to Joan.
Debo
[1] Richard Hillary (1919–43). Battle of Britain hero whose face and hands were badly burnt when his aircraft was shot down in 1940. He endured months of surgery in an attempt to repair the damage and wrote about his experiences in The Last Enemy (1942), a wartime bestseller. He returned to active service and was killed in a night training operation, aged twenty-three.
[October 1995]
Mani
Darling Debo,
I’m sorry being so slow! Now. Here we go.
What was Rose Macaulay like? I’ve had a shot at drawing her, but the trouble is, it’s nothing like (see fig. attached). The thing is that she was nearly transparent, like wax, you could see a candle through her and the shape of the skull round the eye sockets, hollow temples, and features of great delicacy and distinction, Roman nose, I think, and an expression of intense interest and humour, a bit sad in repose. Didn’t worry much about clothes, a sort of shallow cloche with bronze-coloured leaves all round it is what sticks in the mind. She was lovely in conversation, quick and unexpected, lots of laughter, hands on knees. She may have looked frail, but the first time we met I was taken to lunch by her at the Lansdowne Club. When the lift came up to the fourth floor, Joan and Patrick [1] got in, and she said ‘We’ll walk!’ When they had disappeared, she said ‘Let’s race them!’ and started off down, helter skelter like a pony. We got there first, and when the others got out she said ‘Did you have any trouble? Lift break down, or something?’ Talking, her head had a very slight tremor, as tho’ she were ‘worrying’ her interlocutor. She lived in Hinde Street – books heaped up on all furniture – in order to go to early Mass at All Saints Margaret St every morning. (If she had heard your father grumbling about smells and lace, she would have said ‘Just right for me, can’t have enough of it.’) Then she would bicycle to the Serpentine, come rain come shine, and after 100 or 200 strokes, bike back to brekker and then to work. She scarcely drank anything, but loved parties, day’s work done. You’d have loved her.
Diana [Cooper] and she were on the same cruise ship to Russia, and quizzes were organised. One of them was ‘Which would you choose, death or dishonour?’ Everyone fumbled, but when Rose’s turn came she said, ‘Oh, dishonour, every time!’ and, to the question ‘What is your most secret wish?’ she said, ‘Oh, power! Absolute power!’ Then laughter. In one of her last books, The Towers of Trebizond, a character says: ‘I never had a more social time than staying with Paddy and Joan on Hydra, but I like that.’ One was honoured! Apart from all that she was brilliant, like all people called M.
Chagford. Run by Mrs Carolyn Postlethwaite Cobb, an almost spherical v good style New England American, daughter of the chaplain at West Point. She ran this charming hotel on the edge of Dartmoor with Norman Webb, a nice Devonshire chap she had opened a home for lame donkeys with in Morocco. I think Alec Waugh [2] first discovered it, then Evelyn and Patrick Kinross. I went there with Patrick, to write The Traveller’s Tree, he to write a novel, Beloved Innocent?, about his ex-wife Angela Culme-Seymour, Janetta’s half-sister, and I often went, using the magical centre room with a blazing fire, hunting three times a week, then drinks with Carolyn at 7, she being bedridden in latter days, something to do with asthma. When she died and I went down to the funeral, Norman and Evelyn and Laura [Waugh] were almost the only others there, in Chagford churchyard. I went once again when it was run by some awful people, and wish I hadn’t. Carolyn was very funny, v kind, as good as gold, loved Evelyn. She adored having writers there, and was a true friend.
Richard Hillary. There was a love affair with Anne Mackenzie (who Xan and I were a bit keen on at different times), but she couldn’t bear to face him after being so mangled. His true love and comforter after his awful burns was Mary Booker – did you know her? – prematurely white hair, v beautiful, kind, intelligent, charming. I remember staying up dancing at the 400 until it closed, then talking to her – end of war sort of time – and thought she was wonderful. When
Hillary died she married Micky Burn [3] (captured at St Nazaire raid. Colditz. Then Times correspondent all over E Europe). Haven’t seen her since. I think lots of people fell for her because of her beauty, quietness, niceness and sympathy.
Magouche arrives this evening, then we fly to Crete to put Xan’s ashes under a tree up in the mountains.
Now for a dash to the post.
Lots of love,
Paddy
[1] Patrick Balfour, 3rd Baron Kinross (1904–76). Traveller, writer and journalist, best known for his life of Kemal Mustafa Atatürk. His novel, The Innocents at Home, was published in 1959. Married to Angela Culme-Seymour 1938–42.
[2] Alec Waugh (1898–1981). Evelyn’s older brother wrote his novel Thirteen Such Years (1932) at the Easton Court Hotel in Chagford.
[3] Michael Burn (1912–). The author and journalist wrote about the love affair between Richard Hillary and Mary Booker (whom Burn married in 1947) in Mary and Richard (1988). DD had known Burn, a friend of her sisters Unity and Jessica, since he used to stay at Swinbrook House in the 1930s.
23 October 1995
Mani
Darling Debo,
One detail I’d forgotten about Rose Macaulay. She had a very battered old car, which she drove fast and dangerously. It came into a long thing in rhyme that I published in the Statesman when the literary part was respectable, 40 years ago – of which two lines were (I think)