Please give fond love to one and all.
Paddy
[1] Poet in residence at the Wordsworth Trust and author of The Gift Returned (2005).
23 September 2003
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
I telephoned like anything, no reply, & I realised you’d GORN. The swallows have been in a frightful fuss like you & packing & now they’ve gone, to join Christopher Gibbs [1] in Morocco I suppose. In a bitter cold May, Mrs Ham used to say in her gloomiest mood ‘I can’t think why they come’. Anyway the summer’s over.
I’m glad you’ve got the sea. What a comfort. I know you’ve been longing for it.
And the poet. Is he still there with your books & his pen? Talk about pens, I still pick one up to write & tell Diana about her funeral.
I expect you feel the same about Joan. It is so odd them suddenly not being there.
Perhaps luckily you & I haven’t got long to go – I can’t believe we shall never see them again, or Woman, or Muv & Farve. Though Muv used to worry about getting through all the Chinese before she found any kindred spirit.
Here we rattle on as per. Andrew is very infirm, walking is slow, difficult & painful, but the political rows are keeping him going & he watches the telly sideways (to do with his eyes which don’t work properly).
Our exhibition (250 THINGS from here) opened in Las Vegas a couple of weeks ago.
The hotel Stoker & co stayed in has 3000 bedrooms & another 1000 are being built. Our lot were on the same corridor but couldn’t visit each other as the distance was about like Piccadilly Circus to Hyde Park Corner.
I’m told your book is on its way. [2] What an excitement. Shall I try to read it? Advise, please.
Much love
Debo
[1] Christopher Gibbs (1938–). Arbiter of taste and antiques dealer to the stars, had sold his family home in Oxfordshire to live in Morocco.
[2] Words of Mercury.
New Year’s Day 2004
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Here we are, all of it, a sort of sainthood has descended on you quite rightly. [1]
Your peers are a rum lot but life is full of peculiar people. I couldn’t find it in The Times, there were others all beautifully listed but no sign of you. Clever Andrew, who has only got ½ of one eye, did find it. You are called Overseas. Well I don’t know. Anyway a million congrats and v much longing to see you soon.
All love & more congrats from
Debo
[1] PLF received a knighthood in the New Year’s honours list for services to literature and Anglo-Greek relations. DD had sent him a newspaper cutting with the full honours list.
Very early April [2004]
Mani
Darling Debo,
5.55 a.m. Here I sit in the studio, warm as toast, tho’ it’s a nippy morning, because I’m hosed in your wonderful ribbed woollen stockings, absolutely intact in spite of many a winter and many a mile. The best present ever! Why I’m pre-cockcrow like this is: I woke up bleary eyed, peered at the clock, saw it was 9.20, leaped out of bed, bathed and dressed like lightning, then, flinging doors and shutters open, expecting a radiant cold morning, found it still black as a bag. Sleepy eyes had got the lengths of the two clock hands the wrong way round. Confusion of this kind had been brought on by two things: the hours changed a few days ago into summer time, and Elpida, the girl who does everything, starting with brekker, had turned up the same morning with her face covered with red blotches. It was chicken pox, so she’s in hospital for 10 days, as it’s harmless for children – when, I think, I had it – but much more serious for grown-ups. In a way, it’s marvellous; all these dark hours in hand, while sodden slumber still enfolds the world, perfect for what I’m doing this very moment. I’ve been dogged by the guilty feeling I never wrote to say thank you for my lovely sojourn at Dingley Dell. I absolutely loved it.
I know why the Queen was so particularly nice. Before the Honours ceremony at B Palace, a v handsome tall military courtier bore down on me, in blue with a purple fringed sash, red stripe and box spurs and lots of gold on his shoulders, and said, ‘I know all about you! David Airlie’s [1] just been talking to me. Don’t worry! I’ll look after you,’ and did. Obviously, knowing our sovereign likes to scatter a few kind words to the honoured ones, but can’t always think what, he told her that it was my birthday, and she suddenly said, ‘Many happy returns of the day’, and hence my nearly swooning away.
A few days ago was the National Day, anniversary of the raising the flag of defiance of the Turks at the War of Independence. We always fly the Greek flag and the Union Jack on the same pole, and it’s rather a business, climbing up embedded rings to plant the mast into its sockets. Well, we had only just climbed down, when, gazing up at the fluttering display, I suddenly noted that I’d hoisted the Union Jack upside down, a thing that landlubbers are prone to do; only sailors can spot it. But there are none here, we’re well out of sneering range, so I let them flutter on incorrectly.
I must go and dole out some ‘Whiskers’ and ‘Kit-E-Kat’ to the still slumbering clowder, * all piebald and skewbald in amusing patterns. They miss Joan bitterly (they are not the only ones). At first, when I got back and sat in the chair she huddled over chess problems in, they would settle all over one, then, one by one realising I was a fake, wander off. They are beginning to twig that I’m on their side at last. Under the olives round the terrace, masses of freesias she scattered there last spring are shooting up in the grass.
I am sorry about my writing. I’m going to try and reform it. I don’t know what to do about it. Words tend to shrink and huddle.
Christian [Carritt] tells me Andrew has been laid up for several days, but is better now. Please give him my love, as to all.
And heaps of love to you from
Paddy
P.S. Day is breaking. Here is an imaginary conversation (my new genre).
WAKING UP FROM A SIESTA
‘Did anyone call?’
‘No, sir. Oh yes, only that nice Dr Oblivion. He said he didn’t want to wake you up, so he went off with his Gladstone bag full of dates and names. He said you wouldn’t be needing them. And he left these flowers.’
‘What are they?’
‘Forget-me-nots, sir.’
‘They look pretty well dead.’
‘The others are rosemary.’
‘They’re on the way out, too.’
‘Yes, sir. Rosemary for remembrance . . . He said you could get hold of him any time.’
‘Oh, where?’
‘Thirteen, Amnesia Grove, sir.’
[1] David Ogilvy, 8th Earl of Airlie (1926–). A cousin of DD who was Lord Chamberlain 1984–97.
* Correct collective word.
18 April 2004
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
Your mention of nice Dr Oblivion has jogged what is left of my memory. Did you know that for many years he was locum at Great Snoring in Norfolk? Much loved, & the people preferred him to Dr Dose (of Happy Families) who put z instead of s in his name. I don’t know why, a bit vague perhaps. A sort of sleeping partner & nothing like as good as Oblivion.
The dying forget-me-nots & rosemary are all over the garden here.
Both doctors have retired now. Dr O still has all your names & addresses in his Gladstone bag and Dr Doze is a bit of a pest, he keeps ringing up asking the same question again & again.
BUT Dr Christian Carritt is still as sharp as a needle and as kind as a saint. She arranged everything for Andrew at Ed VII, your adored refuge. I’m sorry to say he is far from well, frightfully depressed & sad, won’t eat etc etc. But sometimes he cheers up a bit.
Edensor House, where we lived for 12 years, is being cut up into flats. I went all over it – talk about memories. I could SEE Mr Hore-Belisha [1] sitting up in bed, shouting for newspapers as if we were a hotel. And the bed was the one where Evie (Waugh) slep
t & made a frightful discovery (according to him) of the filled pot in the bedside table.
And the other visitors’ room where Cyril Connolly once slept & complained to me there was lipstick on his pillow, another nail in my housekeeping coffin.
Back to the Drs Oblivion & Doze. Various groups come to see round this old dump, among them a charity to do with an illness. Can’t be sure of its name but I think it ends in heimer. Will they remember to come?
Oh Paddy, what a muddle we’re in.
Much love
Debo
Dr Doze now lives in Sleepy Hollow, next street to Amnesia Grove. He & Oblivion do an act in village halls. The song which raises the roof at every performance is ‘You Forgot To Remember’.
[1] Leslie Hore Belisha (1893–1957). The Conservative MP stayed at Edensor House on two occasions, in 1946 and 1948, when attending political engagements nearby.
[May 2004]
Mani
Darling Debo,
This is just a loving message of sympathy to you for sudden event. Poor Andrew, [1] and POOR YOU! It’s no good telephoning because you are besieged by all of us. So for the moment, nothing but fondest commiseration and constant thought from
Paddy
I heard the tidings yesterday, coming back from the old soldiers’ gathering for the Battle of Kalamata, 1841 – messages from Nicko and Christian, so learnt all news from them.
[1] Andrew Devonshire died on 3 May.
23 June 2004
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
I’ve had 817 cards, haven’t counted the letters but I will when they’re answered. Andrew had such diverse interests & acquaintances from every conceivable organisation from all countries in the world.
No Eskimos yet but they’ll come. You can’t imagine how odd it is reading them. Even from the dullest person there is a sentence which is worthwhile or tells of some generosity to people unknown to me.
It is very strange here without him because he was the hub, everything revolved round him.
Most of the people who look after this place weren’t born when he found himself in charge 54 years ago. Odd thought. They’ve known no other.
So tomorrow is the memorial service at Bolton Abbey. The next day come Jayne Wrightsman, the de la Rentas [1] & an adorable Italian, [2] all part of the summer scene here for years, arranged twelve months ago. Little do they know they are to be joined by Gen Sir Michael Rose, [3] Col of the Coldstream Guards (the one who did Kosovo, hero of many) because Andrew planned a Coldstream day here & 800 present or ex-Guardsmen are coming PLUS THE BAND. So that’s my entertainment for the American friends.
It will kill me because I’ve had some wonderful letters from said Guardsmen who were with Andrew in Italy and one who was with Billy [4] when he was killed. ‘We were so angry we took no prisoners that day.’
OH DEAR what tragedies that war produced.
That’s the coming wk-end. Then London & the service in the Guards’ Chapel. Then home for the unveiling of Lucian’s amazing Skewbald Mare which our works of art fund has bought for this house. An astonishing picture, v moving. At the moment it is in my room but will have to move to the public route when it’s unveiled next week.
This feller Robert Hughes [5] is apparently famous (the one who is unveiling). Never heard of him.
Dr Oblivion may be nice but he’s a bit of a pest & has taken away Magouche’s address when I owe her a letter.
THANKS for v pleasing article. [6]
Much love
Debo
[1] Oscar de la Renta (1932–). Dominican Republic fashion designer and his wife, Annette.
[2] Federico Fourquet; Italian garden designer and interior decorator.
[3] Michael Rose (1940–). The highly decorated general was Commander of the United Nations Protection Force in Bosnia 1994–5.
[4] Andrew Devonshire’s older brother, Billy, was killed by a sniper’s bullet while serving with the Coldstream Guards in Belgium in 1944.
[5] Robert Hughes (1938–). The art critic concluded his speech at the unveiling of Lucian Freud’s painting with, ‘I am filled with admiration for the man who did it and I must say I am filled with jealousy for those who possess it.’
[6] PLF wrote an account of Andrew Devonshire’s funeral for the Spectator, 12 June 2004.
23 July 2004
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
I’ve never known such frenzied activity in this place as we’ve seen in the last month. Coldstream Day closely followed Heywood Hill’s Prize [1] & was soon overtaken by outdoor concerts on three successive nights with the singers Cliff Richard, Donny Osmond & Tom Jones. Ever heard of them? Well lots of people have. Fifteen thousand came for Cliff. Nine women to one man & for Donny nineteen women to one man. The stout Derbyshire behinds in the row in front of us swayed dangerously & totally happy.
One of the odd things was NO litter. Was it because they were old? Probably.
The Col of the Coldstream, General Sir Michael Rose, is a v impressive fellow. One or two ancients who served with Andrew in Italy came. I asked one what he was like: ‘Very good officer, very smart.’ Pause. ‘No, not very smart but a very good officer.’ Incredibly nice of course.
There’s a service for A at Lismore first, 4th Aug. The Mayor of Lismore will do a reading. He has the unexpected name of Khan.
Much love
Debo
[1] A literary prize instigated and funded by Andrew Devonshire, which was awarded yearly, 1995–2004, for ‘a lifetime’s contribution to the enjoyment of books’.
11 September 2004
Chatsworth
Bakewell
Darling Paddy,
I’m sad you’ve GORN but glad for you now you can get back into the sea which must be a sort of heaven.
I thought the enclosed, [1] out of Charlotte’s amazing task of choosing letters from each to each of my sisters & me over 80 years, might amuse. No doubt you stayed in Harold’s dump, probably had that incredible bed/bath room? Throw.
I have been reading them, sort of proof-reading, looking for weeny mistakes & so on. They have taken me back to the olden days like nothing else could, laughing out loud & crying ditto.
Nancy’s four years of torture all came back with a bang. Dear me. Would it all have been better now, drs more merciful etc? She would have been told she’d got cancer, no more whispering in the passage with the drs, at least I do believe it’s better to know. That came from America like baring all re drink & drugs. Generally accepted now & easier for all.
Have you got Nancy/Heywood letters? [2] His are so good. I’ll send pronto if you haven’t. Send a P.C. to say Yes/No.
Much love
Debo
Just found, in a drawer from London, Andrew’s grandfather’s garter thing, been there ever since I suppose, & a tin box with my grandfather’s letter safely headed Windsor Castle to my father in the Boer War. Please picture. Will the lick on the envelope allow the DNA (or whatever it’s called) to answer the question once & for all if he was Clementine Churchill’s father? I can’t bear the idea of Bay Middleton claiming her (see Mary Soames’ book). [3]
[1] DD enclosed a copy of a letter she had written to her sister Diana in 1975 describing a visit to La Pietra, Harold Acton’s villa in Florence. She was reading the typescript of The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters (2007).
[2] The Bookshop at 10 Curzon Street, edited by John Saumarez Smith (2004). Letters between Nancy Mitford and Heywood Hill, founder of the bookshop.
[3] DD’s grandfather, Algernon (Bertie) Mitford, 1st Baron Redesdale (1837–1916), was long rumoured to have been the father of Winston Churchill’s wife, Clementine (1885–1977), the daughter of Redesdale’s wife’s sister, Lady Blanche Hozier. According to Mary Soames’s biography of her mother, another likely candidate was William (Bay) Middleton (1846–92), one of the best horsemen in Britain. Clementine Churchill: The Biography of a Mar
riage (2003), pp. 5–9.
17 September 2004
A.D. Mani
Darling Debo,
A propos of Dr Oblivion, did I ever send you my first hint of untimely forgetfulness? One is at sea, and at the same instant that one forgets something, a German submarine with a skull-and-crossbones flag surfaces, and fires a shot across one’s bows. Then the lid of the conning-tower opens and the top of an admiral, with monocle and fencing scars, sticks out smiling, salutes and says, ‘Gut morning! That is just a sighting shot. I am Admiral von Alzheimer. Ve vill meet again!’, salutes, and sinks . . .
Your letter was jam all through, and especially your 1975 one to Diana from La Pietra. It WAS a fascinating and eerie place. I remember his ancient parents – father in pince-nez and high stiff collar, bolt upright in their amazing furniture. Derek Hill [1] had been there the week before, and the gardeners had been raking up autumn leaves in a bonfire, next to that little circular fane beside the path. Two elderly English ladies were returning from a stroll, and one of them said: ‘What a lot of smoke!’, and Harold (imitated by Derek) said: ‘Ah! When beautiful ladies like you go by, even the Temple of LOVE send za foorth FIUUMES!’ Harold accompanied Joan and me on foot a little way down the road, and Joan said ‘What a business-like walking stick you’ve got!’ ‘It has to be,’ he said, ‘Florence is full of RRASKALLS!’
Yes, I did get Nancy and H Hill’s letters. I’m up to the neck in them now. He’s awfully funny too, and Nancy just as she talked. Joan and I went to lunch twice at the Rue d’Artois, both times with the Colonel, [2] and each time he sat down and picked up his knife and fork, he said ‘Aux armes!’, rather nice. I remembered it from his feasts in that lovely palace in Rome. The second lunch was the last time we saw her, and I can see her still, leaning with hands joined behind her on a sort of railing in the hall. I love the way she always sat up straight, hands joined in her lap, eyes sparkling.
In Tearing Haste Page 38
