Wait for Me!

by Deborah Devonshire

  These galas coincided with the unveiling of the changes, both structural and decorative, made by Stoker and Amanda over the last two or three years to the house and garden at Chatsworth. Although I no longer have a role there, I am still interested in all that happens. The reviews in the press and on television were without a dissenting voice: there was nothing but praise, summed up by the Sun as ‘See Chatsworth before you die’.

  This brought home to me the astonishing change of heart that has taken place over the last sixty years towards places like Chatsworth. The attitude in the old days was: ‘Pull it down, it’s dirty, damp and of no interest. Tax the owners (19/6 in the pound – 97.5 per cent) till the pips squeak and till neither house nor garden survive.’ Neglect and decay of large houses was the order of the day and nature made sure that lack of maintenance resulted in snow and rain finding their way through weak places in roofs and broken windows. Dry rot and deathwatch beetle invaded the interiors, while self-sown sycamores and rampant brambles made sure the garden walls fell to bits. Chatsworth, Hardwick Hall, Compton Place, Bolton Hall and Lismore Castle were what is now described as ‘at risk’, along with hundreds of other houses, gardens and estate villages all over the country. It was not until 1974 (twenty-four years after Andrew inherited his father’s possessions along with the eighty per cent death duties they carried) that an exhibition at the V&A, ‘The Destruction of the Country House’, drew attention to the numbers of such places that are lost and gone for ever. It may have been the turning point in public opinion.

  Slowly, slowly, hostility towards owners who had been struggling to maintain their old homes turned, first to grudging admiration of their efforts and then to adulation if they had managed to keep their roofs on. I have watched with incredulity this turn of events, from the days when coal was dug from opencast mines within a few yards of the front of Wentworth Woodhouse in Yorkshire (the largest private house in England), when no English women would do domestic work at a place like Chatsworth and when it was rumoured that Derbyshire County Council intended to run the A6 road along the river in front of the house, to the present, when pride and delight is taken in what is now called our ‘heritage’ – the word itself reflecting the sense of proprietorship felt by many people.

  These developments are near the heart to me and mean a great deal to the people who live round about. The fact that so much survives at Chatsworth is in large measure due to Andrew, and I believe that his liberal attitude towards our visitors may have played a part in turning the general view upside down. I have also enjoyed watching some of my own ideas come to fruition: the Farm Shop (which opened against all professional advice), the house shops and catering (the latter employs the largest number of people in any one department) and the Farmyard (which plays its part in linking country and town). The reputation of these ventures spread and many owners of other houses open to visitors came to Chatsworth ‘to see how to do it’, and then went home to put something similar into practice – the highest form of flattery.

  In spite of Andrew’s assertion that I did not know the difference between turnover and profit, the businesses have prospered in a most satisfactory way, and make a significant contribution to the Chatsworth House Trust and the Chatsworth Settlement Trustees. When I left Chatsworth in 2005 they had a combined turnover of £7.6 million and employed 269 people – 51 per cent of the estate payroll. It goes without saying that without the support of the staff none of this would have been possible.

  My new house and garden are a continual delight and I find twenty roses just as interesting as two hundred, and so on down the line. I am sure that, with the affection and encouragement of my children, my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren, together with that of my most valued friends, there is lots more to come. For now, I look back on a wonderful life watching other people work.

  Appendix I

  President Kennedy’s Inauguration, 1961

  The jumble of impressions of the last three days is so thick with oddness and general amazement it’s very difficult to put them in any sort of order. The utter sweetness of our Ambassador, Andrew hopping about being humble and saying that his job as parliamentary under-secretary makes him a very junior minister, the deliciousness of the brekker, the warmth of the embassy, the dread coolth of outdoors, the friendliness of the Kennedys and the extraordinary informality of the most solemn moments. My word, it is an odd country.

  Thursday 19 January

  The first day was mercifully quiet after the journey, which was very long (we came down at Shannon for some strange reason, also the plane from New York was late so we arrived at the embassy at what was 4.30 a.m. for us, having left London at 2 p.m. the day before – fourteen and a half hours).

  They raked in some embassy people for lunch, so that was easy. Then it started to snow and it snowed and snowed, and although Snow Plans A, B, C and D were put into operation, the capital city of the USA pretty well seized up, as they are not prepared for such an eventuality. Cars were abandoned in the middle of streets; engines chuck it very easily it seems and snow gets packed under the mudguards so that the wheels won’t go round.

  We were given tickets for the gala performance which was to raise money for the Democrats, who are $4 million in debt after the election (seats $1,000). So we buggered off to the place called the Armory, which is about twice the size of Olympia and the same idea. The embassy gave us a car while we were there, a very old-fashioned English thing called an Austin Princess. It took two and a half hours to get to the blooming Armory. It should have taken twenty minutes but the traffic was solid and so many cars broke down in the queue to get there. Our heater broke and I had only a fur cape, my word it was bitter. Andrew panicked all the way as the tickets said we had to be there at 8.30 and the President Elect was due at 9.00. At about 10.00 he said we’d better give it up and go home but luckily we couldn’t as we were hemmed in on all sides by dread cars. The cold was extreme, about twenty degrees of frost, snowing hard and a bitter wind.

  We finally loomed and by a miracle arrived at a very good time, viz. about ten minutes before the Kennedys. We needn’t have worried as people were coming and going all the time, which we weren’t to know. I thought it would be like a royal do in England but it was far from it.

  We had marvellous seats, next to the Kennedys’ box and between two very grand senators and their wives, who looked slightly down their noses at two complete strangers having such good places, till various Kennedys came and were fearfully nice, especially Bobby (who turns out to be attorney general with a staff of 35,000) who hugged us. Old Joe Kennedy, that well-known hater of England and the English, was very welcoming, and to crown all Jack came and said hello, to the astonishment of our senatorial neighbours.

  The performance included all my favourites: Frank Sinatra, Jimmy Durante, Nat King Cole, Ethel Merman, Tony Curtis, Ella Fitzgerald, to mention a few, also Laurence Olivier and the chief American opera singer called Helen Traubel, who sang in a huge voice some ridiculous verses about the Kennedys’ baby. It was WONDERFUL, especially at the finale when they had all done their turns and they ended up doing skits on popular songs with topical words. So unrehearsed were they that they had to read their lines and somehow it was so funny, just like Women’s Institute theatricals at home, but when one looked again, there were all those famous faces. I adored all that.

  We got home at 3 a.m. The heat in the house was fantastic. I opened all windows and slept with one blanket but it was still BOILING.

  Friday 20 January

  Next day was the actual inauguration. Left the embassy about 10 a.m. in order to be in our places at 11. Long queues of cars as we neared the Capitol. Anyone of note – ambassadors, senators, governors of States – had their name or country on the side of the car. We were next to some ratty-looking souls from Bulgaria in one traffic block, it made one think.

  Eventually arrived at the Capitol. Horrid getting out as it was so cold with a cruel wind. The ambassadress had given me some long nylon stoc
kings and knickers combined, also some rubber boots to put over my shoes. It was fearfully cold with these things – without them, heaven knows, I think I would have frozen to death. They gave Andrew a flask of whiskey but he still shivered throughout and put his scarf round his head (like the Queen). We were told to wear top hats and smart things – both absolutely unnecessary as people were dressed for the Arctic. Some women had come in ridiculous flowered hats, which they soon covered up with scarves, rugs and anything to hand.

  It was difficult to find our seats, no one knew where anything was, not even the few policemen who were about. When we eventually found our places they were very good for seeing – we were on street level, immediately in front of the Capitol where the ceremony was to take place, on a large balcony, high up but all plainly visible. Our seats were wooden strips, no backs, no floor and snow everywhere. No numbers or reserved places, one just sat where one liked on forms like at a school treat. Next to us were two Pakistanis with cameras. Just in front of me was old Mrs Roosevelt who had arrived an hour before we did and must have been terribly cold. The organization seemed so vague I was afraid it would all be very late and we would be pillars of ice but in fact it started only a quarter of an hour after the appointed time.

  The balcony of the Capitol was full of senators and congressmen sitting either side of the roofed pavilion from where Jack was to speak. The Capitol is faced with gleaming white marble and looked fine against the blue sky and snow, though the dome is painted just off-white, which slightly spoils the brilliant effect. Various members of the Kennedy family arrived. The girls – Eunice, Pat and Jean – were without hats, which seemed surprising for such a formal event. One could pick out the Eisenhowers, Trumans – Margaret and hubby – old Joe and Mrs Kennedy, but they were about the only people I knew by sight. Nixon and Mrs soon joined them.

  Tension was mounting for Jack’s arrival but it was badly arranged from a dramatic point of view – so different from things in England. No proper path was made for him through the crowd – people started shouting and suddenly there he was. Jackie looked very smart indeed in plain clothes of pale beige; the only woman who looked dressed at all.

  There was a long pause after his arrival. People were cold and were stamping their feet. The star was there but nothing was happening. Eventually, the master of ceremonies announced some tune by the band and a famous gospel singer, Mahalia Jackson, whom I’d never heard of, sang ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’. Then the swearing-in and four prayers – Roman Catholic cardinal, Jewish rabbi, Greek Orthodox priest and a Protestant – all much too long and not at all moving or impressive. Nobody paid the slightest attention and even the senators took photographs throughout, moving about to get in better positions. Some people in our row didn’t stand up for the prayers. My Pakistani neighbour, at the third one, gave me a wink and said, ‘Let’s sit this one out’, which I was going to do anyway as the rug fell in the snow every time we stood up.

  Jack’s speech was wonderful, the words were so good, almost biblical. Everyone was thankful to get up and move when it was over as we could only think of getting out of the cold and wind. We were told there was a bus reserved for the Kennedy family which we were to get on, but it seemed impossible to find. No one knew anything and there was no official-looking person to ask. After pushing and shoving and, in desperation, even stopping to ask a police car, we found it at last and the relief of getting into an overheated bus was wonderful.

  In the bus we found Eunice and her husband (whose Christian name is Sargent, if you please, fearfully nice though). We were driven to a hotel for lunch with the family and close friends. Lots of grandchildren milling about, lots of delicious buffet food. Jack and Jackie, and Bobby and Ethel had lunch in the Capitol with the Cabinet, so weren’t there. Back into the bus (which had a label on it ‘Kennedy Family’ like ‘Chatsworth Tours’) and through the guarded gates into the garden of the White House, whereupon all the people in the bus gave a loud cheer, led by Eunice, and shouted ‘Here we are’.

  As I got into the hall of the White House, a Marine stepped forward, gave me his arm and armed me all the way through the house to the President’s stand, from where we watched the parade. Andrew and I had seats several rows back. (All the seats were marked with people’s names. The Marine asked me mine, I said, ‘Devonshire’, so he said, ‘Mrs Devonshyer, you are heeere.’) Next to us were Mr and Mrs Charles Wrightsman, who never turned up because they thought it too cold. The box had a roof and was enclosed at the sides with perspex but it was still extremely draughty and bitterly cold, even though there were army rugs on each seat.

  The stands were gimcrack and the decorations practically nil, just a few small flags. Queer for such a rich country. The diplomats were next to us, sitting on raised forms, completely in the open. The Eastern ones looked so cold I felt terribly sorry for them as there was no escape and they couldn’t leave till the parade was over.

  The parade itself was an extraordinary mixture of Army, Navy and Air Force with girls’ bands, majorettes in fantastic uniforms with long legs in pink tights, crinolined ladies on silver-paper floats, horses from the horsy states all looking a bit moth-eaten, army tanks, dread missiles (rhymes with ‘epistles’) on carriers, bands everywhere. One man marching by in an air-force contingent broke ranks, whipped out a camera, took a photograph of the President and joined in again. Imagine a Coldstream guardsman doing the same at the Trooping of the Colour.

  The television cameras and a host of other photographers were immediately opposite the President’s stand. The cameras were on him the whole afternoon. The informality was so queer – the President drinking coffee and eating a biscuit as the parade marched by. But he stood there for over three hours.

  After about an hour and a half a message came, Would I go and sit beside him. It was the oddest feeling I’ve ever had, finding myself a sort of consort, standing by this man, talking to him during lapses in the parade. The telly people were stumped by the advent of a strange English lady; they knew the politicians and the film stars but not ordinary foreigners. We told Sir Harold Caccia when we got back and he said no English woman had ever done that before, so I did feel pleased.

  Jack Kennedy has got an aura all right and he was obviously enjoying it all so much. After about three-quarters of an hour he said would we like to go with his father to the White House for tea, which I took to mean I’d been there long enough. The White House is very good inside, big rooms covered in silk, one dark red, one dark green, a huge creamishcoloured ballroom and a rather awful round room covered in a horrid blue Adam-design silk, which everyone seemed to like best. The diner is green, I’m sorry to say, painted solid gloomy green, pillars and all. Pictures of presidents all over the shop, all ghoulish.

  We didn’t see the President again as he was still at the parade when we left after tea. Got back to the embassy about 6.15 to be told dinner at 7.15, so I rushed to dress for the ball. Luckily I didn’t take a tiara, which various people said I ought to have done, as no one wore one and I would have looked like a daft opera singer dressed up for Wagner. Mercifully only the Caccias for dinner. Afterwards we were taken by them to a party given by some cinema people. Lots of ambassadors and grandees there, a sort of after-dinner cocktail party. They don’t mind the press like we do, and no wonder as they write in a very different way from ours, perfectly friendly and no sting in it.

  Then back to the Armory for the Inaugural Ball. This time no traffic jam and we arrived without difficulty. All the seating at floor level had been removed and a vast dancing floor put in its place. Shown to the President’s box again, where we sat until someone said there was drink and a telly in a room at the back. So we made off there and saw Mrs David Bruce, a friend of Nancy [Mitford]’s, rather beautiful and probably coming to London with her husband as ambassador. Without any warning, the President suddenly walked into the room and was taken off to a television interview next door. Meanwhile we watched his inaugural speech again on the telly.

  B
ack to the Presidential box to watch the dancing, which didn’t happen because everyone stood looking up at the box, waiting for Jack to appear. When he did he got terrific applause. He didn’t go down to the dance floor but talked to various people along his row. Wherever he goes he is like a queen bee, surrounded by photographers, detectives, nexts of kin and worshippers. By this time, we were sitting in the topmost tier just below the roof. As Jack came back along the first row, fenced in as usual by humans, he saw us, broke away and climbed over seven rows of seats to say goodbye, to the utter astonishment of the people sitting either side of us. A photographer who had got, as he thought, a very bad place and who had been grumbling, was now able to take the closest close-up of all.

  I told Jack about Unity [Mitford]’s letter of twenty-one years ago saying how he was going to have a terrific future. I also asked him if he knew Harold Macmillan and he said he was going to see him soon. We said how we were loving everything that had been arranged for us, to which he replied that we’d stuck it well. He and Jackie then left. We waited till some of the crush had dispersed and thought we’d leave too. Andrew went out into the bitter night to look for the chauffeur – no sign of him. Eventually he was found, the car had broken and there we were with no hope of getting home. After an hour and a half the chauffeur suggested we take Labour leader Mr Gaitskell’s car and send it back for him. By a miracle we saw Gaitskell among the 10,000 people there and thankfully squashed into his car, me sitting on a drunken lady who answered ‘balls’ to everything I said.

  Saturday 21 January