T. Tightwad (proprietor and candidate for insolvency)
I have been back home, albeit briefly, and manage to cause the usual stress about the phone bill.
Budds Farm
7 January
Dear Charles,
I hope you are enjoying yourself and that neither you nor the young desperado you are with has run into serious trouble. We have been trying to spring-clean your room. I reckon Hercules would not have bellyached so much about mucking out the Augean Stables if he had had to have a go at your zimmer! There seemed to be sufficient equipment to start two quite big garages and enough wastepaper and empty cigarette packets to feed a bonfire of considerable size and power. Possibly because of my middle-class and military background, and a faint hankering towards a mild degree of cleanliness and order, I was slightly shocked. However, I have bought you a nice wicker dirty clothes basket (Ali Baba model), a five-drawer metal cabinet for your letters, receipts, writs, summonses, bills, lewd photographs, etc., etc., and a small fan-type electric heater so I hope you will be slightly more comfortable and better equipped. Your mother is tidying out your clothes and costumes tomorrow.
I had lunch with Sylvia Hambro yesterday and that Rolls-Royce will soon be available. She is very distressed because her eldest son wants to marry a tarty American divorcée aged about thirty-six and tough as a pair of Army boots. No news from Jane. Louise has been to two dances and is liverish. Cringer has worms and your poor mother continues to worry about everything and your future in particular. We had drinks with the Hislops on Sunday; the farouche appearance of the younger Hislop boy makes you look almost normal by comparison; is he rehearsing the part of St John the Baptist in a school play, do you think? Not much news in the papers; one member of a pop group ran over his own chauffeur and killed him, while a guitarist from another group has lost a leg doing something or other. Cousin John appeared on TV in a feature on Ian Fleming.
Don’t do anything rash, and keep off the more sordid forms of self-indulgence.
D
Dad adopts a more mellowed stance towards my most disreputable of companions and my shortcomings generally.
Hypothermia House
Monday
Dear Lupin,
Thank you for your letter. I do not wish to pursue the correspondence in respect of the telephone bill. De minimis non curat lex [The law will not concern itself with such trifles]. Your mother has a nasty cold and is extremely crotchety in consequence. The Roper-Caldbecks are just back from a holiday in Devonshire. Owing to persistent rain they never left their hotel, which fortunately was warm and comfortable. We have had the big Budds Farm shoot, which proved a success. Three pheasants in varying stages of mobility were slaughtered between the rubbish heap and the top of the croquet lawn: after which the guns, or to be more accurate the gun, a boy of fifteen, retired for tea and crumpets. I have just been sent a book to review by the author, whom I greatly dislike. Hardly a single name is spelled correctly and the book is wildly inaccurate in every respect. There is an unfortunate reference to Mr Cottrill who hopes to be able to sue for libel. In the Sunday Telegraph there was a lot about Mrs Christian Miller of Newtown who at the age of fifty-four has gone round America on a collapsible bicycle. Farmer Luckes has had another stroke. An alternative route for the Highclere bypass has been proposed. If accepted, lorries will pass through our stable. Mr Parkinson is being driven barmy by his mother-in-law who is usually pissed and never stops talking the most fearful balls. A lady in Newbury has strangled her ever-loving husband with a dressing-gown cord. Jeffrey Bernard is in court at Newbury today over a combination of motor accident and unpaid debts. I think his wife has done a pineapple chunk.V. cold here today and thick ice on the water butt.
Yours ever
In a moment of wild desperation I agree to try my hand at attending agricultural college with a view ultimately to becoming a farmer. Instead, without warning and at the last minute, I become manager of a multinational rock band. This does not improve my mother’s mood or anxiety level: ‘What you need, my dear boy, is a raison d’être.’
Dampwalls
Burghclere
Newbury
27 June
Dear Lupin,
I think I forgot to tell you that the most immaculately dressed man I met in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot was the popular baker, James Staples. I had never seen him out of his red jersey before. It is quite peaceful here and I am watching a horde of rabbits and various birds of evil character destroy the garden. I am getting worried about the oil situation here next winter and am thinking of alternative forms of heating, including thick vests, longs pants and balaclava helmets. I had a reminder that the summer is passing when I received a request today to order regimental Christmas cards. I had dinner with the Parkinsons last night. I have rarely seen a garden with a richer crop of weeds. The Surtees garden is immaculate except where Major S. upset a can of weed-killer on the lawn. Mr Parkinson took some children (rashly, in my view) to the Air Display and had a truly horrific time. I think your mother is due home tomorrow. I have no news of any rows with Jane yet.
Your affec. father,
RM
P.S. I have been paid my fee by ‘Pacemaker’.
Only my father could worry about the onset of winter in mid-June.
Budds Farm
23 October
My Dear Lupin,
I have received the enclosed letter from a Mr Sunderland, of whom I have never heard. Perhaps an impoverished literary hack like your father. If I have given you any family relics that would help, could you dig them out when you next come here?
I’m sorry to hear you are poorly. Are you getting enough to eat?
Yours ever,
RM
Mr Sunderland was putting together the history of our ancestor Sir John Hamilton Mortimer, RA. He lived in the eighteenth century, was a very successful artist and died from serious over-indulgence before he was forty.
1976
The Droolings
Much Muttering
Berks
11 July
My Dear Charles,
I hope your strength is holding out and that you are thus able to enjoy honest labour with well-earned relaxation. I have just been reading in The Times of fearful storms in the south-west of France. I have heard nothing of your sister and Hot Hand Henry. Can it be true that they are residing at a nudist colony on one of the remoter Greek Islands? It would surely be a weird choice for a honeymoon? Or perhaps not. Except for the first fortnight at their preparatory school a honeymoon is for most people the least happy experience of their life. Mr Parkinson woke up on the third morning of his first honeymoon and found that his ever-loving wife had done a pineapple chunk. I think Mr P. is scouting around for a fourth wife. If he does succeed in his quest, I hope I shall be best man again: it has become part of the tradition. I stayed with Cousin Tom last week. Among the guests were Sir D. Plummer, head of the Betting Levy Board, and Lady P. He is very ambitious and set on a life peerage: she is the epitome of Dorking and Reigate. Lady P. dipped her nut a bit too far into the martini bucket and became more or less unplayable. We got her up to bed fairly early and she kept on sending urgent messages down to her husband, intimating that he was to come up at once as she could not wait for him! (Why not? The mind boggles, whatever that means.) Next day Lady P. had a teeny bit of a hangover and looked like a pug recovering from distemper. We went to a very good midday party at the Herns yesterday where there was a lot to drink and your dear mother took advantage of that fact. Nor, in fact, did I stint myself. The Gaselees were there, Surtees, Walwyns and most of the Lambourn racing mob. A former jockey called Stan Clayton, who breeds budgerigars, was good enough to tell me all about his blood pressure, while a tall lady in an azure wig explained at some length why she loathed her husband so much. Perhaps I am a sympathetic listener: possibly I just lack the energy to move away. We had lunch at 3.30 chez Surtees where I dropped asleep with a glass in my hand and spilt the contents all over my
new ‘special offer’ trousers. Of course, ill-natured persons suggested I peed during my brief period of repose which I am happy to say was an unfounded allegation. I am fairly busy signing bills is respect of Louise’s party. Hire of the racecourse cost me £40, less that I had anticipated. I am not looking forward to the Blackwell wedding as I shall see too many relations. I slightly know the bride’s parents. He is a rather stupid man but I think he has at least had the sense to avoid working. Mrs G. is one of Mr P.’s many ex-girlfriends, nice and bouncy according to Mr P. Jewish. I think an infusion of Jewish blood probably does most families good. For obvious reasons I hope so.
Your affec. father,
RM
My younger sister is now married and I am taking a well-earned break in the south of France with a little part-time chauffeuring thrown in for good measure.
Budds Farm
14 July
Dear Charles,
Thank you so much for the tastefully chosen postcard you so kindly sent me. It is grey and cold here and I have been stockpiling wood for the rapidly approaching winter. I am not at my best today as I think I have given myself a slight hernia bending down to cut my toenails with my gardening scissors. Your mother is rather crotchety but luckily is off to Jersey tomorrow for a boating holiday. I shall lead a relaxed life here, having meals when I like and looking at the TV programmes I like. Nor shall I be under any obligation to pretend that I am deaf. Pongo, thank God, is in a boarding kennel and all I need for happiness is some warm weather. Tomorrow I am off to stay with the Surtees and go to a play at Newbury. I have just received the bill for the reception: £429 is not exactly cheap considering it did not include £305 for drink. I have heard no news from Plump Louise and Hot Hand Henry: nor from Miss Bossy Pants up in Northumberland. I rather doubt if I shall go and stay at Brocks Clumps or whatever the Torday Château is called. The combination of your mother, your sister and two small children might be very tiring for someone of my age and delicate health. A Mrs Collingwood from Ecchinswell came to supper: her ever-loving husband has just done a pineapple chunk with a saucy nurse. There was a paragraph in the Newbury News that will not be greeted with hearty cheers by all concerned to the effect that a gigantic wedding is taking place on Saturday between a representative of the Gilbey family which churns out gin and the heir to the Blackwell fortune which is derived from baked beans! I remember some music-hall comedian being sued for libel for saying ‘Any port in a storm – even Gilbeys!’ I had a letter from Cousin John who is v. angry because Eton beat Harrow at cricket and considers this unexpected victory was achieved through blatant cheating by one of the umpires. The downstairs lavatory is leaking quite badly but otherwise the house is standing up reasonably well. Tiny Man’s breath would drive a small car.
Your affec. father,
RM
A familiar theme: it’s midsummer but as far as my dad’s concerned it’s time to get supplies in for the ‘rapidly approaching winter’.
Dear Charles,
I hope you are settling down to the routine of thermometers, enemas, bedpans, hospital meals at queer times, other people’s awful noises, tepid Horlicks and so forth. It is not much fun to start with but it is apt to grow on you insidiously. I expect the weekend will be unattractive as the hospital will be crammed with proletarian visitors, including many children of repellent appearance and anti-social behaviours. I hope there will not be a strike by the NUPE workers during your stay. They have the reputation of being extremely militant (in other words, bloody-minded) at Basingstoke and are under the leadership of a black female communist. Let me know if there is anything you need. I will come and see you tomorrow. Your mother is coming today and I know I should not be able to get a word in edgeways. I hope the doctors are adequate: I shall be surprised if you should see one that is not as black as ten feet up a factory chimney. Audrey has just fucked up my typewriter which has put me in a bad temper. She is a very agreeable woman but possesses a capacity for petty annoyance almost beyond belief. In some ways she is a sort of human Pongo whom I would willingly exterminate about ten times a day, though I would be filled with remorse afterwards if I did actually slay him. Not much local news: three people were roasted to death in a car accident at Theale. Mr Randall is back on duty, thank God.
Yours ever
R
Entirely due to excessive consumption of hard drugs and alcohol I am rushed to Basingstoke Hospital with liver failure. Dad’s synopsis of hospital life proves fairly accurate. My mother (sometimes known as the Bureau of Misinformation) is desperately worried and following my liver biopsy calls a distant cousin who is a doctor for advice: ‘I’m most frightfully worried about my son Charles, they’ve just done an autopsy on him.’
Budds Farm
18 November
My Dear Lupin,
I am so glad you are out of the woods and that your complete recovery is, with luck, just a matter of time and patience. You will, though, have to go slow for some time yet and take your convalescence seriously: no larking about. Cassandra rang up and may come and see you today. In the meantime, you will have leisure to plan in general terms for the future and devise some sort of scheme. Paul is in good form. Happily he is rising in the world with a speed comparable to that at which I am descending. I think he will end up with a château on the Tyne and as the local Master of Foxhounds. Jane will probably run the Red Cross and open bazaars in aid of the Conservative Party. Paul takes a fairly disenchanted view of Philps and thinks he is very tough and pretty hot, well capable of looking after himself. He (Paul) knows the man who bought the picture and rates him in the World Class as a creep. I gather the Tordays move into the wall-to-wall carpeted Castle quite soon. No doubt there will be a ball there (white ties: decorations will be worn). The more I see of Paul the more I like him. I wish I could repeat the remark in respect of HHH who in fact is probably no worse than a fearful bore who talks the most appalling drivel. However, he is apparently good at gutting rabbits (an example of Newton’s Law of Compensation). Thursday is easily my favourite day as I draw my pension and for nearly twenty-four hours have an illusion of affluence. Cringer slept on my bed last night. His bad smells are so vile that they actually wake me up as effectively as a door being slammed. I see a Mrs Parker-Bowles married young Irwin yesterday. I wonder which Mrs P-B. that was? When I read of the goings-on in Parliament while the country sinks soggily into bankruptcy, I think that your Aunt Barbara would be entirely in place there. I am glad to say none of my family has ever demeaned themselves by becoming an MP. I believe your mother’s uncle at one time represented Newmarket. He died of drink, thereby establishing a precedent followed by his wife and elder son. It is an expensive way of doing oneself in nowadays.
Try and keep reasonably cheerful (I’m sure Mr Boyce used to say ‘Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem’ [‘Remember when life’s path is steep to keep your mind even’]). You may never have another opportunity to lie on your bed after breakfast and read ‘Playboy’ or ‘Whitehouse’. (Newton’s Law of Compensation again?)
Your affec. father,
RM
I am finally due to leave hospital after eight weeks.
1977
Budds Farm
30 March
Dear Lupin,
I am delighted to have you living here and enjoying the modest facilities and comforts that your mother and I provide. All are free BAR THE TELEPHONE. If my name was Onassis I would probably (though not certainly) permit you to have free calls but frankly I cannot afford that particular gesture. Moreover I am by nature unsympathetic to all telephone users. Our last two telephone bills have amounted to some £275. The one received today adds up to £117.38p. I think my share of that is about 10p. I hope I am not being grossly unfair (a little unfairness is always to be expected in matters of this sort) if I charge you £50 as your share of the last two bills. A lot of your calls are due to Unimog and presumably can be charged to your firm, assuming there is sufficient money in the kitty.
&
nbsp; Your affec. father,
RM
Convalescence at home has the odd hiccup, the phone bill being one of them. In a moment of insanity a friend buys 300 ex-Army Unimogs (four-wheel drive trucks) all stranded in a wood in Germany. He employs me as sidekick/salesman.
Budds Farm
1 August
Dear Miniwad,
I hope you are well and keeping clear of the more tiresome sort of trouble. I gave little Miss Bossy Pants lunch at the Ladbroke Club and she ordered smoked salmon mousse, the most expensive thing on the card! Also she ordered tomato juice but kept on taking jumbo swigs at my martini. Afterwards Paul joined us and we went to Heywood Hill’s bookshop; then on to Major Surtees where he was in conference with some bibulous Dutchmen, one of whom lives next door to Paul’s factory in Holland so they got on pretty well. For some reason or other I got on the wrong train at Waterloo but luckily I quite like Bournemouth. Hot Hand Henry complained to Jane that I don’t like him. There is indeed substance in his complaint. In fact, I don’t like any of his family but Louise chose them, not me. Your dear mother is endeavouring to live on a purely liquid diet with unfortunate results. One evening she popped my dinner into her car and drove off with it, saying she was going to give it to the poor! I was a little surprised, therefore, to find she had dropped it at the Bomers. The next night with unerring aim she threw a fairly revolting plate of charred mincemeat over my chair. Stirring times indeed! We went to a big lunch at the Roper-Caldbecks yesterday. Your mother is mad about a short man called Lloyd-Webber whose wife has diabetes. Mrs Boxall has gone to live in Hannington. She is due to marry again soon but the child is likely to be born first. I believe the husband-to-be writes TV scripts (a polite expression, usually, for being unemployed and short of treacle). I went to Goodwood which is v. democratic these days. In the Richmond Stand I saw a stout lady remove her shoes in order to massage the huge expanse of her escort’s stomach. His response was minimal judging from the lady’s language which was very frank indeed.
Dear Lupin... Page 6