Your affec. father,
RM
Expect you back in the autumn.
My mother is christened ‘Meals on Wheels in Reverse’ after she removes Dad’s dinner and delivers it in her car to our rather surprised neighbours.
Budds Farm
Dear Charles,
In the lavatories of my preparatory school someone had written up on the wall the time-honoured couplet:
‘How eager for fame a man must be
To write up his name in a W.C.’
How eager for fame (or something) a man of twenty-five must be to give, unasked presumably, an imitation of a defunct pop-singer during an auction in London. However, few of our relations, fortunately perhaps, see the Daily Mirror. The Daily Telegraph kindly concealed your name.
I have no particular feelings about your performance beyond finding it, as I find most amateur entertainments, mildly embarrassing. I trust the incident will not affect your election to the Turf Club: some people may not have cared for it all that much. However, if you are blackballed, then it will give me the excuse to resign myself and join some dinner club more in keeping with my diminished income.
I have not entirely avoided publicity myself and saw myself described in some publication as an ‘engaging raconteur’, which is doubletalk for an egocentric and longwinded bore.
I trust that you are keeping moderately well and finding the occasional odd job to keep you partially occupied.
Your affectionate father,
RM
In honour of the sudden and premature demise of Elvis Presley some antique-dealer friends bet me £300 to jump up on the display table at a big Sotheby’s sale and give my impersonation of ‘The King’ singing ‘Blue Suede Shoes’. It is an essential component of the bet that a lot of leg-shaking is evident. My father is frankly unimpressed. However, I do make the front page of the Daily Mirror: ‘Cheeky Charlie goes for a song.’
Dear Little Mr Reliable,
Thanks a million for doing the wood baskets as promised. My word, your employer is going to be a very lucky man!
D
It takes real skill and irony to craft such an effective dressing down in so few words.
1978
Budds Farm
26 August
Dear Lupin,
I am delighted, even if slightly surprised, to hear that you are adding cricket to your growing list of accomplishments. I shall watch your performance at Burghclere with much interest. I hope you peppered the grouse successfully and did not perforate your fellow-guests to any marked extent. Your mother enjoyed her trip to Jersey and returned bringing a crab the size of a whippet tank. It needed a sledge-hammer to crack the shell. At Whitchurch yesterday three men forced their way into a house at lunch-time, tied up the occupants and removed all the kit of any value. Martin McLaren’s brother dropped down dead on holiday in Scotland. Pongo has been unwell and the vet has put him on a most expensive diet. We had drinks with Mrs Hislop yesterday and for once your mother was utterly out-talked. The Dowager Lady de Mauley bred Totowah who won the big race at York at 20/1. I spent the morning cutting down weeds and brambles: unfortunately the belladonna (I think) proved allergic to my skin (or vice versa) and my arms have come up in purple golf balls, which is disconcerting. We are having dinner tonight with the Gaselees: I hope we don’t get mixed up with the Lambourn Festival, which is in full swing. Little Miss Cod’s Eyes has got Lizzie Jamieson staying with her. The Basingstoke dustmen have been on strike for three weeks and you can now smell that revolting town two miles away. I fear we may be in the throes of a General Election soon. I think it would be better to have one year of total boredom with a General Election, American Presidential Election, the Election of the Pope, the World Cup and the Olympic Games. Any spare time on TV to be filled by show-jumping and by groups of earnest parents discussing either sex-education for children or the problems of bringing up a family of spastics. I have just discovered my passport is invalid; so is your mother’s but it was not noticed when she arrived at St Malo last week! I hope there are not a lot of Arabs in SW6 or sooner or later you will come under fire. I remember the panic in SW1 in 1921 when Field Marshal Sir Henry Wilson, an awful old shit as a matter of fact, was shot in Eaton Square by a one-legged Irishman. A lot of people who had served under Wilson in the war wanted to get up a subscription for the man who had potted him. Wilson was in uniform but unfortunately his scabbard was rusty and he could not extract his sword to have a slash at the assassin.
Your affec. father,
RM
P.T.O.
The most interesting murderer I ever met was Ronald True who did fearful things to a woman in the Fulham Road area. He could be quite amusing but suddenly it would become apparent that he was totally bonkers. You ought to read about his case. Mrs Willett (the first one) had her fridge repaired by that vampire man who melted down Mrs Durand-Deacon into sludge. I met at Aldershot a gunner officer’s wife who had murdered her loving spouse with strychnine put into some roast partridge, but it could never be proved. The murder Oscar Wilde wrote about in ‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol’ was a Lifeguardsman who cut the throat of a lady working in the Eton Post Office.
I am (for some extraordinary reason) asked to play in a cricket team by a well-known local impresario against the cast of the musical Evita. To everyone’s shame I am forced to bowl underarm to complete an over and am caught out first ball by ‘General Perón’.
Chez Nidnod
26 September
Dear Lupin,
We are off to France this evening so a certain degree of flip-flap on the part of your dear mother is only to be anticipated. The cottage seems to be in demand. Yesterday a plump, jolly young man came down and I found he is the son of an old friend of mine, Pat Rathcreedan, who lives at Henley. The young gent, whose name is Thornton, owns a horse and a wife and wants to settle down here. Old Lady Norrie, whom I knew fifty years ago, wants to have a look round, and a couple from Sussex called Andrews have offered £27,000 (subject to survey, of course). They are in the thirties and seem respectable middle-class. We had dinner chez Surtees on Sunday. When they went to their villa in Elba, they found it had been broken into, vandalised and stripped by American and German hippies. They spent a week on hands and knees scrubbing up unspeakable filth. The hippies prowled around outside accompanied by large and extremely ferocious dogs. Anne Surtees did not dare go out by herself.
It has been v. hot and on Sunday we sat outside drinking champagne with the Bomers. The Grissells stayed here, neither in good form. I have evicted a platoon of exceptionally hairy and hostile spiders from our bathroom. The effort of producing a baby seems to have exhausted HHH more than Louise! Your godfather F. Fletcher is doing well as a pottery-mender: I have seen some of his work. It has been a good blackberry season and I have picked a lot, accompanied by an amiable bullock who now answers to the name of Nigel.
Your affec. father,
RM
Pure bliss for my dad is a bottle of chilled champagne, on the terrace, with our neighbours.
Thank you so much for your contribution to the dinner last night. I enjoyed myself very much though I did not much fancy Nidnod’s drinking on the way home. I prefer it when she is not being a female Fangio.
I’m sorry about your ulcer: it is hell not feeling well at your age. At mine, I’d die of shock if I felt anything but half-dead.
RM
To describe my mother’s driving as hair-raising on occasions would be an understatement.
Château Gloom
Burghclere
Sunday
Dear Lupin,
I trust your stomach is more or less under control and that you are deriving a modicum of benefit from those expensive pills. It is cold and damp here and both boilers have been behaving in a typically erratic manner. I did some baby-watching for the Bomers last night (the baby is eleven years old) and your mother departed for a beano at Inkpen. I think gin was in fairly abundant supply there and it had the cus
tomary effect of making your mother behave like Queen Boadicea on her return home. There are now three deaf people in the house – Moppet, Pongo and myself. It is sometimes fortunate that I am unable to catch everything said to me. Your mother is still convinced that a poltergeist whipped away a sausage she was cooking and I expect she will call in the Rev. Jardine for consultation. A lot of policeman descended on Mr Luckes’s house yester day but I have been unable to find out why. I thought I had the cottage sold yesterday but your mother interfered at the last moment and now I am somewhat doubtful. Your Aunt Barbara is going to Jerusalem for Christmas; that ought to precipitate a new war in the Middle East. Aunt Joan goes into hospital tomorrow. I imagine David Willett is having an exciting time in Persia: my godson Richard Rome, married to a Persian, is there too. Newbury is full of people from the council estates in Thatcham doing their Christmas shopping. It would hardly be true to say that they add to the charm of the town. The tall woman with bandaged legs in the chemists in the Mall is going into semi-retirement: a sad loss, as she is easily the most reliable medical advisor in this area, particularly sound on skin blemishes and diarrhoea. A man was killed on the road at Beacon Hill on Friday: road conditions were disagreeable at the time. Mrs Cameron stayed on Thursday night: she and your mother talked incessantly; neither listened to a word the other said which was sensible as neither was saying anything really worth listening to. I had a long letter from your Great-Aunt Phyllis but could not read a word of it bar my own name and her signature.
Your affec. father,
RM
P.S. A long article on Dr Philips in the ‘Newbury News’. A man from Gowrings has bought Brig. Lewis’s house. The bearded man in the Newbury bookshop claims to have flogged 150 copies of my book which would be good news if I happened to believe it. Which I don’t. The rather lanky young woman who worked in Jacksons in the afternoon has disappeared. I have kept a first copy of The Times for you. It might one day be valuable. ‘Colonel Mad’ has vanished from Lambourn: some say to gaol, others to a loony bin. Nick Gaselee won a nice race last week. There was a large photograph of him in the Sporting Life. Mr and Mrs Cottrill are off to India for two months. Mrs Randall is giving her relatives potatoes for Christmas. I have given up smoking.
I am in Fulham scratching a living from some part-time work driving articulated lorries having managed to obtain an HGV1 licence – my only serious qualification to date. My mother’s drinking habits and subsequent behaviour come in for a certain amount of scrutiny.
Chez Nidnod
10 October
Dear Lupin,
I have just received a telephone bill for over £100. As you now seem to be a moderately successful property developer, would you care to contribute a small sum?
Your affec. father,
T. Tightwad
(This month’s theme song: ‘Buddy, Can You Spare A Dime?’)
I try my hand at property renovation. My phone use continues to irk my dad.
Budds Farm
5 November
Dear Miniwad,
I hope you had a safe journey and were not completely exhausted on arrival. Rest as much as you can and don’t tire yourself by arguing the toss with little Miss Cod-Cutlet. A summons arrived for you this morning: you certainly keep F. J. Thriblow, our popular postman, busy. Do see if the highly respected P. Torday, Hexham’s favourite tycoon and sportsman, can advise you about getting employment once you feel strong enough to contemplate the prospect of work. As you will soon enter your twenty-seventh year, it is surely time you left your starting stall and participated in the rat-race. Either that or you must have a fat win in the pools. I seem to have sold (or rather my agent seems to have sold) a very drab book to a publisher called Macdonald of whose previous existence I was unaware. I hope his name proves to be Mosenthal as I much prefer to do business with a Jew than with some tight-lipped, bare-arsed Scot.
Your affec. father,
RM
I visit Hexham where my dear older sister makes extensive use of my rather basic DIY skills. There is a vain hope that my successful brother-in-law will somehow point me in the right direction for a rewarding and fulfilled life.
Chez Nidnod
Dear Lupin,
I fear you are not going to like this communication much as I am going to ask you to do something for me. Such requests are almost invariably boring. The situation is that I am worried about Aunt Joan. Her arthritis is getting worse and she is becoming increasingly immobile. It looks as if she will have to have a hip operation. All this makes life difficult for a woman of over seventy living on her own. Shopping has become a problem for her. Could you please go to Harrods or some such place and buy £25 worth of useful groceries for her? You could either have them delivered (Mrs Cockburn, 25 Vincent Court, Seymour Place) or you could drop them yourself. I leave the choice to you. I enclose a goose’s neck for £30. Buy a bottle of whisky for yourself.
Your affec. father,
RM
Did you see that Croome won at Towcester on Saturday?
Aunt Joan is one of life’s eternal Girl Guides and not exactly a barrel of laughs.
1979
21 January
Dear Lupin,
I was glad to hear you arrived safely and have met your cousin (or very nearly your cousin). Please give her my love. The weather here continues to be uncouth and the snow has been lying around deep and crisp and even. Actually it thawed in places yesterday and your mother was able to hunt. To her chagrin, she was brought down by a small child on a grey pony, but happily nothing was dented bar her dignity. Her arm is painful still and furthermore she has an abscess in her nose and a couple of mouth ulcers, all of which very understandably make her temper a trifle on the short side. I hope she will consult Dr Keeble tomorrow if he is not on strike, which almost every public employee seems likely to be. Poor Jane is snowed up and for several days Brocks Bushes has been without heating or light: not very comfortable. She was due to fly to Paris tomorrow with Paul but strikes and the weather have put a stop to that. I have been reading the proofs of a book of mine due out in April. The lady who compiled the index must have been pissed when she did her work: no sober individual could have done such a lamentable job. I have just sent in a note of protest that will ruffle a few feathers (I hope). The Surtees are giving dinner for twenty in their barn on Saturday. I trust the heating arrangements will be adequate or I foresee a few deaths from hypothermia. Your mother is not on speaking terms with Aunt Pam, diplomatic relations having been severed following a rather blunt letter about your mother’s predominantly liquid diet. Mr Parkinson lunches here today. He is dead windy that his mother-in-law, a neurotic alcoholic, is planning to become a permanent boarder with him. Aunt Joan has just written to say how useful those groceries have been that you delivered to her. She does not go out yet in bad weather as she is nervous of falling. Old Luckes is back home, very much thinner and a good deal more gaga. Mr Mayhew-Saunders has been given a helicopter by his firm. I remember before he married his future father-in-law rated him the stupidest officer in the Navy. Mr Randall has been poorly: Mrs R. says he lives on strong tea and cigarette smoke. As he is seventy-four the combination seems to suit him. My last book has had a very good review in the Financial Times which may help to sell about three copies. I have had a long letter about finance from Keith Barlow, very little of which I understand. He is, if anything, more pessimistic than I am. There is no shortage in the shops here though Jacksons say they may run out of loo paper and firelighters. Yesterday I cooked my own lunch and was just settling down to it when I saw a monster slug clambering up on a sausage. How on earth did it get there? Your mother is quite worked up about the strikes and is keen to go out with a rifle and pot a flying picket. She really is quite capable of doing it! I was nearly slain on the Sydmonton–Kingsclere road. A van came so close that it removed my offside mirror. No sign of anyone moving into the cottage yet.
Your affec. father,
RM
P.S. I do
hope you are feeling better.
I am now residing in Kenya on the island of Lamu and partially employed as boat boy/mechanic by the local hotel. Life is joy itself and I am looking after a friend’s pet monkey.
Budds Farm
Dear Lupin
Thank you for your excellent and informative letter. I am glad you are having a reasonably good time and hope your stomach aches will gradually disappear. It has not been a desperately amusing month here what with one thing or another. If you commit suicide you cannot get disposed of, as gravediggers and cremation workers are on strike. Well-meaning middle-class ladies are queuing up for voluntary work in hospitals: they picture themselves dishing up lunch to dear little children and it comes as a painful surprise when they are asked to help with a ward of hideous adult lunatics who cannot feed themselves and have to have their clothes changed every few hours like a baby. We went to a large drinks party at the Gaselees: there were a lot of people in a confined space and I could not hear a word anyone said which may not have been an intolerable deprivation. Afterwards we had supper with the Surtees at the Swan, Great Shefford, kept by a somewhat enigmatic character called ‘Jamie’ who greeted me with an effusive bonhomie which I could well have dispensed with.
We had two courses and a bottle of plonk: bill £30, which is fairly steep for a country pub.
On Friday the Hislops went to Sandown. On going to their car at 5 p.m. they discovered that Mr H. had put the keys into the pocket of a coat which he had unfortunately left in the self-locking boot. They had to hire a car in which to get home and the next day Mrs H. had to take a Newbury taxi to Sandown with the spare keys. Mr H. was NOT very popular. I saw Fitz Fletcher at the Parkinsons. He had been completely marooned for three days in Somerset with no water. The Surtees have got a new car, a red Volvo of immense length that would make a serviceable hearse. Poor Major S. is having trouble with his partners, one of whom who is only absolutely sober on fairly rare occasions and suing the firm over some grievance. The cottage has now been sold and paid for; the builders are busy gutting it completely. Farmer Luckes is in poor form and just sits staring into space. The Hurt’s house in Derbyshire is the feature article in the current number of Country Life. Unfortunately there is no picture of the Chicken. The dishwasher has broken down and the young man your mother hired to mend it made things a great deal worse. Mr Randall went up to London and saw the Esther Rantzen show which he greatly enjoyed. Not much news of Louise or HHH; or of Jane for that matter. I thought I had received a rather nice invitation to dinner today but on closer examination I saw it was meant for Major Hamer who has been dead for seven years. However, my book maker has invited me to oysters and champagne in London. He is a good old male chauvinist (a bit King Lear, in fact) and never invites women to his better parties. Your mother bought some fish in Reading yesterday: it tasted a bit odd and we both had a very bad night. The de Mauleys came to lunch last week: Lady de M. is putting on weight and Gerald is clearly not a member of the local Temperance Association. Do you remember the Philips at Winchfield. He has just left his ever-loving wife after thirty-two years and proposes to marry some woman he met in the local lunatic asylum where he spends a fair amount of his time. He once jumped in front of a taxi.
Dear Lupin... Page 7