Pat and Jean started at the Sacred Heart School in Roehampton, as weekly boarders; Bobby and Teddy went to Mr. Gibbs’s School, only ten minutes walk away on Sloane Street; and as soon as they were all settled she started planning for Kick and Rosie’s debut. It was called “the Season.”
They didn’t really know anyone in London, of course, but the way it worked was the debs’ mothers gave afternoon teas, to introduce their girls to one another and pass around the names of boys suitable to be dancing partners. There were girls down from Yorkshire and Scotland and all over, so the Kennedys weren’t the only new faces in town, and Kick being Kick, she soon had a hundred new friends. Ginny Vigo, Sissy Lloyd-Thomas, Minnie Stubbs, Sally Norton, Pamela Digby, Susie Frith-Johnstone, Cynthia Brough, Caro Leinster, Debo Mitford.
Once the Season got started there were parties every night of the week, except Fridays, when everybody went off to weekends in the country. So they needed stout shoes and good warm tweeds as well as party dresses. There were hair appointments and gown fittings and curtseying lessons at Madame Marguerite’s, as well as all the teas and luncheons and balls. It was a full-time job for any deb, and Kick was more in demand than most. Then, after Rosie and Euny arrived, Rosie was included in a lot of the invitations. She was old to be making her debut and Mrs. K decided against her having her own ball, for the excitement and worry of it would have been too much for her, but she went with Kick to selected parties and one of our new drivers, London Jack, was deputed to keep a special eye on her and dance with her if nobody else had filled her card.
Danny Walsh said, “I could have done that. Why didn’t they ask me?”
Fidelma said, “Because you’re a big ugly lummox and London Jack looks like Johnny Weissmuller.”
London Jack was probably the undoing of her. Mrs. K danced with him herself, to try him out, and she said he led very well. And poor Rosie was ripe to be led. I don’t believe London Jack ever did a thing except make her feel she was a normal girl, but after that summer of dancing night after night she was never the same. She’d throw a paddy if Kick was allowed to go somewhere and she wasn’t, if Mrs. K said it wasn’t suitable for a person of her abilities.
“Damn it, I am suitable,” she’d say.
Mrs. K told Fidelma off. She said she’d obviously been using language in front of the children.
Fidelma said, “The bloody cheek of her. It’s not me Rosie’s learned it from. Joe Kennedy needs his mouth washed out and Danny Walsh could curse for Ireland.”
Rosie would get the very devil in her sometimes when she was thwarted, but you couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. Kick would be invited to Hever Castle or Cliveden, and be gone all weekend. Euny and Pat went off to tennis parties, and Bobby would take Jean and Teddy across to the Serpentine Lake or riding their bicycles through the park. And Rosie would be left, trailing around after me, romancing about London Jack.
“I love him,” she’d say. “I’m going to marry him.”
I said, “You’d better not let Mother hear you talking like that. If she does, London Jack’ll be getting his cards.”
“Damn Mother,” she’d say. “I like the trotfox best. Dancing up close. Close, close, close.”
I didn’t know what to do for the best. I thought London Jack was trustworthy. He had his position to consider. But there’d be other boys. She could get a reputation. She and Kick were going to be presented to the King and Queen with all the other debutantes in June, the kind of occasion a girl would look back on for the rest of her life. I didn’t want Herself deciding Rosie had better not go.
Fidelma said, “Leave her be. She just wants a bit of a cuddle. Sure I wouldn’t mind one myself.”
I said, “Years ago, one of the doctors told Mrs. K that Rosie must never have babies.”
Fidelma said, “You don’t get babies doing the foxtrot, Brennan. Just leave her be. We’ll have a quiet word with London Jack.”
He swore he hadn’t encouraged her.
He said, “She’s not quite the full shilling, is she? She gets pretty fresh though, and I don’t want any trouble. I mean, I don’t mind a bit of dancing but driving’s my trade.”
Fidelma said, “That’s all right. Just bear in mind she still plays with her dollies. No good-night kisses. If it’s good-night kisses you want, apply to me.”
Mr. and Mrs. K went to Windsor Castle, weekend guests of the King and Queen. I thought we should never hear the end of that.
“The Ambassador sat next to Her Majesty,” she must have told me a hundred times, “and I sat beside the King, and there was an orchestra playing through dinner, all tricked out in scarlet jackets. They made such a gay picture. We met the little Princesses, of course, after church on Sunday. Adorable. Princess Margaret Rose would make such a perfect playmate for Jean. We went to their private quarters on Sunday afternoon and one of the guests had a seizure, right in the middle of tea, but you should have seen how the Queen reacted. She set the most wonderful example. She remained perfectly calm and just carried on passing the cups. It prevented an embarrassing atmosphere while the woman was being helped from the room. One could learn a great deal by studying Her Majesty.”
They’d had sheets of the headed royal notepaper provided in their accommodations and Mrs. K wrote a special keepsake letter to each of the children, and probably to every Tom, Dick and Harry she ever met, so the whole world would know she’d been to Windsor Castle. It was funny to see how thrilled she was to be mixing with royalty. I’d have thought it would take more than that to impress Mayor Fitzgerald’s daughter, but her head was turned.
“His Majesty has so taken to the Ambassador,” she said. “They’re firm friends already. And the Queen loves to talk about the children. She can’t wait to meet them.”
Well, she was about to meet Kick and Rosie, or at least see them in a sea of other girls with feathers in their hair.
It was a big production, getting two girls ready to be presented at Buckingham Palace. Mrs. K was to go with them in the limousine and she had to wear a diamond tiara and white kid gloves with twenty-one buttons, no more, no less. She said you could be turned away if your gloves weren’t right. The things the English dream up to keep you in your place. The main worry though was the curtseying. The girls had to go to special lessons. They’d to practice walking up the red carpet until they had it off pat. Curtsey, step to the side, then glide away.
We all went downstairs to see them off. Herself was in a gown made by Mr. Molyneux, white satin with tiny gold beads stitched all over it, and a tiara borrowed from Lady Bessborough. Kick and Rosie had white tulle with a silver thread, Prince of Wales feathers pinned to their veils, and lily-of-the-valley nose-gays. Kick looked pretty, though we’d had to wrestle with her hair, and Mrs. K looked a million dollars, but it was Rosie who stole the show, with her beautiful creamy shoulders and her dimples when she smiled. As Danny Walsh said, she was a grand doorful of a girl.
It was after midnight when they got home, because the limousines had been backed up along Constitution Hill. I took them hot milk and bread after they’d put on their pajamas, and there sat Rosie in tears.
She said, “I tumbled, Nora. I didn’t do the curtsey thing right.”
Kick said, “You didn’t tumble, you noodle. You stumbled. And absolutely nobody noticed. Gracious, the King and Queen had probably nodded off, sitting there for hours just being curtseyed to. And you looked ravishing.”
“Thank you, Kick,” she said. “You looked nice too. But I think I dipsapointed Mother.”
Kick swore it had only been the tiniest stumble, at the end, when she was meant to glide away.
She said, “Know what, Nora? It was all a big zzzzz anyhow. The best bit was waiting in line to get in. There were all these people peering into the car. They wait for hours, apparently, to see if they can spot any really famous debs. Just think, there are people going to bed happy tonight because they saw Kick and Rosie Kennedy.”
Their pictures were in the papers the next day
, along with Minnie Stubbs and Debo Mitford and Cynthia Brough. And then we had Kick’s ball to get ready. She had eighty coming to dinner and three hundred more for the dancing afterwards, with Ambrose’s Band brought in for the evening and all the help invited to the buffet supper later on. I don’t know if Billy Hartington was there that night. Kick danced every dance with a different beau and there was nothing about Billy that would make you remember him. He was just a tall, soft-faced English boy. But she did meet him that summer. He was the Duke of Devonshire’s eldest boy and Kick was invited to their house in Sussex, Compton Place. There was going to be a big house party for the horse racing at Goodwood and I was sent along as chaperone. Kick had never been interested in horse racing before, in fact she only had to look at a horse for her wheezing to start up, but she was very keen to go.
She said, “Billy’s a Marquess. Isn’t that a scream? Doesn’t it sound like an old guy in a velvet cloak and a wig?”
I wasn’t sure what a Marquess was, but Lord Billy certainly had a big name for one so young. He was Lord William Cavendish, Marquess of Hartington and heir to the Duke of Devonshire. I’ve never understood the Devonshire bit either. They none of them live in Devonshire. They live in Derbyshire.
Danny Walsh said, “Devonshire, Derbyshire, what’s the difference. It’s all robbed from the poor saps who work on it.”
He was just put out because he wasn’t the one going to Compton Place. He had to drive Herself to Hertfordshire instead, to see a special school she thought might be a suitable place to keep Rosie occupied, helping with a kindergarten class.
Kick was in a tizz, wondering what outfits to take. All she knew was there’d be tennis and drives out to the racetrack and dancing at night, to phonograph records. She didn’t think the Duke would be there. Lord Billy had told her his father didn’t care for the racetrack and parties. But she was worried about meeting the Duchess.
I said, “You’ve been presented to Their Majesties, so a Duchess can’t be anything to worry about.”
“No,” she said, “but what if I have to talk to her? Caro Leinster says I sound like Daffy Duck.”
I said, “Pay no attention. Most of those English girls sound like donkeys. Now what about this Lord Billy? When did he catch your fancy?”
“He didn’t,” she said. “I mean, he’s cute, but he’s just Billy. His sisters are fun though.”
We went on the train and a driver collected us from Eastbourne station. Middle-aged, with a dove-gray livery and a Clark Gable chin.
Kick started straight in, tried to sit up front alongside him but he wasn’t having that.
She said, “I’m Kathleen Kennedy.”
He said, “I’m relieved to hear it, Miss. I try not to make an error when I’m meeting guests.”
She said, “I guess you know the Duke and Duchess.”
He said, “I’ve worked for the Devonshires twenty-five years.”
She said, “So if I meet them, what do I have to do? Do I have to call them Your Graciousness or something?”
He said, “You call them ‘Your Grace,’ but you won’t meet them. They’re not here.”
She said, “But just say I did, do I have to curtsey or anything?”
“Nay,” he said. “No curtseying. But you won’t see them, because they’re at Chatsworth. I can vouch for that. You’re an American, if I’m not mistaken, Miss Kennedy.”
She said, “My Daddy’s the American Ambassador. His Excellency Joseph P. Kennedy.”
I could see him studying me in his driving mirror.
He said, “You from America too?”
Kick said, “Of course she is. She does that funny kind of Irish talk, but she’s American really. Nora’s been our nanny for centuries.”
He said, “Has she? She’s wearing well.”
Compton Place was a low, square house, covered with Virginia creeper. It had lawns and flower beds and a little kitchen garden but inside it was nothing grand. It was just a comfortable house, perfect for a crowd of youngsters on a summer weekend.
There were two other cars being unloaded as we pulled round onto the drive. Kick spotted a girl she knew and went running off, laughing and squealing.
Our driver said, “If you hop back in, Kennedy, I’ll run you round to the servants’ entrance.”
I said, “My name’s Nora Brennan.”
He was lifting the valises down off the dickey.
“Well, Nora Brennan,” he said, “you’ll find you’ll be known as Kennedy here. That’s the way we do things in Devonshire houses. Lady’s maids go by their lady’s name. But you weren’t to know that.”
He had a funny, flat way of talking.
I said, “Anything else I should know?”
“Yes,” he said. “Your Miss Kennedy. She’s a bit free and easy, you know, gabbing to a driver? Generally speaking, I drive people all day long and don’t get two words out of them.”
I said, “Then it must have made a pleasant change, to meet a natural, friendly American girl.”
“Aye,” he said. “A nice, natural young lady. But she’d like to fit in, I daresay? She’ll want to know the ropes.”
I said, “Anything else?”
“Yes,” he said. “You’ve very bonny hair, Kennedy. Very bonny indeed.”
And that was the start of me and Walter Stallybrass.
Billy Hartington’s people lived in a different world from Kick, even if her Daddy was a millionaire. They had the houses and the servants and ancestors hung on the walls in big gilt frames, but they’d had it all so long they didn’t appear to notice. They carried it lightly, just nice, polite people who’d give you a “Good day” whoever you were.
I’d been so long around Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy I expected everybody to be like them, always calculating and maneuvering and expecting to be stabbed in the back. The Devonshires treated people right and so I don’t suppose it ever occurred to them that people wouldn’t treat them right in return. Good food, too. Me and Fidelma generally ate in the kitchen with the drivers, and the rations weren’t generous, everything counted out. One chop, two potatoes, one spoon of beans. But that weekend down at Compton Place we had big rib roasts and Yorkshire pudding, and pies filled with gooseberries fresh from the garden, with clotted cream.
The youngsters all motored across to another big house on Sunday evening, for a treasure trail, so I tagged along with the other lady’s maids, for a walk along to the bandstand and a glass of ginger beer.
Minnie Stubbs’s maid said, “You’ve not been a lady’s maid long, have you?”
I said, “I’m not a lady’s maid. The nursery’s my province. I’m just here to keep an eye on things, with all these young men around. Miss Kennedy’s only five minutes out of Sacred Heart.”
She said, “What’s Sacred Heart?”
Caro Leinster’s maid said, “A nunnery. They’re Catholics, Stubbs. American and Catholic.”
Stubbs said, “Well, you needn’t worry about any of the gentlemen. They’re all very high up. You won’t catch any of them getting serious about an American girl.”
Ginny Vigo’s maid said, “Can’t they afford a lady’s maid for her then, your people?”
I said, “Her Daddy’s one of the richest men in America.”
“Well then,” she said, “she ought to travel with somebody who knows to put her shoes on trees before they’re sent down for cleaning. That’s how we do things over here.”
I was getting tired of hearing how things were supposed to be done in a Devonshire house.
And on top of everything else, they didn’t believe I’d met Gloria Swanson.
16
The Fox Supervises the Henhouse and Mr. Chamberlain Goes to Munich
That summer of ’38 Prince’s Gate was always full of young voices. Joe and Jack came over as soon as college was finished. Jack was as yellow as a ragweed and still getting his stomach attacks, but he wouldn’t slow down. Kick was the toast of the town, so they were all invited to half a dozen parties every ni
ght and they’d take Rosie with them too, as long as she promised not to get over-wrought when it was time to come home.
I told her she was lucky to have two handsome brothers willing to dance with her.
She said, “They don’t always. Sometimes they go off.”
I said, “You’re still lucky. My brother hardly danced a step in his life, only at his own wedding, and then he looked like he had concrete in his boots.”
She said, “Sometimes Joe and Jack don’t dance. They take girls in the dark and squeeze them. Squeeze them and squeeze them to make them feel nice. They give them kisses and do things you’re not supposed.”
I said, “You’ll be for it if your Mammy hears you talking like that.”
“She won’t hear,” she said. “She’s gone to tea at Lady Bossyburgh’s.”
It was a good thing they were sending her to Belmont after the summer, to keep her mind occupied.
Fidelma said, “Do you know what I’d do with her if she was mine? I’d marry her off quick. Let her have what she’s longing for.”
I knew Mrs. K wouldn’t wear that. She’d always said Rosie mustn’t have babies, in case her slowness could be inherited, but I agreed with Fidelma. Rosie would have made a very contented wife. You don’t need to be a scholar to keep a man happy, and from some of the marriages I’ve seen maybe it’s better not to have too much going on up top. And as for babies, I never did believe Rosie’s funny little ways were the kind that could be passed on.
The Importance of Being Kennedy Page 11