The Importance of Being Kennedy

by Laurie Graham

  Billy felt bad about it, you could tell. He was a proper young gentleman.

  “Well then,” he said. “Well then. But another time, I’m sure.”

  That was the night Rosie broke a water glass. She picked it up from her night table and hurled it at the wall.

  “Kick’s a bloody, bloody bugger,” she was shouting. “A bloody, bloody bugger.”

  It took two of us to hold her still until she calmed down.

  Fidelma said, “Nice kindergarten teacher you’re going to make, using words like that.”

  Rosie said, “I wouldn’t have been a pest. I only wanted a dance.”

  Fidelma said, “I know you did, darling. And you’ll have plenty. You heard what Lord Billy said. Another time. But you do have to be up early, to get back to your studying.”

  I said, “Think of it, Rosie. You’ll be a certified teacher and all Kick’ll have will be a pair of worn dance shoes.”

  Kick had half a dozen invitations to the country for the Easter holidays, but it was Billy Hartington’s she accepted, to go to Chatsworth. She said of all the boys he was the only one who had sweet sisters and a nice house.

  Mrs. K said I was to go with her.

  She said, “I know you’ll make sure she goes to Mass, Nora. When Fidelma went with her she allowed her to sleep in late like the Protestants.”

  Chatsworth is in Derbyshire, plumb in the middle of England. We took the train, along with Minnie Stubbs and Cynthia Brough, and we were met at a town called Bakewell. Lord Billy’s brother Andrew was there in an open-top roadster to pick up the girls. A shooting brake had been sent for the luggage and the maids. The driver looked only about sixteen, a skinny kid, in a livery that swamped him.

  Cynthia Brough’s maid said, “You’re new. What’s your name?”

  “Wildgoose,” he said. “I were on boilers but I put in for a change.”

  She said, “Stallybrass usually collects us.”

  He said, “No telling who you’ll get this weekend. We’ve a right houseful.”

  Minnie Stubbs’s maid said, “I hope that doesn’t mean the maids have to double up. I’m accustomed to my own room.”

  Brough said, “Perhaps Wildgoose here’ll double up with you.”

  Poor lad. His ears turned bright red.

  He said, “You’ve been here before then?”

  Stubbs said, “I’ve lost count. I hate these country weekends. They’re forever changing their clothes. And if you do get five minutes to yourself there’s nowhere to go. Where’s your nearest picture house?”

  He had to think. “That’d be Chesterfield,” he said.

  “See what I mean?” she said. “Nothing out here but cows and sheep. And trees. Look at them.”

  I said, “I haven’t been here before.”

  Brough said, “This is Kennedy. She’s American.”

  “Aye,” he said, “they told me there was more Americans arriving. We’ve Mr. Fred Astaire arrived last night. Very nice gentleman.”

  Fred Astaire’s sister Dellie was married to Billy Hartington’s uncle Charlie Cavendish.

  We drove up from the town, thick hedgerows on either side, and then as we came out of a bend in the road he slowed down, nearly to a halt.

  He said, “Are yer set? Look out yer winder an’ you’ll get a treat.”

  Brough said, “We know. We’ve seen it.”

  He said, “I were talking to Kennedy.”

  And there it was, across the river. A great square stone house built on a rise, with East Moor rolling away behind it, and sheep grazing in the park. Chatsworth House. I’d have sworn it was pink, but on Sunday morning when I saw the same view, it was more the color of honey.

  “One hundred and seventy-five rooms,” he said. “I’ll wager you haven’t got nowt like this in America.”

  Stubbs said, “Blenheim’s better.”

  “Nay,” he said. “Bonniest house in the land, this.”

  Chatsworth was a bit of a shambles, truth to be told. They’d closed it up the previous year when the old Duke died, and Billy Hartington’s folks were only just getting round to moving in. They’d been cozy down in their own little house and loath to leave it, I suppose, for such a palace of a place. It had a nice atmosphere though, and it was well run, considering the miles you had to walk to get anywhere. They needed skates on to get dinner served before it was cold on the platters. In those big houses you did better below stairs. You got your food hot, and you could eat it wearing proper clothes, not filmy little dinner gowns and your arms covered in gooseflesh.

  We had roast pork with cracklings and applesauce, that first night, and Bakewell puddings, with jam from Chatsworth strawberries. That was the first time I saw Hope Stallybrass. Tall and stout and red-faced from the ovens. She was giving orders, counting out the savories that were to be carried upstairs, watching so everything for our dinner would be ready at the right moment. There was an empty chair across from me until Walter Stallybrass ran in, smoothing down his hair, just as grace was being said.

  “How do again, Kennedy,” he said.

  Mrs. Stallybrass never cracked her face even after she’d sat down, never spoke. She just shoveled the food in like it was another job that had to be done. She seemed older than Walter.

  He said, “Your Miss had a different maid when she was up here last back end. She said you’d busted your ankle.”

  “Sprained it,” I said.

  “That was it,” he said. “Sprained. You getting used to English ways, you and your Miss?”

  He held his knife and fork cack-handed.

  I said, “We can’t be doing too badly. She still gets invitations.”

  One of the kitchen maids said, “Why? Are you foreigners?”

  He said, “She’s from America, Florrie. This is Miss Kennedy’s maid.”

  “Never heard of her,” she said.

  He said, “You have. You’ve seen her in the papers. Miss Kathleen Kennedy. She were presented last Season.”

  That was the first time Hope Stallybrass looked up from her plate.

  The maid said, “Do they allow Americans? I thought it were for English girls.”

  Hope said, “It is. It’s for English roses.”

  I said, “No. There are American girls presented every Season. It beats me why anyone would want to, but as long as they do, it must be a treat for Their Majesties to see a nice sparkling American smile.”

  Everything went quiet.

  When the plates were being cleared Walter Stallybrass leaned across to me. He said, “Is your Miss fixed up for her corsage, for the dance?”

  I said, “I don’t know. Is there an order going down to the florist?”

  Some of the maids started tittering and Hope Stallybrass hauled herself to her feet.

  She said, “Why Lord Billy invites these people I shall never understand.”

  Walter said, “We do our own flowers here, Kennedy. I’ll pick her out a nice camellia if you like. What color’s her gown? Come down to the glasshouses tomorrow morning. I’ll be there while ten.”

  When Walter Stallybrass wasn’t required for driving, camellias were his specialty. He showed me how they had them trained against walls and clipped into hedges. There were some in flower beds and some in big earthenware pots ready for taking up to the South Front.

  He said, “They’re not difficult, as long as you’ve the right soil. The only thing they don’t like is hot weather.”

  I said, “Like me.”

  “Is that right?” he said. “Then you’re in the right place up here. Where are you from, Nora?”

  I said, “New York. Boston before that.”

  He said, “But where are you from?”

  I said, “I’m from Westmeath, but I’ve been gone longer than I was ever there.”

  “Westmeath?” he said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Nobody ever has.

  He said, “We’ve got a place in Ireland. Lismore. Where Lord Charlie lives. Beautiful parks around it. Prime salm
on fishing. You probably know it?”

  I said, “Until I went to America I’d never been further than Mullingar. Where is Lismore exactly?”

  He said, “I don’t rightly know. I haven’t been.”

  He picked out a bloom for Kick.

  He said, “How’s that? Will that do for American royalty?”

  That was what they called the Kennedys in the dailies.

  I said, “She’s a nice girl. Why are you all so against her?”

  “Not me,” he said, “I’ve nowt against her. She’s a bit of a novelty, that’s all. You must pay no heed to Hope. She’s stuck in her ways. She were just the same when Lord Charlie married Lady Dellie. Thought it were the end of the world and we’d all be eating them frankfurter hot dogs. See? I speak the American lingo.”

  I said, “Well, I don’t care to hear my young lady picked over by kitchen help. If she comes up here again they can send Fidelma Clery with her.”

  “Nay,” he said. “Don’t say that. I were right pleased to see you sitting there when I come in last night. I’ve often thought of you, Nora, since Compton Place. Did you ever think of me?”

  He was nothing to look at really. His hair was thinning on top.

  I said, “Somebody better turn that hosepipe on you. You’ll be for it if Mrs. Stallybrass catches you talking like that.”

  He said, “Mrs. Stallybrass? You mean Hope? What’s she to do with it? She’s busy with the breakfasts. I could steal a kiss and nobody’d know, only you and me.”

  I said, “I thought it was the Lordships who took liberties, not workingmen who ought to know better. No wonder your wife has a face on her would stop an omnibus.”

  He didn’t say another word. Just looked at me and walked away into the glasshouse.

  I took the flower that he’d cut for Kick and she was the belle of the ball in her sky-blue silk with that bloom pinned to her shoulder. It was so perfect you’d have thought it was made of wax. And later on, when I went to turn in, there was a soup plate on my night table, with another camellia floating in water, red and white stripes, and a note underneath. It said, She’s my sister, you muggins. Stallybrass, bachelor. P.S. This one’s called Yours Truly.

  Dear God, how my face burned when I read it. First time in my life a man ever gave me a flower. All I wanted to do was sit on the bed and think what it might mean, but there was no chance of that.

  I was sharing with Lady Blundell’s maid.

  She said, “If you don’t mind my asking, Kennedy, how old are you?”

  I was going on forty-five but she was just a slip of a girl. To her I must have looked a hundred.

  She said, “You and Stallybrass, are you carrying on?”

  I said, “We are not. There was a misunderstanding, that’s all. They have marvelous gardens here. You should take a walk and see what they’ve got down there. Not only flowers. Whatever this house needs, they grow it. Apricots. Asparagus.”

  She said, “I know that. Every big house grows apricots and asparagus. Where have you been all your long life?”

  She was scandalized, I could tell, me in my dotage getting a flower and a billydoo. I never slept that night, going over it and over it how I’d got the wrong end of the stick and I owed Walter Stallybrass an apology.

  It was mizzling rain when the car came to take us to Mass the next morning, and it wasn’t Walter who came trotting up with the brolly. It was Wildgoose.

  I wasn’t sorry. My hair was destroyed in the damp.

  He said, “Her Grace said to have you at the church for eleven. And would you kindly mind waiting on another car to bring you back, because we’ve a great number of comings and goings today. Driver Stallybrass’ll likely come for you.”

  And Driver Stallybrass did. He winked at me in the mirror, but we didn’t speak till he’d dropped Kick and swung round to the stable yard.

  I said, “I’ve been a bit of a chump.”

  “Nay,” he said. “Not another word. Did you like your flower?”

  I said, “It’s beautiful. It’ll be all over the servants’ hall, you realize? Blundell couldn’t wait to tell somebody.”

  He laughed. He said, “Let’s give her summat to get her teeth into then, Nora. I think it’s time I showed you my potting shed.”

  There was a deal of smirking when we all sat down to luncheon.

  One of the kitchen maids said, “I wish I was a Catholic. You can get up to all sorts if you’re a Catholic and then just go to church and get the slate wiped clean.”

  Hope said, “I shall be glad when it’s Tuesday and we can get back to regularity. All these outsiders coming in, creating extra work, causing distraction. Soup plates turning up in bedrooms. It would never have happened in the old Duke’s time.”

  So Hope was his sister, and a spinster, like Gertie Ambler, though they both went as Mrs. It seemed if you were a Stallybrass it went without saying that you’d work for the Devonshires. Hope and Walter’s Mammy had been a sewing woman and their Daddy had been a groom. They’d an uncle who’d been a boiler man and another had had charge of the Lily House. There are sisters and sisters though, and Hope Stallybrass seemed cut from the same cloth as my Ursie. Bossy as a nanny goat.

  I got the third degree from Mrs. K about Kick and Lord Billy.

  I said, “His Lordship didn’t make anything special of her. In fact, that Sally Norton was there and they reckon she’s his favorite. But her dance card was filled. And she went to Mass. She was up and dressed before anyone else had appeared. You’d have been proud of her.”

  Mrs. K said, “I’m so glad. It’s a great opportunity for her, our being Ambassador. I’m sure the Devonshires are very fine people. The Duchess is a close friend of Her Majesty, you know. Kick can make friendships here that will take her far in life, but one still has to be on the alert. We don’t want any silly romances that can only end in tears.”

  It wasn’t long after that she met the Devonshires for herself, at a dinner at Lady Astor’s house.

  “Most charming people,” she said. “His Grace is very reticent, but I drew him out and we had such an interesting talk. It’s a great pity Billy won’t do for Kick. If it weren’t for his church it would be a rather wonderful match.”

  Kick didn’t appear too concerned about Billy Hartington. She was such a popular girl. She went to Lady Airlie’s party with Tony Erskine, and to a horse show with Lancelot Wemyss. And then Joseph Patrick came home from his travels, so all those London beaux had to take a backseat. She loved being squired by her brother.

  As she said, “He’s good-looking, he can dance and Mother approves of him. I’m all for the simple life.”

  The Kennedys were all like that. They had their friends and their admirers, but when it came down to it they were happiest in each other’s company. Kennedys stuck together and you had to pity anyone who tried to break into that tight little circle. Lem Billings was really the only one who ever managed it and I think they just felt sorry for him, with his father dying and his not having a proper family life.

  May 4, 1939, was a real red-letter day for us. Their Majesties were coming to dinner at Prince’s Gate. Gertie was so excited. She went through her recipe books and brought up all kinds of suggestions for the menu. She wanted to make a turtle soup, which takes days, and a turkey stuffed with a chicken stuffed with a pigeon, but Mrs. K wasn’t having any of that.

  She said, “We’re going to give them good, plain American food. The poor dears go to so many banquets, they must long for a simple meal. We’ll give them shad roe and then a baked Virginia ham and strawberry shortcake.”

  We had to get in extra help for the evening, borrowed from Buckingham Palace, because they knew how everything had to be done. But first the police came. They went over the house from the attics to the cellar, with a dog that could sniff out gunpowder, and there were questions asked about me and Fidelma and Danny Walsh. How long had we been employed by the Ambassador? Were we known to the police in Ireland or the United States? Who did we associate with
on our days off?

  Fidelma said, “What days off?”

  The bobby said, “I’m only doing my job, miss. Haven’t you heard of the Irish Republican Army?”

  She said, “I have heard of it. But if you work for Mrs. Kennedy you don’t have time for joining armies.”

  The day of the dinner it was one flap after another. First the fishmonger sent sole because he couldn’t get shad roe, and the menu had already been printed. Then the flower people were late coming and Teddy broke a dining chair bouncing on it. Herself was still running around in her frownies and her day dress. It was nearly six o’clock and the stylist was waiting to finish her hair. But what a transformation once she was dressed and ready. She’d chosen aquamarine satin, fitted to show off her slim line, and a suite of brilliant-cut diamonds.

  Jean and Pat had special leave from school, as it’s not every day your Mammy and Daddy have the King and Queen to dinner.

  Jean said, “I think Mother looks like a beautiful princess.”

  Mrs. K said, “Thank you, dear. Well, anyone can keep their looks if they’re disciplined about it. You know, when we were shopping in Paris one of the vendeuses thought Kick and I were sisters.”

  Patty said, “Why isn’t Rosie here? She’d have loved to have dinner with the King and Queen.”

  Jack and Rosie were the only ones to miss the big occasion. Jack was at school and Mrs. K had decided the excitement might be too much for Rosie.

  She said, “Seven youngsters will be quite enough for Their Majesties, and Rosie doesn’t do well at dinners.”

  Patty said, “She loves dinners. Specially when there’s baked ham. She could have had my place. Then I wouldn’t have had to cancel my tennis game.”

  Joseph Patrick and Kick sat at the main table, and the younger ones were at a side table, with Euny in charge, so that they’d be able to look back and say they’d attended a dinner with the King and Queen of England. If it had been up to me, Rosie would have been there too.

  They say the mark of a queen is that she can talk to anybody, and from what I’ve read there are persons in the Royal Family as slow as my Rosie, if not slower.