The Importance of Being Kennedy

by Laurie Graham

  I said, “Oh yes? And how do you make that out?”

  “Toffs’ kids,” he said. “Parasites.”

  I said, “They were just youngsters in uniform, taking their sweethearts dancing. Nobody deserves what happened to them.”

  “Glugging champagne while the workingman suffers,” he said. “Well, now they’ve had a waking-up.”

  Nasty old beggar. I’d have spat in his sandwich if I’d had prior notice. Hilda Oddy’s brother had been on fire watch in Shaftesbury Avenue the night the Caff was hit and he told her that by the time he got to Leicester Square to see if he could help there were people going through handbags and taking jewelry off the corpses. They say war brings out the best in people, but the bombing of the Caff didn’t. When I was out with the Women’s Voluntary there were things said I wouldn’t have credited if I hadn’t heard them with my own ears. How we’d be better off if Hitler won. How British kiddies were starving while we were feeding foreigners and refugees who were likely to turn round and stab us in the back. Well, I never saw any kiddies that were starving. There were plenty of them needed their heads disinfected and their necks scrubbed, but a peck of dirt never killed anyone. The worst I heard though was about the Jews.

  Wherever you went you’d meet someone who knew for a fact there was no room in the air-raid shelters because the spaces had all been taken by Jews. How they never left when the All Clear was sounded, just stayed down there like troglodytes, saving their places and keeping normal Christian people out of a place of safety. Then the next minute somebody else would say, “It’s all right for the yids. They’ve all gone. Taken their money bags and scarpered to somewhere that’s not getting bombed.”

  So far as I know I never met a Jewish person. There weren’t any in Ballynagore and Mr. Kennedy wouldn’t have them in the house, but I’m sure they can’t be as bad as they’re painted. Actually, Joe Kennedy doesn’t like anybody very much, except his own flesh and blood. He thinks everybody’s out to snub him or rob him blind.

  Lord Andrew was in barracks at Regent’s Park, waiting to ship out, so it was decided he and Miss Debo would get married while they had the chance. The marrying was at St. Bartholomew’s and then at her people’s house in Rutland Gate, even though they had bomb damage. Their Graces dropped by at Carlton Gardens after the wedding breakfast to tell Walter they’d managed to get a few camellias from Chatsworth and to bring Hope a slice of the cake. No frosting, because you couldn’t get the sugar, not enough sultanas or candied peel, and made with beer instead of brandy. Altogether an insult of a cake, according to Hope.

  She said, “When Lady Elizabeth gets married and Lady Anne, I’ll supervise the cake.”

  She was sent down to Compton Place to cook for Lord Andrew and Lady Debo while they had a few days’ honeymoon, and that trip was an eye-opener to her, getting out of our little corner of London, seeing troops on the move and Jerry bombers flying right over her head. When she got back from Eastbourne she couldn’t settle.

  She said, “I think I should like to do some war work too. It don’t seem right, sitting here darning socks.”

  I said, “Come with me to the Women’s Voluntary. We have grand times. You never know what you’ll be doing from one day to the next.”

  But Walter said, “Nay, Hope, you’re already doing war work, running this house. Feeding the military’s important work. You stick to what you know.”

  I said, “We can’t all stick to what we know, Walter. If we did that there’d be no munitions made, for one thing. There’d be no buses running. We’re crying out for girls like Hope.”

  “Girl!” he said. “She’s no girl. She’s fifty ruddy five. What’s she going to do, drive a tank?”

  He hated the way the war turned everything topsy-turvy. He’s a man who likes regularity. He likes to know who’s who and what’s what, which is why the army should have taken him. They’d never have got any talking back from Walter Stallybrass.

  Hope said, “You only don’t want me to volunteer in case I have to stop out late and your tea’s not on the table.”

  He said, “Don’t talk so wet, woman. I don’t need anybody to put my tea on the table. Any fool can brew a pot of tea and slice a bit of bread.”

  “Then let any fool do it,” she said. And she put on her navy straw and went out.

  He said, “I suppose you put her up to this.”

  I said, “No, Walter. Hitler put her up to it.”

  She was gone more than an hour. Came back with a quarter pound of premium butter and a smile on her face.

  She said, “You’ll all have to do your own breakfasts from now on. I’ve got a milk round for Vincent’s Dairy. It’ll free up that boy with the clubfoot. He wants to go to Hatfield, to the airplane factory.”

  Walter said she should have asked Her Grace’s permission first.

  He said, “This is still a Devonshire house.”

  She said, “Her Grace has a husband and two boys in uniform, so I’ll not be bothering her when I know what her answer will be.”

  He said she’d never get up in time for a milk round, but she did. She had to be at Appletree Yard by four to load up the pony and trap and she was finished by ten, so it was no great inconvenience to anyone who was billeted with us. Then he said it was all very well during the summer months but she wouldn’t stick at it when the weather turned cold. But she did. It made a new woman of her. And she came home with all the gossip. Who was closing up their house. Who’d got rabbits or eggs to trade. Who’d received a telegram.

  The middle weekend of May we had a bad time of it. It was full moon, so we were quite expecting a big raid, but it still shook us when it came. Parliament was hit and Westminster Abbey, the Strand, Russell Square, Waterloo. I had to walk to Vauxhall Bridge before I could get across the river to work, and when I got there, the depot and the yard where we parked our trucks were lying under a mountain of rubble.

  A few of the regulars were there already, milling around, wondering what to do. Then Lady Lally arrived. She stood up on a milk crate and told everybody to gather round. She said we mustn’t let a little setback stop us when all over London there was work to be done. She said her sister, Lady Billie, had a depot near King’s Cross station and the best thing to do was go and offer our services to her. Then she requisitioned a ragman’s horse and cart and drove us all the way to Pentonville Road. We had such a laugh, seeing people’s faces as we passed by, jogging along with a big dented soup kettle and Lady Lally in her felt hat, sitting up on the box, cracking the reins.

  There was plenty needed doing at Lady Billie’s depot and I drew a nice number. They sent me to a school hall to help with mothers who’d been bombed out with their babies and toddlers. They all got a hot dinner and clean nappies for the babies and milk bottles. We even played some games with the little ones, oranges and lemons, the farmer’s in his den, to give the mammies a rest. I had such a grand day. It didn’t feel like war work, jiggling babies in my arms again. Not like poor Hilda. They sent her to the morgue, to give people sweet tea and a cigarette after they’d been in searching for their loved ones.

  She said, “I don’t know what was worse, Nora, when they found somebody or when they didn’t. Because there’ll be some that’ll never be found.”

  She reckoned she cried all the way home that night.

  It was late when I got back from Pentonville Road, and Walter was fretting. He’d heard the Waterloo depot had been flattened and he didn’t want to go out on his blackout rounds until he knew I was safe. That was the night we really started having words. It must have seemed to him I was having a better war than he was. When people saw you in your WVS green they were respectful. They thanked you for what you were doing. But the ARP people came in for a lot of lip. They say an Englishman’s home is his castle, and round St. James’s they didn’t take kindly to being told to get off the streets and take cover, or being prosecuted because they had holes in their blinds.

  It was a shame the army wouldn’t take Walter. He
was a patriotic soul and still in his prime, apart from his bad lung. A man doesn’t feel right, I’m sure, when the whole world’s in uniform and all he’s got is a tin helmet and an armband. Even Joseph Patrick had volunteered, who’d always listened to what his Daddy said about America minding its own business and staying out of other people’s wars.

  Darling Nora, he wrote me,

  I’m at Squantum doing basic training, then I’ll be off to Florida, learning to fly, so say a prayer for me when you get down on your creaking knees. Dad’s not happy I dropped Law School but I can always go back when the war’s over. The way things are shaping up I don’t see how America can stay out of it much longer, and I didn’t want to wait for the draft. When he heard what I’d done Jack tried to get into the Navy too but he failed his physical big time he’s such a pipsqueak, so now he’s doing squat jumps and stomach crunches day and night to try and get himself into shape. Dad could get him a desk job at the Naval Reserve but I guess that would stick in his craw, having to stand by and see me get my wings while he’s pushing a pen.

  Rosie’s still acting up. She doesn’t understand she can’t always tag along when we go out. You know how she is. A guy who didn’t know her could take her for normal. She just wouldn’t know what she was getting into and neither would he. We took her to a hop in Osterville and to a clambake and she was no trouble but she told Euny she wants a beau or ten, like Kick has. Well, she just has to realize. The worst thing was she hit out at Grandpa Fitz. All he did was kid her about the way her fanny has spread and she went crazy. Even Fidelma couldn’t calm her. Mother doesn’t know what to do. I wish you were at Hyannis to help her, but seeing as you’ve run out on us I’ll settle for you doing your bit. Any Hun come your way I hope you’ll give them some of those worm powders you always keep handy.

  Your ever loving Joseph Patrick, Seaman Second Class

  I couldn’t believe Rosie had hit His Honor on purpose. He was an oily old devil and there had been times I could have clocked him myself, but Rosie loved her Grandpa. I could only think he’d gotten in the way of her arm when she was in a paddy so he’d only himself to blame. Sure, when the other pols were flinging mud up in Boston he was quite the expert at ducking out of the way.

  The next I heard Rosie had gone away to a school near Washington, to teach kindergarten. I had a darling note from her. The Sisters are all right, she wrote.

  Sister. Clara is best. Not best as you thow. Mother says I am fat STILL. and I am traying not to be. A man said I am cute. He is cute to. That is hour secret. Angel Nora. Miss you. millions.

  Washington sounded like a good move. She’d be spared Herself ’s nagging and Mayor Fitzgerald’s teasing, and she’d be handy for visiting with Kick and Jack. Kick had got herself a little job, writing pieces for one of Mr. Kennedy’s newspaper friends, and Jack had taken that desk job in the Naval Reserve. I was glad he’d been man enough to do it. I knew he’d have had Joe needling him but Jack can’t help being sickly. It’s not everyone can be a hotshot aviator.

  Kick wrote me that she and Jack had rented a little apartment together, with just one spare room for Rosie to visit at weekends and no help except a weekly domestic. I could imagine what the place would be like after five minutes. They all leave a trail wherever they go, and Jack and Kick had to be the messiest of them all.

  Greetings from your Washington correspondent! she wrote.

  You practically wouldn’t know me. I come into work nearly every day and get to write up all the important parties and any new plays. It says “by Kathleen Kennedy” at the top of the piece. Isn’t that wild! Mother says I should have my photograph next to my name too. Actually Mother says she’s the one should be writing for newspapers because she’s a better speller than I am and she’s had an interesting life people would like to read about.

  Rosie’s being SO naughty since she came back from London. Twice she went out at night without telling anyone. She says she was just walking around but Sister Philomena at the school says she smelled of cigarettes when she came back and won’t be able to stay on if she keeps this up.

  I’m palling around with some nice boys but nobody special. Do you ever see the Devonshire girls? I should write to them. I heard from Minnie Stubbs. She’s a VAD, apparently, at a special hospital for people who got burned. She has to empty potties and stuff. It sounds pretty vile but she’s terribly jolly about it. Cynthia Brough is having a much better time. She’s flying new Tiger Moths from the factory to the airfields, ALL ON HER OWN. I wish I’d learned how to fly.

  Jack’s “in lurve.” He’s dating a really great girl called Inge. She’s Polish or Russian or something and speaks a hundred languages, but she’s d-i-v-o-r-c-e-d, so it has to be kept hush-hush from Mother.

  Miss you heaps,

  she signed off, then

  P.S. Sissy and David have a baby boy, Julian. P.P.S. Lem failed his medicals because he has to wear those thick geeky glasses but Dad put in a word and got him into the Ambulance Corps. He’s waiting to be posted. P.P.P.S. Give my love to Billy if you see him.

  So Lord Billy had become one of Kick’s P.P.P.Ses. And, according to Lady Debo, it was quite on the cards that the next time Lord Billy was home on leave he’d get engaged to Sally Norton. Lady Debo was expecting. She’d fallen for a honeymoon baby, but then it came too soon and she lost it. Loss seemed to be all we heard about in those days. Hope heard on her milk round that Lord and Lady Melhuish had had a telegram. They had two boys in uniform and then we found out it was the young one who was missing. The battleship he was on had been sunk by the Japs. That was December, not long after Pearl Harbor. Rory Melhuish. He was a nice young man. Always gave you a wave and a “Good day” if he saw you in the street.

  All we seemed to hear was bad news. The only hope we clung to was that it would make a difference that America was fighting too. That it would soon be over, before too many more fine boys were cut down.

  24

  A Broken Doll

  His Grace used to look in at Carlton Gardens from time to time and it was him suggested Walter should try for a position at the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew. He said there was special war work going on there and they needed experienced gardeners.

  Walter wasn’t sure at first. He said, “It doesn’t seem the kind of work a man should be doing. They’ve got Land Army girls for things like that.”

  I said, “Perhaps they need somebody who can tell the Land Army girls what to do. And perhaps they won’t even take you. Why don’t you find out? I won’t think any the less of you if you’re wearing gum boots instead of that tin helmet.”

  So the Duke placed a telephone call and Walter was on his bicycle and off to Kew like a shot. He seemed to get his old bearing back after that. He held his head higher.

  “Top secret,” he said. “We’re engaged in work of national importance, but I’m not at liberty to say what it is.”

  And neither me nor Hope got it out of him till after VE day. They’d been growing things that could be used to make up for the shortages. Milkweed was one, and nettles and all different kinds of herbs, for remedies. The milkweed was useful because you could make rubber from the milk and flying suit padding from the floss inside the pods. The nettles were for a kind of flax. I knew about nettles. Grandma Farley had a nettle tablecloth, better than linen she reckoned. It was the cloth she kept for funerals. Walter said you could make good strong twine from nettles too.

  I don’t know how much difference it made to the war effort, but I believe Kew Gardens was the saving of me and Walter. I’d been getting to the point where I thought I wasn’t cut out for marriage. I wasn’t accustomed to having a man watching the clock till I came home, wanting to know where I’d be every minute and who with.

  I’d have a busy day, out with a soup kitchen, or cleaning up urchins that had been bombed out, first bath some of them had ever had in their lives. Time would just fly and I liked meeting all those different people. Then I’d come home to find Walter pacing the floor. Before he
had his top secret gardening to think about, he didn’t seem to understand that I couldn’t keep to a timetable. You didn’t leave till the job was done, and then you never knew how you’d get home. I had three bicycles purloined. After that, it was Shanks’s pony.

  “I just worry you’ll come to harm, Nora,” he’d say. “When you’re late I worry you’re lying under a pile of rubble and nobody knows you’re there.”

  I’d say, “Well, if it happens, either I’ll blow my whistle and they’ll find me, or they’ll send what’s left of me home in a carrier bag.”

  He’d say, “I suppose that’s what passes for humor in America.” And then we’d have words.

  But once he started at Kew he was too busy to fuss about me. He’d dash home, grab a slice of bread and scrape and go out directly to do his blackout rounds. We got that we hardly even met in bed.

  “Stallybrass, reporting for duty,” he’d say if we did both happen to slide between the sheets. “Permission to come alongside?”

  He could be an annoying old fusspot, always tidying the spoon drawer and putting my shoes in a row, but he did make me laugh, and as Fidelma Clery always said, it was nice to have a body to warm your feet on. I still don’t know if it’s what the story books call love.

  At the start of 1942 I got a new job.

  “Nora,” Lady Lally said to me one morning, “you must know how Americans do things. Why don’t you pop along to the Red Cross at Piccadilly and give them a hand. They’re getting complaints about their coffee.”

  London was filling up with American military. You heard their voices everywhere. When I walked in to the Rainbow Corner and saw all those bright smiling American boys it made me realize how much I missed my Kennedys. I hadn’t seen any of them in two years. The young ones probably hardly remembered me, and I might not even know them anymore. Teddy especially. There’s a big difference between a boy of eight and a boy of ten. Rainbow Corner brought something else home to me too. How worn out we all were in London. The Americans were fresh and ready for anything, but we’d already had two years of it and that’s a long time to be braced for disaster. They reckoned General Monty had the Germans beaten in Egypt, but we didn’t feel like we’d beaten anybody. There was greenery springing up on the bomb sites, Mother Nature moving back in. That made you realize how long things had dragged on. And when I heard some of the GIs talking about what they intended doing after the war it dawned on me I’d stopped imagining any “after the war.” I couldn’t imagine how it was ever going to end.