The Importance of Being Kennedy

by Laurie Graham

  I said, “Jack wasn’t married. I don’t believe that.”

  “Yes he was,” she said. “Wild, isn’t it? What a fool. I guess he did it for a dare.”

  I said, “Well, then he had to get divorced. How did he manage that?”

  “Well,” she said, “not divorced exactly. They were only married for about five minutes, so I guess it was a kind of annulment. Anyway, Grandpa made some calls and Mr. Timilty went down there and took care of everything.”

  I said, “And did your Mammy know about it?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I mean we just absolutely never talk about it. But I don’t see why I should have Jack lecturing me about Blood, considering his history. Gee, he’s getting as pi as little St. Bobby.”

  I didn’t know what to make of it. If it was right, what she said, it could only have happened in drink, like boys sometimes get a tattoo or go to a whorehouse. Kick and Jack patched things up before he flew home, but only because he had to be rushed to the hospital, which gave us all a fright. He collapsed with terrible pains in his belly, and when they got him to the clinic they said he was jaundiced, so it was very likely the malaria had come back. Then Herself started bombarding the doctors with letters, explaining how he’d had a very hectic year and all he needed was rest. But it was plain to see, looking at the snapshots he’d had taken in Ireland, how the weight had dropped off him. He stayed cheerful though.

  “Tell you what, Nora,” he said. “I reckon this jaundice suits me. It gives me a kind of tanned, movie-star look. I should have signed my autograph for that girl in Ballynagore.”

  He didn’t look like any movie star to me. He looked like a scarecrow with an orange face. And then we got the verdict from the doctors. It wasn’t malaria at all but a disease of the glands and very serious indeed. But they had a brand-new medicine for it, injections that had only just been invented. They said he was practically the first person they’d be trying it out on and it might mean the difference between life and death. I think Our Lady must have been watching over him. And over those inventors.

  So they started him on the injections and the pains calmed down and he didn’t feel so weak. The only drawback was his face ballooned out. People started saying how well he looked, but he’s been a bag of bones all the years I’ve known him. I couldn’t get used to him looking like the Man in the Moon.

  They taught him how to give himself the injections before he sailed home. Walter nearly fainted when he saw him jab that needle in.

  “Nay, sir,” he said, “can’t they give you a pill?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “They will, in time. Candy-coated and everything. But they’ll be for whiners. Kennedys take their shots like men.”

  He’d been a very sick lad, that I do know, but Herself declined to believe it was anything that a plain diet and a dose of Poland Spring water wouldn’t cure. She’s a card, that one. Shut herself away in a clinic when Kick married Lord Billy, and yet I’ve seen her soldier on with sprains and cuts and women’s pains and all sorts. Keeping the Kennedy bandwagon rolling, that’s always her first idea.

  As soon as Jack arrived home she had him whisked up to Boston to see a top gland doctor, and she had a shock. The Boston doctor agreed with what the London doctors had said. He’d to continue with the injections, and get his blood tested regular.

  Kick heard from him.

  Personally I think you should come home, he wrote.

  Take time out. See how things look from this side of the ocean. Above all, don’t do anything crazy about this Fitzwilliam guy. Maybe you should talk to Dad. You know you can always trust him to give you good advice. Remember, you’re a Kennedy and we all love you a million.

  She said, “I had a nightmare, Nora. I think we were at Hyannis. It was a house by the ocean, and we were all dressed up in sailor suits, lined up in a row to have our photo taken, but every time the photographer was ready somebody was missing. Jack was gone, then Pat, then Rosie and Jean. The funny thing was though, Joe was still there. I saw him clear as anything.”

  I’d had a bad dream myself. I was in a room with hundreds of babies, all Kennedys, but I didn’t know any of their names and they all had the same little face. I was searching and searching through them for Rosie, only I could never find her.

  Kick said, “Maybe I should talk to Daddy. Maybe I should write or go see him. What do you think?”

  I could see what was coming.

  I said, “I don’t think it makes any difference what you do. You’re not going to get your Mammy’s blessing, and if she won’t give hers, your Daddy won’t give you his. And as for trailing back to America, you know I can’t do it again. If that’s the way it’s going to be, me and Walter’ll have to give you our notice.”

  Out came the pet lip.

  She said, “Don’t say that. Walter can come to America too.”

  I said, “Walter doesn’t want to come to America, and neither do I. Take Delia Olvanie. Sure she’d jump at it.”

  And she did. I got no more work out of Delia till her bags were packed.

  “Palm Beach, Florida,” she said. “That’s where we’re going for Christmas. They say it’s nothing but millionaires and mansions.”

  I said, “But you can leave your mink in storage. All you’ll be doing is shaking the sand out of Lady Kathleen’s clothes and going to bed hungry. There’s not an ounce of comfort to be had in a Kennedy house.”

  She said, “You’re just jealous.”

  “Oh I am,” I said to her. “Just what I want. Living out of trunks again. Getting yapped at by Mrs. K. You’re welcome, Delia Olvanie. And I’ll give you a word of warning. If Lady Kathleen lets slip a word about Lord Fitzwilliam the balloon will go up. They’ll have her bundled off to St. Gertrude’s or somewhere, kept under lock and key till she repents, and then we’ll all be out of a job. So you watch out. Any letters come for her, any telephone calls, don’t go shouting it from the rooftops.”

  As it turned out there weren’t likely to be any letters nor calls, because Blood Fitzwilliam went off to Equatorial Africa to shoot elephants. Kick took along Lord Billy’s sister, Lady Elizabeth, and they had a quiet Christmas down at Palm Beach. She waited till their very last day there to bring up Fitzwilliam’s name. I had it blow by blow from Delia.

  She said, “Mr. K hardly said a word. But Mrs. K said if she marries any divorced man she’ll see her cut off without a penny. And her sisters were yelling at her too, especially that Euny, about leaving the church. They sent a monsignor chasing after us when we got to New York, but Lady Kathleen wouldn’t see him. She told me she’s never, never going back to America, Nora. It’s a terrible shame. I thought it was grand place. Then when we got on the boat she was trying to get through to Lord Fitzwilliam, but she never got him. Every day she tried. She was in a right old state, but I don’t see how anybody could make a telephone call from the middle of the ocean. There’s not wires long enough. So anyway, now I don’t know what’s going to happen. We could all be out on the street if Mr. Kennedy stops her money.”

  Kick was subdued.

  She said, “I knew there’d be a fuss but it was much worse than I expected. Mother’s really on the warpath. Euny’s not speaking to me. Bobby’s not speaking to me. Jack’s keeping his distance. My only hope now is Daddy.”

  There was a time when her Daddy could have fixed anything for her, and Herself would just go lie down, wear her frownies for an hour, then put on a smile and learn to live with it. But it seemed it wasn’t like that anymore. Since Joseph Patrick was killed, it seemed that Mrs. K had started trying on the pants.

  35

  A Day of Tears

  They came before it was light, ringing and ringing on the doorbell. Walter went down. Two constables were on the front step. They said a plane had crashed in France and papers had been found belonging to a Lady Hartington. Walter had shown them into the drawing room by the time I came down. It was only the older one did any talking, but I suppose they always send two.


  He said, “Is Lady Hartington away from home?”

  I said, “She went yesterday. To France.”

  He said, “Was she traveling alone?”

  Walter said, “We wouldn’t know.”

  “Well,” he said, “a passport was found. That’s all I can tell you at present.”

  Kick wasn’t the only Lady Hartington, of course. When Lord Billy died the title passed on to Lady Debo, but she was already accounted for. Kick was the one flying in airplanes with another woman’s husband.

  I said, “Was it an American passport?”

  “Couldn’t say, madam,” he said.

  Her Grace came on the telephone from Chatsworth to say they’d had a visit from the police too and she very much feared another tragedy had occurred. They’d told her the plane had crashed into a mountain in very bad weather.

  I told Delia to keep the curtains closed. Then I went to Kick’s room, to smell her scent, and see if the place felt any different. It didn’t. I sat on her bed and I thought, She can’t be dead. Joe died and then Lord Billy, so we’ve had our tragedies. It’s somebody else’s turn now.

  I don’t know how long Walter had been standing in the doorway watching me.

  He said, “You’ll be wanting to go to church.”

  I said, “I can’t. I shall have to be here.”

  “What for?” he said.

  I said, “Well, there might be further information.”

  “Sweetheart,” he said, “you go. Take Delia and some of them candles. Light one for me too. I’ll be here if there’s any news. It’ll be the family they tell first though.”

  Mr. Kennedy was in Paris on business. He was expecting to see Kick on her way back from her jaunt, to meet Lord Fitzwilliam and see if anything could be done about them marrying. It was the American newspaper people who tracked him down to his hotel and Joey Timilty who had to break the news to him. They said the place where the plane had crashed was the back of beyond, so they’d have to bring the bodies down off the mountain on oxcarts. All that day we kept hoping there’d been some mistake but then Mr. K went down there on the train and saw them in their coffins. After that there was no denying it, but as me and Delia were walking back from the cathedral we saw Lord Balderston drive by in a fancy-looking motor with no roof and the first thing I thought was, I must tell Kick.

  They brought her body back to Croydon and Walter drove me to the aerodrome to meet her.

  I said, “She was the closest I ever came to having a wean of my own. Her and Rosie. And now one way or another they’re both gone.”

  “Aye,” he said, “I know. I grew very fond of her myself.”

  Mr. K had come with her, and after they carried the casket off the plane, he didn’t seem to know what to do next. All the spark had gone out of him, and no wonder. You don’t expect to bury your children.

  I said, “There’s a bed for you at Smith Square.”

  But he had Joey Timilty with him and he said a hotel would be better.

  Mr. K said, “I don’t know why I brought her here. I should have had the funeral in Paris. I could have done.”

  He was like a sleepwalker.

  I said, “What does Mrs. Kennedy want?”

  He said, “She’s in Hyannis. She’ll be going to Mass. She’ll leave it up to me what to do.”

  Kick lay at the American Embassy that night. I’d have liked to sit with her, but Mr. K said it was a father’s place to do it. And so it was. Just so long as somebody waked her I didn’t mind who. Then Lord Billy’s mother stepped in about the funeral. She said, “Bring her to Derbyshire. Let her be buried in the family plot. She was Billy’s widow, after all.”

  There was a Requiem Mass said for her at Farm Street. It was packed to the doors with her friends, even the ones she’d neglected since Fitzwilliam came on the scene, and all the Devonshires came too. But her Daddy was the only Kennedy there. I suppose they were lighting candles for her in Hyannis, but not a one of them crossed the ocean to see her laid to rest. Not even Jack, who loved her so. Not even her own mother.

  Then we went to St. Pancras station, still a good crowd of us, and caught the train to Bakewell. Me and Walter rode with the casket in the guard’s van. There were two bicycles in there with us, and a basket full of racing pigeons. The hearse went directly to Edinsor and she was buried in the churchyard there in the plot that had been intended for Lord Billy someday. Little Kathleen Kennedy laid to rest among the Dukes of Devonshire. I saw her into the world and I saw her out of it. Mr. K looked such a poor old man all of a sudden. When it was over he came looking for me.

  He said, “Nora, there are things at Smith Square, some furniture Billy’s folks loaned her, and jewelry? Have it all sent back, would you?”

  And then he walked away, him and Joey Timilty, looking for a car to take them back to the rail station. It was His Grace who paid the priest.

  The facts are getting rearranged already. Lady Astor’s going round saying it wasn’t an accident at all but a plot, with the Pope behind it. She thinks Mrs. K wrote to the Holy Father, and the Holy Father had the airplane tampered with, to stop Kick marrying Fitzwilliam and going to Hell. Well, I’ve thought for the longest time that Lady Astor has a screw loose.

  Then one of the newspapers said that Lady Hartington had been on her way to Paris to see her father, even though it was plain as a pikestaff that the plane was flying away from Paris. Another paper said she was a family friend of Lord Fitzwilliam and he’d offered her a lift seeing as he was on his way to inspect his horses in the south of France. Nobody appears to have noticed that he didn’t have any horses in the south of France. Walter reckons Mr. Kennedy will have gotten his newspaper friends to tidy up the facts, to spare the feelings of the family. To save Jack and the other boys from any scandal and messiness, seeing as how they’re all going to be president of the United States. I don’t know why he’d go to the trouble. Those boys can create messiness enough of their own. A little story about Kick isn’t going to make them or break them. Anyway, there are people enough who know what really happened.

  The first thing was Fitzwilliam was late. He was always very slipshod about time and she’d been ready more than an hour, fidgeting around, watching out the window for his car. Then he telephoned to say his motor wouldn’t start, so Walter would have to drive them to Croydon. His Lordship arrived in a hackney cab and off they bundled. She looked radiant, I must say. Like a bride going away. She was in her new blue suit and her pearls. No hat.

  Walter came home tight-lipped. All the way to the aerodrome Lord Fitzwilliam had kept telling him to step on the gas.

  He said, “More than thirty years I’ve been driving and never a mishap. Telling me my business. I said to him, ‘My job is to get Her Ladyship safe to her destination.’ You should have heard him then. Barrack-room language. Lady Kathleen were embarrassed, I could tell. Lord Billy must be turning in his grave to see her walking out with a man like that.”

  When they got to the aerodrome the pilot said as they were so late there’d have to be a change of plan. There were storms forecast for the afternoon, so he said he’d only take them as far as Paris until the weather improved, but Fitzwilliam wouldn’t listen.

  Walter heard him say, “You’re chartered to take us to Cannes and you’ll bloody well take us to Cannes.”

  And the pilot said, “If you’d been here for a timely departure, sir, the weather wouldn’t have been a problem.”

  It’s haunting Walter, I can tell. He keeps saying, “Perhaps if I’d gone a bit faster and got them there sooner.”

  But he has nothing to blame himself for. Minnie Stubbs came to the Mass at Farm Street and she told me exactly what happened. When they got to Paris they were meant to be meeting Minnie and her husband and some friends of Lord Fitzwilliam, to go to a restaurant. The pilot said if they insisted on flying on to Cannes they must do it immediately and hope to beat the weather, but Fitzwilliam wouldn’t hear of it. He said he’d gone to great trouble to get a table so the
pilot would just have to wait. So they had their luncheon and Minnie rode back with them in a taxi to wave them off from the airfield. She said the pilot was fit to be tied. He said they were more than four hours behind schedule and they’d be flying straight into storms, so they were going nowhere. He told them they’d all have to stay the night in Paris and carry on next morning.

  Minnie said it was something to see how Fitzwilliam got his way. He told the pilot there’d be a nice bonus in it for him. Told him he’d come highly recommended as a pilot who could fly through anything and that neither he nor Kick would be bothered by a bumpy ride. He persuaded him, though that pilot should never have agreed to it. It’s the kind of stunt Joseph Patrick would have pulled. Fitzwilliam had that side to him. He wouldn’t be bested. He thought the bad things that happened to ordinary people couldn’t happen to him. Maybe that’s why Kick fell for him. He had a touch of the Kennedys about him.

  I got a card in the post, from Herself, a Mass card for Kick, with a prayer for a soul in purgatory. What a thing! I threw it on the fire. Kick was a good girl, that’s all I know and hardly more than a child. She loved her family and she said her prayers every day, and if that devil Fitzwilliam hadn’t addled her head she’d be here still.

  Walter said I shouldn’t take what Mrs. K does so much to heart.

  He said, “She doesn’t tick like thee and me. You know she doesn’t. From what I’ve heard she’s had a rum life altogether, and enough sadness lately to turn a person’s mind. That’s what it’ll be. Her mind’s gone. You’ll have to make allowances. Now I’m not a betting man and I’m not a pew-kisser neither, but if I had to choose between you and Rose Kennedy to say prayers for me, my money’d be on you, Nora Stallybrass. And another thing, I don’t know much about womenfolk, but I reckon you had more joy of that girl than her own mother ever did.”

  Well, I don’t know about that, though she did bring me joy. They say there’s nothing in the world like a mother’s love.