Daughter of Empire

by Pamela Hicks

  Gandhiji’s ashes were to be scattered in Allahabad at the confluence of the two sacred rivers, the Ganges and the Jumna. So it was decided that the forthcoming Mela – when hundreds of thousands of people come together to bathe in holy waters on the first day of the new moon – would be an auspicious time to take them. Allahabad, by coincidence, was also the place of Panditji’s birth and so, a little over a week after the assassination, we set off with Panditji to make the journey. We did so with mixed feelings of sorrow at the heaviness of the duty that was to be performed and excitement at the prospect of seeing the Mela with the man who was rapidly becoming a close and very special friend.

  When we arrived at Allahabad there was a memorial service at the Cathedral Church of the Redemption for Gandhiji, where we sang his favourite hymns, including ‘Abide with Me’, and my father read a lesson. Gandhiji’s ashes were scattered in the water, where hundreds of pilgrims had gathered – fully clothed women, near-naked sadhus adorned in white body paint, some standing up to their knees, others to their waists, others submerged completely in the holy waters.

  Although it was a deeply sorrowful time, it was a comfort to spend more time with Panditji and get used to his ways. He was apt to fall into long periods of silence and reflection, but he was never aloof with us. When he was not his normal animated self you realised that he was wrestling with some incredibly important problem and needed to be left alone, but soon he would be full of charm again. His moods could change very quickly and he was often quick to anger, such as on the day when too many people gave my parents autograph books to sign and the crowd became overwhelming. Suddenly Panditji’s mood changed and he seized all the books and threw them into the air. My mother was very taken aback but his smile returned just as quickly and he put his arm around our shoulders and we laughed and everything felt fine again.

  There was no sign at this time that my mother’s regard for Nehru was anything other than deep friendship, but during a short break at the Retreat in the Himalayas to help him recover his energy, a profound connection developed between them. Now, just six weeks before we were due to leave India, she found in Panditji the companionship and equality of spirit and intellect that she craved. Each helped overcome loneliness in the other. Nehru had been a widower for ten years and had also recently lost the company of his family: his daughter, Mrs Gandhi, was rarely around as she was married with young children and was much involved in the Congress Party; one sister, Nan Pandit, was now ambassador to Moscow and the other, Betty Hutheesing, lived in Bombay.

  As we left the heat of the plains and travelled up into the hills, journeying to the Retreat at Mashobra, in the wooded hillside above Simla, my mother was easy to get along with, and a sense of well-being emanated from her. My father and I were very tactful, falling behind her and Nehru as we walked together or leaving the room when they were deep in conversation. But we did not, at any time, feel excluded. Our small party did everything together, most memorably taking a long drive into the mountains to see Tibet at a distance. At night we all played racing demons or parlour games (not my father’s favourite pastime) or simply sat reading peacefully together.

  My parents’ modus vivendi would hold fast but it was particularly easy in this instance, for my father trusted them both. His life was made easier too now that my mother’s new-found happiness released him from the relentless late-night recriminations. In recent months, whenever he had left his huge pile of paperwork to go up to say goodnight to her, my father would find himself subject to a long string of accusations that he didn’t understand: he was ignoring her, his behaviour had been rude and he didn’t care about her. He was sympathetic and apologised, even though he did not understand what he had done wrong. These were the exhausted outpourings of a woman who always drove herself too hard and felt intellectually isolated. To my father’s great relief, after our short stay in the mountains, these sessions ceased. Now when my father went up he would find her studying her pocket atlas, and she would simply smile and wish him a cheery ‘Goodnight, Dickie, darling’. He would then return to work through most of the night without a heavy heart.

  In later years, reading Panditji’s inner thoughts and feelings in his letters to my mother, I came to realise how deeply he and my mother loved and respected each other. I had been curious as to whether or not their affair had been sexual in nature; having read the letters, I was utterly convinced it hadn’t been. Quite apart from the fact that neither my mother nor Panditji had time to indulge in a physical affair, they were rarely alone. They were always surrounded by staff, police and other people, and as my father’s ADC, Freddie Burnaby Atkins, told me later, it would have been impossible for them to have been having an affair, such was the very public nature of their lives.

  Our final few weeks in India whirled by, my mother still making tours of the refugee camps. In Kurukshetra and Panipat, the refugees had crowded around in their thousands to say goodbye. Even more moving was the fact that refugees from other camps had clubbed together to buy a railway ticket so that each camp could send a representative with a small gift as a token of their gratitude.

  A few days before we were to leave, a book arrived for me from Panditji. ‘I am sending you a little book about myself!’ he wrote. ‘It is meant for children. I have to add that my sending you this book does not mean to imply that I do not respect your mature wisdom.’ He always managed to make me laugh. My mother wanted to give Panditji a gift – her precious emerald ring – but she knew he would not accept it. Instead, she handed it to his daughter, Indira, telling her that if he were ever to find himself in financial difficulties – he was well known for giving away all his money – she should sell it for him.

  Our last day was overwhelming. We began with a drive through Old Delhi, waving to crowds estimated to be over a quarter of a million strong, and then we returned to Governor-General’s House for a farewell party for all two thousand staff. In the evening we attended our last state banquet in the house, hosted by the cabinet. It was a bittersweet occasion. Panditji made moving speeches about both my parents, praising my father and thanking him profoundly. I was overcome with shyness as he thanked me for ‘coming straight from school and possessing all the charm she does’, for doing ‘a grown-up person’s work in the troubled scene of India’. Most poignantly he addressed my mother directly, saying: ‘Wherever you have gone, you have brought solace, you have brought hope and encouragement. Is it surprising therefore that the people of India should love you and look up to you as one of themselves and should grieve that you are going?’

  As we prepared to leave I found myself overcome with sorrow as I said goodbye to Leela Nand. He was still recovering from the tragic death of his seven-year-old son three months earlier, and while I had done all I could to comfort him, I knew he was broken inside. We clung to each other, tears rolling down our cheeks. As we left Governor-General’s House for the last time we descended the long flight of steps lined by the bodyguard and got into the carriage with the mounted escort drawn up behind. Suddenly one of the horses jibbed and a voice shouted out: ‘Even the horses won’t let you go.’ This cry was taken up and repeated by the crowd. My mother and I waved through our tears, trying to keep on smiling.

  At Palam airport the incoming Governor-General, Chakravarti Rajagopalachari, our dear friend Rajaji, wept as he embraced my mother in farewell. Nevertheless she managed to smile as she shook hands with row upon row of officials before we climbed into the plane. As we took our places, I saw her fumbling with something around her neck, an urgency to her movements that betrayed her calm exterior. She whispered something to her PA and passed her something in a closed fist, motioning for her to leave the plane. It was only later that I discovered the PA had been sent out with my mother’s precious St Christopher to find a safe pair of hands to get it to Panditji. The long flight home passed in sombre silence.

  Landing at Northolt, we were greeted by a host of people including Prince Philip, Clement Attlee, the prime minister, Krishna Menon
and Patricia. After the formal greetings my father made a short statement to the press and then my mother, now dressed immaculately for the British summer in a suit, hat and fur stole, stepped on to the dais to make a speech. She could only just control her emotions. She spoke first of the people of India, who she said had ‘shown us such unbelievable confidence and generosity and affection’. Then she added, ‘I shall always think back on our time in India with . . .’ and here she began to falter, and had difficulty in getting the words out, ‘. . . every . . . possible . . . feeling.’ She stopped, blinked, then licked her lower lip until for a horrifying moment I thought she might break down. Then, as she turned to my father for support, he gave her a warm, confident smile and she regained her composure and found the strength to continue, ‘. . . with happiness, as well as sorrow, for what the people have been through. But I am grateful to India and I will always regard India as a second home.’ And with that the photographers’ bulbs popped, we shook more hands, and drove off to our other home.

  14

  I missed India. I missed Leela Nand, I missed Panditji, I missed the noise and chaos of the clinic and I even missed the long marble corridors of Governor-General’s House. I was finding it difficult to adapt to life back at Broadlands, roaming around the house moodily or standing in the schoolroom twiddling the knobs on the wireless in search of the faint crackle of Indian music. It was some compensation that we had brought Neola with us – he didn’t seem to mind which continent he made mischief in, and spent his days turning my bedroom into a mongoose stronghold. Downstairs there was a little more to remind me of India as my parents had brought their bearers, Wahid Beg and Abdul Hamid, to Broadlands. Both were Muslim and it was thought they might fare better away from Delhi when we left. To me they seemed rather lost in England, shivering in the navy blue waistcoats they had worn in Simla. Seeing them in their uniform brought on a wave of nostalgia, but these small touches of India did not make me feel that I belonged back in England.

  I wrote to Panditji, initially to thank him for all the kind presents he had given me before we left, but the letter became a reflection on all that I had experienced in India. My letter crossed in the post with the first of his, dated five days after our departure. He was missing us too: ‘A visit to Kashmir always cheers me up and so today I felt a little better than I have done since the Mountbattens left.’ He added that ‘not being a slave to duty like your mother’ – not exactly true, I reflected – he had felt sufficiently low to take some rare time out to walk in the mountains, swim and do some ‘surf riding’. He described a wrestling match which although he had lost he had enjoyed ‘thoroughly and immediately after spoke at a meeting for an hour and a quarter’. His opponent ‘had not fared so well and had to apply various balms and ointments! I am rather sorry for him but I must confess that I have gone up in my own estimation. Obviously it must be due to my standing on my head. I am sorry you have not taken to this.’ I was even happier with his next letter that responded to my one in which I had recorded my thoughts about my time in his country. It had revealed to him, he wrote, that not only was I a good letter writer but someone with ‘inner depths who is on a voyage of discovery’. I was flattered and even more moved by the advice that followed as it crystallised perfectly so many of the emotions I had been experiencing since our return to England.

  ‘It is a fascinating business not only to grow in every way but to be conscious of that growth,’ he wrote. ‘I entirely agree with you that it was more worthwhile for you to witness and feel the extraordinary things happening in India during the past year and more than to lead just a comfortable unexciting life. Unhappily we have to pay in life for everything worthwhile. If we want experience, depth and an understanding of life’s infinite phases we have to suffer shock and sorrow and then, if we are strong enough to rise above them, life is a curious bittersweet affair. Too much of its bitter aspect is of course terrible, but too much of unalloyed sweetness can also be bad enough. So your experiences in India may perhaps have fitted you a little for your future journeys through life and given you a broader and deeper vision. How I envy your youth with the adventure of life stretching out before you.’ He signed off ‘with my love and yours affectionately, Mamu Jawaharlal’. Seeing the affectionate signing off as Mamu brought back fond memories of his wish for me to call him Uncle, something that my father at the time had thought a little too familiar.

  I also wrote to Leela Nand. Ever since the death of his son I had always been concerned for him. When the reply came it was written by his brother Amla, who expressed his sorrow that Leela could not reply in person. Leela Nand, who was just thirty-six and perfectly healthy, had died. He had not shot himself, he had not taken poison or thrown himself out of a window. Leela Nand had merely lain down and died because he willed it. He died of a broken heart. I stood with the letter in my hand, trying to take in the shock of this dreadful news.

  Grandmama was relieved that she had lived long enough to see us all safely back home. I had missed her hugely and in turn was relieved to see that in spite of the ever-present chilblains on her poor fingers and toes, she was surprisingly well. On a trip to the British Museum, I went to pick her up from Kensington Palace, intending to hail a taxi to take us to Bloomsbury. ‘A taxi, dear child?’ she asked, setting off, best foot forward, towards the nearest bus stop. As the bus pulled away, she ran ahead, while I followed breathlessly, just managing to jump on behind her. Sensitive to my ennui, she picked up on the difficulties I was having in reacclimatising. She remarked drily, ‘We have many beautiful things in this country too, my dear. When you go to stay with Patricia, ask her to take you to Canterbury Cathedral.’

  And slowly, I did begin to enjoy myself again in England. To my delight, my family was invited to attend the opening ceremony of the 1948 Olympic Games in London, and from the Royal Box we were swept up in the pride of each team as they came past the royal family. We were rather shocked as the American team fell out of step and began taking photographs of the King and Queen. We even took the Shah of Iran – at the time a charming, progressive and enthusiastic young man – to see the show Oklahoma! and then on to dinner and dancing at the Savoy. It was the first time I had driven with a police escort in London and certainly the first time that the car in which I was being driven had ignored any red traffic lights. The day after that, I was on my way to stay with Patricia when I met the Shah’s chamberlain on the station platform, waiting for the same train. The chamberlain was very gallant, and as the train pulled up, he threw open the door of a first-class compartment for me. I, however, was on a very strict allowance and had a third-class ticket. Being a courteous man, he got in with me. I could see from his expression that he had never travelled third class before but manners prevailed over comfort and that was fortunate for me as he made a delightful companion down to Kent.

  It also helped to be surrounded by so many guests that summer, and we enjoyed a particular rowdy weekend with Yola, Prince Philip, his sister Tiny and her husband, Prince George of Hanover. After dinner one evening Philip did his wonderful imitation of a coy lady preparing for a bath, complete with imaginary slipping towel, and our mood was so buoyant we finished the evening with some rather mad games. It was all too much for Yola, who left the next morning. ‘Non, non!’ she cried. ‘C’est trop fatiguant!’ She never could cope with more than one or two of us at a time, let alone an overexcited gaggle.

  Neola spent most of his time upstairs, settled on a hot pipe – though once in a deep sleep his little paws would relax and he would fall off – or creating havoc in the schoolroom. During tea one afternoon, my father asked me to bring Neola downstairs so that we could show him to our guests. These were no ordinary guests, for that particular weekend they included the King, Queen, Princess Margaret and two of her friends, Johnny Dalkeith and David Ogilvy. ‘Nonsense, darling,’ my father said as I tried to make excuses, ‘I am sure everyone would love to see him. Elizabeth, you would love to, wouldn’t you?’ And the Queen, ever polite and char
ming said, ‘Yes, of course we would love to, Dickie.’ So, with a great deal of apprehension, I collected Neola, returning with him on my shoulder as the guests clustered round. The King – who suffered from lumbago and was renowned for his short temper – heaved himself out of his armchair and made polite noises about my mongoose. Then, with an audible sigh of relief, he went back to his chair and slowly lowered himself into it. At this precise moment, Neola took fright, jumped from my shoulder and leapt on to the back of the King’s chair so that monarch and mongoose collided. The King leapt up and Johnny called out wittily, ‘Ah, a sovereign cure for lumbago!’ We all laughed until we noticed that the King was not so amused. We held our breath waiting for an explosion, but then he sighed wearily and sat back down.

  Before he agreed to take the position of Viceroy, my father had made it a condition that on his return he could resume his career in the Navy. He had now been appointed to command the First Cruiser Squadron in the Mediterranean Fleet, returning to the service with his real rank, that of rear admiral, well below the substantive position he had held as Supreme Allied Commander and the giddy heights of viceroyalty. In the pecking order of seniority, he would rank thirteenth, something he thought would help keep his ego in check. But this caused huge confusion for the commander-in-chief – who my father now addressed as Sir – as he had served under my father in SEAC and kept slipping back into old habits, absent-mindedly addressing him as ‘Sir’. Poor Sir Arthur John Power also had to deal with Prince Philip, who, joining the fleet as a junior officer, called him Sir. Mindful that Prince Philip was married to the heir to the throne, the C-in-C couldn’t help but address his junior officer as ‘Sir’.