1939

by Angela Lambert

  By the time boys emerged from the public-school system at the age of eighteen, the worst of them had been rendered unimaginative and insensitive to the feelings of others, while even the best had learned all too effectively how to hide their feelings. Some never overcame this. Many Englishmen direct their strongest emotions towards their horse, their car, their club, their regiment or even their old school. Madeleine Turnbull looks back sympathetically at the gauche young men of her generation: ‘Public school certainly bashed an awful lot of emotion out of them, these terribly up-tight young men who had it all sort of bottled in and couldn’t express it. It was terribly sad. While boarding schools for the girls were just the opposite … hothouses of expectation and romantic ideas!’ Girls might dream of love and aristocratic elopements as portrayed in the historical novels of Margaret Irwin or Georgette Heyer, but they never doubted that sex before marriage was taboo. ‘I think I was kissed twice before I met my future husband,’ said one, who is not untypical.

  And so the young enacted, night after night, a formalized ritual of meeting, conversing and dancing in the most luxurious surroundings, while mutual misunderstanding and confusion were disguised by a set of social conventions from which few deviated. The miracle is that so many did have fun and most of them found marriage partners.

  If failure at last night’s dance, and growing apprehension at the prospect of the next, was the dominant thought, each night would have become an obstacle course between the Scylla of the chaperones and the Charybdis of the debs’ delights.

  Two days after Queen Charlotte’s Ball, on 19 May, came a dance that risked breaking some at least of the bounds of convention. It was given by Lady Twysden at 6 Stanhope Gate, and was unusual in that it was not only a coming-out dance for her daughter Betty, but also a coming-of-age party for Betty’s older brother, Sir Anthony Twysden, and younger brother Michael Blake. Betty was greatly in demand as a deb because of her two elder brothers, one of whom was a very good dancer. ‘The other’, says Betty, now Mrs Morton, ‘danced like a large Labrador puppy !’ It was mainly the boys who had insisted that this was not going to be the usual deb dance. In the receiving line at the top of the double staircase at 6 Stanhope Gate, Betty and her two brothers stood in a row with their mother to welcome guests, Anthony clutching a large bouquet of cauliflowers and carrots which someone had sent him from Moyses Stevens !

  Our party was frowned on by some of the stumer Mums who considered it shocking that we had a black band to play. Mother had been apprehensive but we assured her that Snakehips Johnson was marvellous, though I do remember her looking a bit taken aback when he arrived in his swallowtail coat and bowed over her hand. Some of the Mums took one look and carted their daughters off home. But I shall never forget the picture of Snakehips and his band leading all the little debs and their escorts in a whooping conga up one side of the double staircase and down the other side. The Mums were horrified but we thought it was tremendous fun.

  The weekend was fun as well, with polo at Hurlingham and Ranelagh and next week’s Derby to look forward to.

  Fun in England, at any rate ; in Poland a small but ominous incident occurred on the morning of Sunday, 21 May. Three Polish officials had driven to a village called Kalthof, on the Prussian-Danzig frontier, to investigate reported disturbances. Shots fired from their car, apparently by the chauffeur, killed a Danzig citizen of German birth. In the highly charged border atmosphere of the time, it was precisely the kind of incendiary gesture the Poles most feared, calculated to provide propaganda for the Germans. The area was a tinder-box; one man’s death could have been the spark. But, for the time being, a sharp protest was the only apparent result.

  The following week was dominated by the Epsom summer meeting, and was not an ideal week for dances. The last race at Epsom was run at 5 p.m., which meant a rush to travel back to London and change for the evening. Experienced mothers marked down Epsom week – like Ascot – as one to avoid, so that, although there were five dances, they were all relatively minor. The two highlights of the week were the Derby on Wednesday afternoon and the Oaks on Friday. The course was in excellent condition, the going should be perfect, and the weather was beautiful. The Hon. Anne Douglas-Scott-Montagu remembers when her cousins, Lord and Lady Wharncliffe,

  took a double-decker red London bus. It was lined up somewhere on the Derby course and we had this wonderful party with a fantastic lunch, champagne, all spread out downstairs in the bus, and we all sat upstairs. I remember Diana and Barbara Stuart-Wortley, whose party it was – and that was one of the unusual, rather nice things I remember doing.

  Blue Peter was favourite for the Derby, Galatea II for the Oaks. In the event, both duly won, Blue Peter by four lengths. He was a popular winner, being the Earl of Roseberry’s first success in the Derby (the previous Earl had won it three times) and the huge crowd attracted by glorious sunshine cheered his victory ecstatically.

  Many debs were racing enthusiasts, having been born and brought up with horses, and would have attended Epsom not just for the fashion parade which accompanied every one of its four days, but also because they were genuinely knowledgeable and interested in the racing. Surprisingly perhaps, they were allowed a discreet bet – two shillings slipped to an escort could be placed with a bookie, and it all added to the afternoon’s excitement.

  Marigold Charrington was one who was well informed about racing and horses: ‘Racing was part of our life – my parents’ too – and we were knowledgeable about form and so on. In fact I went to see the horses far more than the people ! Though of course one had to dress up – a different outfit for each day: new hat, new dress. Not bags and shoes – we made them do. It was a lovely week – wonderful weather.’ But, although the dresses and hats were once again faithfully reported in The Times, Epsom as a fashion event was definitely less important than Ascot. Although both the Derby and the Oaks dated back 160 years, and Epsom was firmly rooted in the Season, it was classless in its appeal. Less exclusive than Ascot – with its Royal Enclosure and rigid rules about who might or might not be admitted – it had long been a national rather than a Society occasion. The Derby is democracy writ large; and the upper classes have always had their doubts about democracy. Hoipolloi make the oligarchy nervous.

  Racing has always had a special fascination for the aristocracy. Selective breeding, the tracing of bloodlines down several generations, the inheritance of certain characteristics from sire to foal; the mitigating of the faults of one line by introducing a mare whose strengths will compensate – these mirror, in safely equine form, the obsession with blood that is crucial to the aristocracy’s good opinion of itself. The English thoroughbred is lineage made visible. The use of racing slang to express approval of a woman is no accident. Besides enabling an Englishman to pay a compliment without feeling self-conscious, it conveys in terms that all around him perfectly comprehend the overriding importance of pure blood. So a girl can be called a ‘fine-looking filly’, ‘a goer’ or ‘a stayer’ with a ‘mane’ of hair; while the closer her legs approach to the narrow fragility of a race-horse’s, the more they are likely to be admired. Lady Sarah Churchill recognized this quite explicitly: ‘I used to say to my mother, “You know, we’re just like fillies at a race track, we’re being wandered around for sale to the highest bidder.” Y’know, like horse sales. She used to be furious: “Don’t talk such nonsense !”’

  Two other events on Derby Day made news. The first was the King’s Empire Day message broadcast from Winnipeg and relayed to listeners all over the world, including 1,200 guests at the Empire Day dinner in Grosvenor House. The speech was anodyne, as such speeches must be: what can a monarch say to several hundred million people that will offend no one? And so they heard ‘deeply moving experience … the march of progress … striving to restore standards … not in power or wealth alone …’. Speaking directly to young listeners, the King concluded: ‘It is true, and I deplore it deeply, that the skies are overcast in more than one quarter at the present time
. Do not on that account lose heart. Life is a great adventure, and every one of you can be a pioneer blazing by thought and service a trail to better things.’

  On the same day, a British military mission arrived in Poland; the Cabinet passed a plan for concerted action between Britain, France and Soviet Russia in case any one of the three was attacked; and a sale at Christie’s in aid of Lord Baldwin’s Fund for Refugees raised £15,647. Many of the paintings and objets d’art were either given or purchased by Jews. The fund now totalled £481,646. It included £60 which was the proceeds of a dance given by the Whitechapel and Stepney Street Traders’ Protection Association.

  Friday, 26 May was the night of the Royal Caledonian Ball. This was the annual event which gave Scottish members of Society an opportunity to show off their reels. Men wore full evening tartan, women white evening dress, sashed with the family tartan, it being the only occasion in the year when it was considered correct to wear full tartan outside Scotland. Taking part in the reels was by invitation, and the dancers rehearsed assiduously beforehand. For Christian Grant it was one of the highlights of her Season:

  The Caledonian Ball was basically for charity, but it was real fun. It was usually organized by a group of ‘senior’ mothers from Scotland, of whom my mother qualified as one that year. It was held in Grosvenor House, being the biggest ballroom they could find in London. It started off with simple set reels. One had to be invited to take part, and if one wasn’t, it would have been a pretty good disaster … it was rather an important thing, if one came from Scotland. So all the young girls from Scotland were paired up with all the most dashing or eligible young men from Scotland – because, of course, one qualification was that you had to be able to dress yourself up in tartan. All the men wore the regulation kilt and the girls white dresses with their family tartan draped round them as a sash and fastened on the shoulder with a silver brooch with your family crest. It must have been quite a spectacle, seen from the balcony at Grosvenor House. It was sort of Scotland’s night out in London, and great fun for anyone who had connections with Scotland.

  May had been a portentous month. Tension was increasing in Poland, and the British military mission sent to Warsaw, ostensibly to confer with officers of the Polish General Staff about military aspects of the Anglo-Polish agreement, in actuality, had been briefed to find out the truth about the number of border incidents, and to try and cool matters down. This was impossible, since Hitler deliberately exaggerated the incidents – many of them caused by German agents provocateurs in the first place – so as to stir up patriotic ardour in Germany. In Spain the Civil War had officially ended on 19 May, but general mobilization had been called for. After some weeks of tentative negotiations – was Britain to hug the Russian bear or gingerly accept its paw?, in Chips Channon’s metaphor – the Anglo-Russian pact seemed on the point of being concluded.

  In London, evacuation plans were being drawn up. Over two million copies of a pamphlet explaining who was entitled to be evacuated, and how it would be done, were delivered by post to households in central London and eleven boroughs. It was stressed that evacuation was entirely voluntary, although ‘a grave responsibility would rest on parents and guardians who nevertheless kept their children in London’. A Civil Defence Bill, debated in Parliament throughout May, was organizing blackout facilities and air-raid shelters. Even the advertisements cashed in on the ominous mood of the moment. ‘You Must Be Prepared for Home Defence – Lay in a Store of Ovaltine Now!’ ran one headline. The advertisement went on: ‘It is not only a wise precaution but conforms to the advice given by the authorities to housewives to lay in a reserve against possible emergencies. 1/ld, l/10d, 3/3d per tin.’

  By this time some debs had already begun to prepare for the ordeal that had to come. Lady Brigid Guinness and the Hon. Aedgyth Acton were two who trained in first aid with the Red Cross during the summer of 1939. Others embarked on a practical nursing training, managing somehow to combine the rigours of hospital life with the contrasting – but still gruelling – rigours of the Season. One such was Helen Long, née Vlasto:

  The hospital to which I was assigned was Lambeth Infirmary – at that time full of terminal cases, and patients for whom there was little or no hope of recovery. Evacuation of other patients to alternative or country-based hospitals had already taken place, so close to war were we by then.

  A very diffident eighteen-year-old, I spent my days at Lambeth Infirmary and my nights at various West End hotels or private houses, attending deb dances. The contrasting scenes invalidated each other, and I felt I was living a double, and somewhat unworthy life. Only the hot and scented baths taken between my day and night life enabled me to replenish the energy required for both, and to face them with equanimity.8

  Meanwhile, it was the Bank Holiday weekend. No rain had fallen since the washout of the Chelsea Flower Show, and although temperatures had been about average until now, Whit Monday was brilliantly hot and sunny. Parents and debs dispersed to their country homes, or one another’s, for the long weekend, while the rest of the country lazed happily in thousands of deckchairs in hundreds of parks and on miles of beaches. London bus and train stations were packed solid with queues of people determined to see the sea. The banks of the Thames were crowded with picnickers. Thousands went to watch cricket at Lords; thousands more to see the panda at London zoo or the lions at Chessington. Hampstead had its traditional Whit Monday fair, and ice-cream and whelk sellers, gypsies and fortune tellers, pickpockets and big dippers had a field day. Central London was practically empty, and museums showed unusually low attendance figures. It was a day for making the most of the present. The past threw long shadows, and the future did not bear thinking about.

  Chapter Six

  The Last Three Months of Peace: June

  The country basked in a smiling June. For the first ten days not a drop of rain fell. As usual in good weather, spirits soared. The Fourth of June was bound to be sunny; with luck the weather would hold until Ascot week; and meanwhile the Glyndebourne opera season opened on 1 June to long, balmy evenings.

  An ominous and tragic accident sobered the holiday mood. On the morning of 1 June, a British submarine, the Thetis, underwent routine trials in Liverpool Bay. However, she failed to surface after a test dive, and rescue aircraft and ships circled the waters between Liverpool and Blackpool in search of her. The Thetis was soon spotted, indeed she surfaced ; but it seemed that nothing could be done to reach the ninety-nine men trapped inside. Frantic efforts were made to attach the submarine to a cable – it snapped – and to cut through her hull, but the air supply ran out before the men could be rescued. All died. It was a grim portent.

  There were other ships and other portents. A German liner, the St Louis, had been cruising for almost a month in search of a welcoming harbour for its 937 Jewish passengers. They steamed to Cuba, where entry permits had been promised, but after agonizing negotiations with immigration officials they were turned away and told they must return to Hamburg unless they could find a country willing to receive them.

  There were others: the Colorado, with 226 Jewish refugees, refused admission everywhere; the Liesel whose 906 passengers were finally allowed into Palestine, but only on condition that the quota for other Jews would be reduced accordingly. Meanwhile, the sun shone and the debs danced on. Who wanted to talk politics on such golden evenings ?

  The first Saturday of the month was the occasion for that annual gathering of Etonians and all connected with them, the Fourth of June, at which they reaffirm to one another ‘their elegance, their ease, their pastoral urbanity’.1

  This event, which nominally commemorates the birthday of George in, is a reunion for Etonians past and present. They believe it is the best school in the country, if not the world; they believe that having been there marks a man for life. The least secure among them will continue to wear an Old Etonian tie or contrive – for the benefit of the uninitiated who do not recognize it – to indicate their privileged status, even if dec
ades have elapsed since their schoolboy days.

  The Fourth of June is a vast insiders’ cocktail party; an opportunity for sociable or wary encounters and mutual appraisal ; a day on which the school’s special jargon bedecks the conversation like bunting to celebrate the triumph of the ruling caste. It is also a happy day, as one Old Etonian who was there in 1939 wistfully remembers: