My mother
Relations with my mother were more complex than those with my father. She was a woman of strong character, fearless in her convictions, outspoken and often tactless. She was a disciplinarian, whereas I and my sisters regarded our father as a safe haven. In my early childhood, before the war, the family led a comfortable, conventional and – I suppose I should say – privileged existence. We had a living-in staff of five – cook, scullery maid, parlour maid and housemaid, and a nanny. Some years before the war the chauffeur was stood down as an economy measure.
My earliest canvassing was experienced at my mother’s ladies’ luncheon parties, which were followed by a rubber of bridge. I was directed to go round the table, shake hands and be polite to each lady in turn. The house was run like clockwork; my mother’s first business of the day, following breakfast in bed, would be a conference with the cook, Mrs Macey, to plan the menus. The other staff were appropriately instructed. Ursula’s appearance was made more formidable by the fact that she wore a monocle. Her father thought that spectacles, as then designed, were unbecoming. Therefore, for this reason and due to the fact that she only had one bad eye he offered her an additional £100 a year on her allowance if she wore monocle. The monocle won. She wore the monocle at her wedding attracting the headline: Britain’s first monocled bride’, and prompting a small boy to ask his mother why the lady wore her ring in her eye and not on her finger!
One of her quirks was that she firmly wore her conventional spectacles when swimming in the sea. These were safer than the monocle, and when people from far and wide would swim over to her to point out that she had forgotten to take off her glasses, she would reply: ‘Thank you. But you see, I have bad eyesight, and need them to see where I am going!’ She passionately enjoyed swimming in the sea and until she was well into her seventies would take a regular dip.
Children’s parties followed a well-established pattern. The children arrived with their nannies, who went into a huddle and expected to be entertained. One complained that none of them had been offered any sherry. My mother was furious, and promptly rang up the nanny’s employer, saying that their nanny had behaved very badly and she, Ursula, had given her notice on behalf of the employer.
Sometimes her shock tactics worked: at a toll gate at Borth-y-Gest in North Wales, the toll gate lady had an unenviable reputation of being surly and unhelpful. On this occasion, she muttered how difficult life was if people didn’t bring the right change. Few people spoke to her, so she was somewhat taken aback when being thus addressed by my mother: ‘My husband and I have been coming to Wales for the last fifteen years, and we have come to the conclusion that without any doubt you are the most disagreeable woman in the whole of North Wales’. The effect was electric: from that moment the woman was transformed, and became well-disposed to mankind and polite. It was a good day’s work, and I am sure the woman was happier for it.
Another incident which I have never forgotten occurred when I must have been about five years old: my mother rang the bell in the first floor drawing room and asked the parlour maid, who had to come up two flights of stairs from the basement, to put some coal on the fire. When the maid had left, I asked her why we couldn’t do it ourselves, to which she replied that she would get her hands dirty. In fairness to her, come the war, she would willingly get her hands very dirty, not least in cutting up several hundredweight of raw horsemeat for which the local dogs formed an orderly queue.
Wartime brought the compassionate side of her character to the fore, accompanied by a social conscience and a sense of duty which shone through in all her activities. She threw herself into war work: she was a forceful local billeting officer for evacuees from London’s East End, and would not accept a refusal of shelter for children. Learning that the driver of the local grocer’s van at Limpsfield in Surrey had been called up, she took on the delivery round, covering a large rural area. As a result of my father’s voluntary withdrawal from the Bar, in order to concentrate on a variety of wartime jobs, his income had plummeted. By the time of his death in 1944 the family was very hard up. My mother coped with the changed circumstances with courage, never compromising on her standards. One lady in Limpsfield Chart was heard to say that: ‘Mrs Thorpe has come down in the world better than any lady I know’.
Ursula was superb in a crisis, and totally loyal. In the 1955 election she was still a Conservative. It took the Suez crisis in 1956, when she was chairman of the local branch of the United Nations Association, to bring about her resignation from the Tory Party and join the Liberals, working tirelessly on their behalf. In the 1955 general election (my first), she collected her Conservative subscriptions in the East Surrey constituency and set off for North Devon to back my campaign. Or, to quote the civilised advice of her local Tory MP’s wife she should indeed go down to North Devon, ‘to drive and cherish’.
During the campaign in North Devon, local Tories distributed a red leaflet, naively asking whether the recipient was a Labour donkey or a Liberal mule, with appropriate drawings. I didn’t take it very seriously. Not so my mother. She stormed into the Tory office in Barnstaple, and asked to see the agent, having established that he had been responsible for the publication. She told him that it was disgraceful. She had been on her own Conservative committee, appointing their Tory agent, and she and her fellow Conservatives would not have tolerated such behaviour. Somewhat chastened and sensing possible trouble, he asked her to leave her name and address so that the divisional Tory chairman might contact her. ‘Ursula Thorpe’, was the reply, ‘my son is your local Liberal candidate. It will be sufficient if you wish to contact me to do so care of the Liberal headquarters in Barnstaple.’ It was not for nothing that she proudly claimed to be daughter, wife and mother of Members of Parliament. Her support in all my eight elections was invaluable.
A wonderful tribute was paid to Ursula at her memorial service by my close friend from my schooldays, Simon Barrington-Ward, who became Bishop of Coventry. He spoke of her with personal warmth and affection, mentioning many public services she had performed during her life. She sat on Surrey County Council as an Independent; she was chairman of Oxted County School, and took particular Interest In Nutfield School for the deaf; she served on the bench as a JP. She was chairman of the Medical and Special Schools Committee of the county council in Surrey. He also spoke of her compassion for individuals who had fallen on hard times, whom she would regularly visit and support.
Although in my early years I found her somewhat awesome, and we had some stormy interludes in my teens after my return from three years in America, we grew much closer in later years. Her enormous energy, her integrity, loyalty and support sustained me in good and difficult times. I remember her with great affection and gratitude.
George
I cannot make reference to the closer members of my family without mentioning George. George was a brown and white fox terrier of immense character. I was given him by my godfather after I had a long illness. He was chosen by my godfather’s wife, from Harrods. Originally he was intended for clients in Nigeria, but she insisted that they should be sent a substitute. We lived in London before the war and used to exercise George in Hyde Park. One of his delights was to find an enormous branch broken off a tree which he would pick up in his mouth and charge ahead – unfortunately on several occasions laddering the silk stockings of unsuspecting pedestrians!
George was also capable of being a thief. My family had taken a furnished house in Woolacombe before the war for a holiday and the landlady had unwisely placed a leg of lamb on the lower shelf of a trolley. The temptation was too great for George – he rushed out of the house carrying our Sunday joint with him! On another occasion he visited Mrs Horney’s bakery in Limpsfield and after a lot of noise, appropriated a large cream bun with which he ran out of the shop, with Mrs Horney in hot pursuit!
George was very amorous. He had a long-standing relationship with a certain Georgina, who was also a smooth-haired fox terrier. He would visit her
almost every day of his life and they had several litters. He was not averse to fighting over other ladies, but as he got older his battles were less and less successful. He would somehow drag himself home and lie on his back outside the back door letting out the most blood-curdling howl, which meant he wanted tender loving care. He usually had a torn ear which needed to be bathed, or a wound to be cleaned. To round off the treatment, he would be wrapped up in a blanket with a hot water bottle and revived with a drop of brandy, to which he was very partial. Within three or four days, if the door was open, he would shoot out in quest of further battles.
I only found him bad-tempered on one occasion. During the war we were in Doodlebug Alley. This involved a great cluster of barrage balloons in our area, designed to intercept V1s and V2s before they reached the heavily populated area of London. The V1s cut out their engines and gave one a few seconds’ notice that they were liable to explode. On one such occasion a V1 cut out overhead and my mother dived into the cupboard under the stairs, where there was just room for two people to squat, and grabbed George by the tail and pulled him into the cupboard – whereupon, from a combination of shock and pride, he bit her. In fact he had cause to be grateful since the whole of the kitchen floor was covered in splintered glass.
George had one distressing complaint from an early age, namely that he had terrible wind. On one occasion in mid-winter, we were driving in the car with all the windows up when George gave us a really fruity one. My family turned on him and said: ‘You filthy dog’. I, aged six at the time, unswervingly loyal to my dog, was alleged to have said: ‘As a matter of fact, I rather like it!’
Uncle Mumpy and Aunt Vlolet
A great eccentric in the family was my great uncle Mumpy, my grandmother’s brother, Ralph Wood. He lived in a Queen Anne cottage, known as Flint Cottage, on Box Hill. He was a great collector: almost every object in the house was worthy of a place in a museum, but that would not prevent him from using them. So you might find yourself eating off a Ming plate with a James II silver spoon.
One slightly macabre acquisition was a burial vault in the church at Mickleham. The local squire had a row with the parson so, in high dudgeon, he decided to open his family vault and take all the coffins down to Cornwall to be placed in his wife’s family vault. Although the Mickleham vault was large in size, Uncle Mumpy insisted that its use be restricted to my grandmother and grandfather, my great aunt and himself. In this way they could have an undisturbed rubber of bridge!
Uncle Mumpy was a great defender of Box Hill, and woe betide any cyclist who dared to bicycle on the sacred slopes. On one occasion, he thrust his stick into the spokes of a cyclist’s wheel, causing him to be jettisoned over his handlebars! ‘I shall have you prosecuted’, said the cyclist. ‘And I shall have you prosecuted for breaching the bye-laws’, retorted Uncle Mumpy. His heart condition was not particularly well suited to these encounters. After a few more exchanges they both decided to call it a day. The threats were duly withdrawn.
However, he did have a brush with the law. One of his peccadillos was to travel for a few stations on the railway without holding a valid ticket: if he was travelling from stations A to Z he would buy a ticket from stations A to L; he then travelled without a ticket for the next few stations and then purchased a ticket to cover the remainder of the journey. He was only denying the railway a few shillings but was in due course discovered and was to be prosecuted before a stipendiary magistrates’ court. In panic he came to see my father asking him to defend him. My father wanted to give the matter some thought, since the appearance of a KC at a magistrates’ court could well produce unwelcome publicity. Eventually he agreed, with one proviso: that Mumpy mustn’t mind was said about him in court. He agreed. My father opened: ‘Sir, before you is a very silly old man living a rather pathetic, you may think, last fling before settling down to obscurity. He is so shocked at what he has done that he has already received his own punishment.’ At this Mumpy jumped to his feet, shook his fists and cried out that this was outrageous. Calm was eventually restored. Either due to my father’s pathos or to Mumpy’s eccentric outburst, he was bound over and in the course of time my father was forgiven.
One joy of Flint Cottage was that my great aunt and uncle gave shelter in the war for a time to Sir Max and Lady Beerbohm, who had been bombed out of their home at Abinger. Sir Max was entrancing. One of my prize possessions is his cartoon of the Liberal front bench of 1910, which years later I was to show to Churchill – as I mention elsewhere. One breakfast when the news from the front had been particularly bad, Max put down his newspaper with a groan and said to his wife: ‘Oh, Florence’. ‘What is it, Max?’ she replied. ‘Florence, the toast is cold.’
Flint Cottage had previously belonged to George Meredith, and the chalet in which he did much of his writing stood in the garden. Max was fascinating when reminiscing about Meredith, the Rossettis and Pre-Raphaelites generally. I have referred elsewhere to Max’s lifestyle in Rapallo, to which he returned after the war.
My great aunt Violet was no less a character than my great uncle. I remember being taken one afternoon to a cinema in Dorking. Aunt Violet bought 1s 3d tickets, which plonked us down in the very front rows. My aunt protested that it was much too close to the screen for her liking, so she moved back and sat in the 2s 9d seats, which were infinitely superior. She was asked by an usher to show her tickets, and when it was pointed out to her she was sitting in a 2s 9d seat for a 1s 3d ticket she replied that she couldn’t see in their beastly seats in the front, and was compelled to move further back. If they didn’t want her custom, they must say so. Since the cinema was virtually deserted, they did not feel that this was an issue on which they were disposed to do battle then, and, as far as I know, on her future visits.
On an occasion during the war she was rung one evening by the Dorking police station to say that a sergeant was on duty on Box Hill and was needed urgently. Could she try to find him? She thought this was rather a tall order but would do her best. She proceeded to take down all the black-out curtains and blinds, put on all the lights and waited. Within next to no time an irate sergeant appeared and said did she want the Germans to land, or at the very least come over on a bombing raid? ‘No’, said Aunt Violet, ‘I am not expecting the Germans, but was waiting for you to tell you that you must go down to the police station at once’.
Uncle Geoffry Christie-Miller
I knew aunts and uncles on my mother’s side better than on my father’s. One notable exception was my Uncle Geoffry, who, as I have already mentioned, married my father’s sister, Olive. When my father died we were very hard up, since for several years he had not been earning fees at the Bar, having given up his practice in order to devote himself full time to war work. Uncle Geoffry immediately volunteered to see me through Eton, Oxford and my call to the Bar. I once said to him: ‘Uncle Geoffry, I can never thank you enough for what you have done for me.’ ‘Yes, you can’, came the reply. ‘I am a director of the family business, Christy’s, who make hats. Always wear a hat, it is a good advertisement for the trade.’ I always have, in piam memoriam. And for not the least of reasons, the fact that one loses 25 per cent of one’s body heat through the head! A hat is more important to me than an overcoat.
Uncle Geoffry was a great stickler for people being on time. On one occasion Queen Elizabeth (now the Queen Mother) visited the hat factory and was shown round by Uncle Geoffry. She stopped on several occasions to talk to the workers and Uncle Geoffry was heard to cry out: ‘Come along, come along, Ma’am, or you will be late for the Mayor of Stockport!’ He was keenly involved in the affairs of the Territorial Army and as an ardent Conservative was particularly chuffed to receive a KCB on the recommendation of the Labour Defence Minister, Emmanuel Shinwell.
Caroline
Gate-crashing a royal event
Caroline and I announced our engagement on 1 April 1968. That evening, I was due to attend a government dinner at Lancaster House to mark the 50th Anniversary of the RAF. I ha
d visions of my being photographed in white tie and tails whilst Caroline, deserted, would be cooking over her stove in her flat. A recent innovation was that after a government dinner there would be a reception for spouses and others invited to attend. I was pretty sure that this would apply on this occasion and so I arranged to meet her at the front door just as soon as the speeches were over. I sought out Denis Healey, who was Defence Minister, to clear the arrangement with him. Denis told me that it was not that sort of event – no wives had been invited. The only ladies who would be there were the Queen, the Queen Mother, Princess Margaret, the Duchess of Gloucester and Princess Marina of Kent and their ladies-in-waiting. Additionally, there would be a few WAP officers representing the main RAF Stations. I asked him what I should do in the circumstances, and he nobly replied: ‘She has probably had her hair done and got out her frock, she’d better come’, for which I have always been grateful to him. Caroline duly arrived. She was, of course, even more conspicuous than usual by reason of the absence of other spouses or future spouses. The Queen Mother was first and said: ‘We needn’t ask who this is’. Next the Queen arrived and said: ‘Is this …?’ ‘Yes, Ma’am, it is.’ The other royal ladies followed suit. I said to Caroline: ‘Since we had only announced our engagement that afternoon, a royal presentation the same evening was pretty good going!’
In My Own Time Page 3