Daughter of Empire (6 page)

It took a bit of getting used to being back with my mother, especially when Bunny wasn’t around. She was very prickly, and we all had to be very careful of what we said in her company.
Sometimes it was as if we were treading on eggshells – she would be hurt by the most unlikely things and then sulk for hours afterwards. In contrast you could say anything you liked to my
father, and I adored sharing a house with him once more. He was so inventive, constantly thinking up things that would make Patricia and me happy. That Easter Sunday, he told us to stay up in the
nursery. When the call came, we rushed down to the narrow walled garden. The long green carpet of lawn was studded with brightly coloured papier-mâché eggs adorned with pictures of
Easter bunnies and chicks. Some of the eggs were huge, and we ran around gathering them in our arms and then carefully opening each one, with cries of delight at the surprises they contained.

But it was when we went riding with my father that I felt most alive and free. I relished the days when we all went out together, riding up into the Downs, a journey of about half an hour to the
north-east of the house. We trotted in single file through the narrow lane known as Nut Walk, the horses’ hooves crushing the chalky stones of the path, then climbed a steep track lined with
hazel bushes. A bit farther up the bracken grew so tall – taller even than my pony’s ears – that my father called it ‘elephant grass’, after which we turned off to the
right and cantered up to the South Downs. Here the landscape was bare and wild except for the broom and clumps of yew and gorse. When the broom was in bloom its scent filled the air, a sure sign
that spring was coming. We would gallop across the Downs, ignoring warnings to ‘watch those rabbit holes!’

As spring took hold of the countryside and the acrid smell of wild garlic filled the air, my sister and I picked primroses and bee orchids for the table in the day nursery. Grandmama could name
every tree and flower but I was still pretty hopeless – though not for want of being told. Always busy inventing something or other, my father had recently created a nine-hole golf course in
the park. He had installed a clubhouse and employed a ‘pro’ who could give guests a lesson. My sister and I didn’t play but my mother was surprisingly good. I tried a couple of
times but I couldn’t understand, having all that wild countryside around us, why anybody would want to hit a ball around such a limited bit of land.

My father was a master at solving problems. When I lied about taking some chocolate and, as I vehemently denied it, puffed chocolate fumes into Nanny’s face, she was cross. ‘This is
very serious indeed, Pammy. Wait until Daddy comes home.’ To me this sounded like a death sentence, and when she added, ‘I am not going to punish you, we will wait until we tell Daddy
and see what he says,’ I knew I was done for. My father was not due to come home for several days and each hour of waiting was agony. I couldn’t sleep and Nanny maintained a severe
expression whenever she looked my way. When my father finally sent for me – a relief in some ways, at least the waiting was over – I braced myself. ‘Nanny tells me that you took a
piece of chocolate.’ He spoke in a quiet, reasonable voice. ‘That was naughty, Pammy. But what has really upset her very much is that you told a lie. It’s very important in life
that you don’t tell lies. And so you understand why, I am going to tell you a story about a nun.’ I was surprised at the way this conversation was going. ‘Now nuns are good
people. They would never do an evil thing and the nun in this story had never ever told a lie. But there came a moment during a war between the Catholics and the Protestants when she was asked to
hide a Protestant man. Of course, this nun was a Catholic. When the soldiers came into the convent, they asked her: “Has a Protestant man been here asking you to hide him?” Looking them
straight in the eye she replied: “No.” She lied because she knew that the soldiers would kill the man if they found him. And because she was a nun, and nuns are always truthful, the
soldiers believed her and went away.’ He paused so the story could sink in. I was only seven, so probably looked a little blank. My father took me by the shoulders and said, gently,
‘You see, Pammy darling, you probably only have one,
maybe
two opportunities in the whole of your life to tell a lie. So don’t waste them on chocolate.’ The message went
in, all the more so because he hadn’t scolded me but had told me a story that I could think about. It stayed with me for a very long time and made me very sorry for having lied about
something so trivial.

In the summer of 1936, King Edward VIII came to Adsdean with Mr and Mrs Simpson. I was excited about the King coming to our house and looking forward to making my deep curtsy to him. During the
afternoon following their arrival Hanky came up to the nursery to share the news that Mrs Simpson had ‘presented her Ladyship with a cold cooked chicken from Fortnum’s’ and our
chef, Mr Brinz, was in a tizzy about what to do with it, when there were so many to be fed and he was well prepared. Mr Brinz was not to be crossed. Once my mother had told him that if the cake he
always offered alongside dessert remained untouched, then it could be kept for the next day. Mr Brinz had said nothing but the next day, at the bottom of his legendary copperplate menu, was written
Le gâteau d’hier
.

After Mr Simpson left the next morning, Mrs Simpson and the King remained and there was a good deal of talking among the adults. Towards the end of that year the King gave up his throne so that
he could marry Wallis Simpson and this caused a huge crisis. I was surprised to learn that my cousin Lilibet and her sister Margaret Rose would actually have to live in Buckingham Palace and that,
eventually, Lilibet would be Queen. This took some digesting.

Now that Patricia had turned twelve, she was sent to school in London, returning home on the weekends. During the week I spent hours playing alone, paddling down the long corridors in our model
four-wheeled canoe or pulling Lottie in the little German wagon we had brought back from Darmstadt. I came out of my imaginary world when I heard the horses being brought round to the mounting
block: riding made me feel real and happy. But this was not a good time for me. Miss Vick had left when Patricia started school, to be replaced by Mademoiselle Chevrier, whom we immediately
christened Zelle. And then Nanny left too. I heard adults muttering that this was ‘a good thing’ as she had become a ‘little too possessive’ of me, but I was not at all
happy. I was puzzled by Miss Crichton Miller, who came to look after me and begin preparing me for school. She kept asking me a lot of questions and she watched me play in a different way to Nanny.
I didn’t know what ‘highly strung’ or ‘not particularly sociable’ meant, but they didn’t sound very good. She did take me to see the deer in Cowdray Park,
however, and was nice in a remote sort of way, completely unlike my much-adored Nanny.

If Mummy was at home then that meant Bunny would be there too, but they never stayed for very long. During the winter of 1937, the postcards began to roll in again, showing the animals they had
seen in Kenya, Uganda and the Belgian Congo. I stuck the cards in an album but it didn’t really make up for them not being around. I cheered up a lot when I was told that my mother was coming
home for my eighth birthday, especially when the news of her return from Africa was delivered with an air of mystery and none of us could quite work out what was going on. My father left for the
airport with no idea what he would discover, and was amazed to see her descend from the plane with a three-month-old lion cub in her arms. ‘His name is Sabi,’ she told him, ‘his
mother was shot in the Transvaal for attacking a man and poaching cattle. We simply had to bring him back with us.’ It had been easy enough to get the lion cub on a plane in Africa. There was
a momentary hiccup, however, when she and Bunny disembarked in London and the airport authorities told them that Sabi needed to go into quarantine, as they couldn’t think where. My father
– suppressing his shock at my mother’s cargo – reassured the authorities that Adsdean could become an official site for lion quarantine and all was fixed. By now a seasoned
traveller, Sabi settled down on the parcel shelf of the car and was driven to our house by my astonished father.

Sabi was adorable and became a treasured member of our menagerie. He was as small as the Sealyham terriers and it amused me to watch guests’ surprise as they bumped into him outside while
he was having a tussle with one of the dogs over a towel or a toy. He loved the golf course and would lie sunning himself in the sandy bunkers, although he did unfortunately also like to use them
as litter trays. He also enjoyed lying in wait on the high banks around the croquet lawn, when Grandmama and her friend Mrs Jenkins were playing, gathering himself up then suddenly propelling
himself from his hiding place and charging down towards the old ladies, scattering the croquet balls everywhere. When we had lunch he would lie under the dining-room table and chew any available
walking stick belonging to an elderly relative. He grew so fast that he was soon much bigger than the dogs, and although he never bit or clawed, he was so strong that he knocked me over a couple of
times. When he started to get up on his hind legs and rest his paws on people’s shoulders, he was quickly rehoused in a loosebox in the stables.

My mother had returned from her travels in time to commission a dress – she chose a glamorous, slinky column of silver sequins – for King George VI’s coronation. I too had a
new dress made – long, white with silver threads, a little posy of artificial flowers and green ribbons at the waist – and most thrillingly of all, a vibrant apple-green velvet cloak
with a pale green velvet lining. Being so young, on the actual day of the coronation I was left behind at Buckingham Palace while my mother and sister went to Westminster Abbey. I didn’t mind
– it was such fun to watch the procession and I felt a stab of pride as I caught sight of my father riding just behind the King and Queen’s splendid gold coach amid the dancing flags
and cheering crowds.

Old Brook House had been sold to a developer while we were in Malta and my mother had since bought the two-storey penthouse that would take its place. This is where Patricia and Zelle now lived
during the week, and sometimes I would be taken in the staff bus from Adsdean to visit the family there. The views over Hyde Park were spectacular, and in the summer, when the trees were in leaf,
all you could see from the back of the house was greenery and the odd church spire. It was difficult to tell that you were in London. The new Brook House was much more contained than Adsdean and I
especially liked the huge Van Dyck portraits that hung in the long hallway. I could instantly recognise a Tudor or a Stuart – much faster than I could recognise a relation – and as I
skipped past, I would say a cheerful ‘Good morning!’ to each one, stories about their lives running through my mind. I also loved examining the stunning
trompe l’oeil
panels, newly painted – in a soft pale greyish blue – by the artist Rex Whistler. There were fanciful depictions of the countries my mother had visited; images of the family houses;
armorials with naval, music and gardening themes; and a portrait of Sabi playing with a snake.

By this stage, in autumn 1937, it was my turn to go to school – Buckswood Grange, near Crawley. I was eight and a half, and after leading such a quiet life at home without Patricia, being
away at boarding school was unnervingly chaotic. My life thus far had been comparatively calm – sometimes the only person I would talk to all day was Nanny, so the constant and endless noise
of school was horrifying. I just couldn’t find any peace among the clamour of the everyday: the din at mealtimes; the scraping of chairs and banging of doors; the playground awash with
running, screaming girls; and the giggling at night as soon as the dorm lights went out. I felt very miserable. Eventually, on the advice of a doctor, the school did something about my discomfort
and I was allowed to spend leisure time alone. I would take a book and find an undisturbed corner in which to read, while the other girls played their frenetic games.

It wasn’t that I didn’t have good friends at school. I did. But I preferred playing with one girl rather than in a big group. Belinda was a perfect choice – quiet, rather
serious and, like me, highly conscientious when it came to schoolwork. Belinda’s parents were tea planters in India, and when her mother came to England, she would often take Belinda and me
out to tea. On one such occasion, she suggested we might like to go with her to the polo at Cowdray Park. I could hardly contain my delight when I discovered that my father was playing in the
second match, skipping over to kiss him at the end of the chukka. He was even more astonished, and then rather embarrassed, that somebody else was taking me out for tea when he was close to the
school.

My mother did come to take tea at school and I invited Belinda along. I remember that on one occasion, Miss Fairburns, our headmistress, offered around a plate of scones and my mother,
mid-story, took one but held it aloft in her small, perfectly manicured hand, gesticulating occasionally as she finished her anecdote. When it was over she smiled at Miss Fairburns’
appreciative comments and then popped the little scone into her mouth. Belinda, who could be terribly serious, could not contain herself: ‘Oh, but Lady Louis, at Buckswood we always put our
food on our plate
before
we eat!’ I couldn’t have been more surprised and glanced anxiously from Mummy to Miss Fairburns and back to Belinda, who was looking characteristically
unmoved. Poor Miss Fairburns, appearing not a little flushed, said: ‘Belinda! You must apologise to Lady Louis this instant!’ Luckily, my mother was always sweetness itself to my
friends: ‘No, no, Miss Fairburns, please don’t worry, Belinda is quite right. Where
are
my manners?’ And she turned the conversation effortlessly and immediately to the
less controversial topic of the school’s roses.

Miss Fairburns shared the running of the school with her partner, ‘the other headmistress’, Miss Haines. She only ever dressed in a brown suit, shirt and tie and she was as pointy as
Miss Fairburns was soft and billowy. I was very fond of Miss Fairburns but was mortified when my parents asked her and Miss Haines to lunch at Adsdean. My father was apt to become lost in thought
as he plotted a new signalling manoeuvre or some such thing. On this occasion, the two principals were seated on the other side of the table to my father and to my alarm I noticed that he was
sitting in silence and had begun to roll up little pellets of bread that he began to flick towards his glass so that they pinged back towards him. Suddenly one ricocheted over Miss Fairburns’
plate. My father didn’t notice but she stiffened in alarm and throughout the rest of the meal she and Miss Haines remained visibly jumpy. I was able to relax only when my mother finally rang
for coffee and my father awoke from his reverie. He seemed oblivious to the dozens of little bread balls scattered in front of him. I wished Belinda had been there to tell him off.