Dear Lupin... (5 page)

I suppose you'll need a complete trousseau like a young bride when you become a 2/Lt. You can rely on me to cough up.

Best wishes and keep out of mischief,

D

I am now on the verge of becoming a 2nd Lieutenant
.

8 May

I am still clearing up the mess of the remains of your military career. I enclose a letter from Lt/Col J. N. S. Arthur of the Greys. I do not know whether you have had the courtesy to write and remove your name from their list but I have informed Lt/Col Arthur myself that you felt the call to minister to lunatics rather that serve your country as a soldier. I assume of course you were telling me the truth when your spoke of your intention.

I have had a letter from Michael Kidson, one of your few friends that really seems to care about your future, deploring the utter folly of your decision. However, no doubt others among your friends, who shall be nameless, are delighted.

If you will give someone here your address, I will see that various communications are forwarded to you, including a registered letter from the military authorities.

Your mother is much better but she has you and your future on her mind for most of the time. The wound you caused by acting as you did without any warning to us or without the ordinary politeness of a son to his parents in asking their advice over a matter that was clearly very close to their hearts will take a long time to heal; perhaps it never will.

RM

My decision to leave the Guards when I am within a whisker of being commissioned is, not surprisingly, fairly unpopular within the family. My Uncle Ken (a full general and until recently Commander-in-Chief of Allied Forces, Northern Europe) has this to say, ‘You're what I call the bally limit!' He then booms, ‘You're what I call a shy horse!' before offering me a glass of sherry. As for the platoon sergeant, he simply announces to the barrack room, ‘It's Mr Mortimer. He's gorn an' thrown in his 'andbag.'

Budds Farm

Dear Lupin,

I went to Aunt Margery's cremation at Slough today. Present from the family were Aunt Joan, Cousin Tom and myself. Also there were Aunt Margery's companion Miss Craven and a very temperamental Irish cook called Bridie. While I was waiting I looked at the racecard and saw the first for the fry-up on Tuesday was Daisy Simmons; no relation of your friend from the garage I hope! We had lunch afterwards at a curious hotel in Gerrards Cross inhabited by old ladies of eighty-five or over and got slightly sloshed at the bar first. Cousin Tom, like all those above the nappy-wetting stage, thinks you have made a complete ass of yourself by walking out of Mons; and that your failure to inform your parents before you made your decision was utterly lamentable. But let that pass. I think Cousin Tom knew about it before I did; these things get around in an odd way. Informed of Aunt Margery's death, Aunt Shirley replied, ‘She's been like that three times before but has always recovered.' The other day she suddenly ordered her old maid to wear a lace cap when dishing up lunch. Needless to say the maid did not own such a thing but honour was satisfied by her wearing a table napkin on her head when she handed round the stewed prunes and junket. Uncle Chris is desperately ill after a stomach operation, no joke for a man of eighty with a weak heart. However, he comes from a far tougher and more resolute generation than yours and mine so will probably survive. A lot of recorded deliveries (letters) seem to be arriving here for you. That can only mean you owe someone money or that your bank is getting worried. All I hope from you now is that you keep out of gaol, at least till after Jane's wedding, so if you are in difficulties, for God's sake don't go handing round any rubber cheques. Before I pay you your quarterly allowance on 1 July, I shall require to see your bank account to assure myself that you are not getting into murky financial waters. Uncle Reggie is getting very weak and weighs less than nine stone. I am off to see the Hambros new estate tomorrow. Mr Hambro has had to have two operations on what is left of the leg that was blown off in a tank in 1944 when serving with 4th C.G.

Your mother is very much better but worries about you the whole time. Please give her as little cause for concern as you can.

Yours affec.

RFM

P.S. A good deal of Aunt M.'s estate goes to Miss Craven who deserves it. Cousin J. gets less than anticipated. I draw up £100. Whoopee! Legacies have been left to hordes of godchildren, most of whom are over fifty and are children of former cooks and housemaids at The Cedars before 1920. It will be hard to trace them.

The fallout from my rather sudden departure from the Army is subsiding and family thoughts are now concen trating on my older sister's imminent marriage
.

Budds Farm

Dear Charles,

I suppose that writing a serious letter to you is about as effective as trying to kick a thirty-ton block of concrete in bedroom slippers, but I am a glutton for punishment as far as you are concerned.

I may be wrong – you tell me very little – but you seem to be drifting along in a thoroughly aimless fashion with no plans for the future at all. When I am asked what you are doing, I don't know whether to say ‘part-time farm labourer' or ‘second-hand car spiv'. The unfortunate truth is that in an era of growing unemployment, you have no qualifications and a poor record. I really think you would be well-advised to go to Australia for three or four years. It is a land of opportunity and you would not have your boring old parents breathing down your neck and hoping that, with maturity, you would show some sense of purpose and would become a bit cleaner and tidier!

I regret your relationship with your parents is rather unsatisfactory. Your mother really loved you too much when you were young, and the failures, shocks and troubles in recent years have hit her harder than you realise. That she is often tiresome and unreasonable with you is the direct result of her disappointment and the collapse of all her ambitions and hopes as far as you are concerned. Fundamentally, she is very fond of you still. If she cared less, it would be easier.

For myself, I am more philosophic, being by nature pessimistic and always anticipating bad rather than good. The Mons episode, though, coming as it did without warning from you, was a fearful blow in a great many ways; as I said at the time, it was the end of the road as far as our personal relationship was concerned. However, that did not appear to cause you to pause in your folly for even a fraction of a second. I was ready to back you to the hilt while you were in the Army; sometimes I find it hard to raise much interest now, but I am sufficiently fond of you to care about you becoming a mere waster.

I really think you ought to look ahead a bit and not live from hand to mouth. Don't rely on a fat slice of bread when I kick the bucket, as the way things are, there won't be much left and in any case your ration will be in a trust until you are thirty-five; or alternatively, until the trustees judge you to be a responsible person. I don't want my savings going on fourth-hand Aston Martins!

If you are staying in Devonshire, why not go and see Steve Russell, whose address Freddy Burnaby-Atkins gave you? The man I know in Cullompton is Tony Allen. He is about fifty-eight and was a great cricketer in his day and played the violin. His initial is A. W.

If you insist on trading in cars, be very careful both with your own cheques and with those you receive. You have been WARNED.

Yours ever,

D

It is now the summer of 1971 and I have rented the wing of a rundown mansion in Devon for the knockdown price of £4 per week. I travel down to the West Country employed as a salesman by a firm which markets an unusual formula of stainless steel paint. This post lasts all of a week before I am fired. I then take up farming (of sorts) and second-hand car dealing with local legend, Robin Grant-Sturgis
.

30 October

Dear Charles,

It was thoughtful of you to give me those cigarette cards with jockeys on them and I am most grateful. I trust you are not yet disenchanted with your work as an agricultural labourer, a calling for which your costly education has no doubt suited you. However, as long as you are happy and not in serious trouble, who am I to complain?

I won £3 at bridge last night with old Lord Carnarvon, but your dear mother lost £4.60 at gin rummy and then expected me to pay which seemed a bit hard.

Yours ever,

RM

I am not sure if many other fathers would be quite so generous of spirit regarding their son's catalogue of failures under similar circumstances. Whilst I am trying to cash a cheque, the bank call my home branch and then ask me a few questions for identification purposes. Finally they ask to see my hands. This seems to satisfy them. ‘Just out of idle curiosity why did you need to see my hands?' I enquire. The response: ‘Newbury Branch says you have the dirtiest fingernails they have ever encountered.'

Budds Farm

My Dear Lupin,

Thank you so much for your great kindness in sending me such a well-chosen card for my sixty-second birthday; and will you please thank Mrs Grant-Sturgis for hers? I get the message all right. Your mother has given me a very nice travelling bag. I had a very uncomfortable night and felt as if my cock was full of red-hot gravel. This morning I ‘passed' a large, smooth stone about the size of a negro's head and feel greatly relieved in consequence. How it got through I simply don't know but no wonder it provided a ration of truly delicious agony.

Yours ever,

D

P.S. Your Aunt Pam is really very unwell and we are all a bit worried. She woke up in the night unable to breathe and it could be heart trouble.

I regularly test the tolerance of my landlady Mrs Grant-Sturgis, whose housekeeper from time to time throws all my clothes over the first-floor balustrade because, ‘They smell like a well hung pheasant.' By accident I unplug the deep-freeze in order to use the socket for my new electric drill and fail to plug it back in, with predictable results
.

Budds Farm

Dear Charlie,

I enclose a cheque for £12 which I hope will help. Please meet us at the Turf Club on Monday at twelve noon. Do NOT be late. If you can induce Mrs Grant-Sturgis to give you a manicure, so much the better. Your hands always look as if you had just been changing a bus wheel in inclement weather. I do hope you will be able to find work but times are unpropitious. There are a million unemployed, some with far better qualifications than you can ever hope to possess. Frankly I cannot see you spending your next forty years on the Stock Exchange. You can write to Roger Mortimer and Co if you like but it would be better for both of us if I did not become involved in any way. Unfortunately, for the last seven years you have been busily engaged in kicking the ball through your own goal, and now, to continue with football metaphors, you are facing a relegation problem. I fear there is little that I can do to help, and after the Mons fiasco with that weird story of devoting yourself to social service, it is better that I should stand clear. I know you are capable of hard work but so are about 790,000 of the unemployed. Possibly you will always be happier working for a wage than a salary but you know your own mind on that score. I assure you that I wish you well and if you find yourself up to your front stud in manure, I will endeavour to pull you out.

Yours ever,

RM

P.S. I have just been read M. Kidson's magazine which includes my article in it.

Next year there is a party at the Turf Club is to celebrate my parents' Silver Wedding. The following incident, I feel, sums up their rather complicated and somewhat volatile relationship. My father has returned from Newbury races and has his feet up in front of a blazing fire, surrounded by newspapers, a mug of steaming tea to hand, the six o'clock news blaring from the radio. My mother has been foxhunting and a horse has trodden on her face following a heavy fall. She throws open the sitting-room door and just stands there, a vision of mud and blood. My father casually looks over the top of the newspaper and says, ‘Do you know where the biscuits are?'

Budds Farm

This is to assist in RENT and HOUSEKEEPING; NOT in wild orgies in the Camberley and Frimley area.

RFM

Budds Farm

22 March

Dear Charlie,

How are you doing? Have you got the tintack yet? I have engaged a really nice villa in Corfu from 27 August to 10 September. It is very expensive but a cook (Celia Toller type), a car, a speed boat and horses are thrown in. It has twelve beds and the Lemprière-Robins are coming too. If you could stand it, I would be delighted if you would join us – all free of course. Naturally you could be as independent as you liked.

I think a holiday in the sun would do you good and it would be nice to see a bit of you. Louise and Nidnod both hope you can make it but I shall quite understand if you feel it would not be your scene.

RM

The Crumblings

Much Muttering

Berks

10 May

Dear Lupin,

Your mother is still fairly seedy but is regaining her strength and is building up for a battle with your Aunt Pam who is calling here tomorrow. A man has spent five minutes tinkering with the washing machine and has just handed me a bill for £18.57. Thanks awfully! John Oaksey's father-in-law was killed near Great Shefford in a collision with a fire-engine. He was far from being a teetotaller. Now for a hearty laugh. A man rang me up from Fleet Street yesterday and told me that I had been awarded the ‘Clive Graham Memorial Trophy' for services to the benefit of racing. (What services? you ask: answer have I none.) At all events I am now lumbered with going to London for a dinner and reception for 300 at the International Press Centre where the presentation will be made. I don't frankly enjoy that sort of thing and would prefer a couple of bottles of John Haig. Anyway, please don't mention it to anyone as it is supposed to be a secret at present! Old Lady Teviot who lived at Adbury is dead: I don't know her age but her husband would be 111 if he was still with us. The current Lord Teviot married the conductress of a No. 73 bus.