High in society
AFTERTHOUGHT JOHN WELLS
During the glittering 'sixties there was perhaps no figure better known or better loved in London society than 'Chips' Brown, the ebullient Foreign Secretary who became a legend in his own lifetime. Coming from humble beginnings, he never ceased to boggle at the grandeur and pomp of the circumstances in which he moved, and faithfully inscribed his reactions in his diary.
Here for the first time the SUNDAY BELELAPH serialises in full the intimate memoirs of a man who lost his head when all around were hold- ing theirs, who walked with kings, and never lost the common touch. In this instalment we live once more through the first rumblings of the Abdication Crisis which was to burst upon London with such topical violence in the spring of 1968.
Monday 30 October. Was working late at the FO tonight when I became aware of the distant clink of glasses and forsook my lonely desk to investigate the origin of the sound. Dis- covered Gore-Booth and others after a some- what lengthy search in a small cubicle in the far corner of the Locarno Room. He explained that he had invited a few 'press chappies' as he put it for an image-refurbishing glass of Amontillado. He must know how much I resent their constant blatant intrusion into my pri- vate life. After all, as I pointed out to Sophie in the bath last night, I am a Minister of the Crown, and as such entitled to a modicum of privacy. A heated argument, during which a hardboard partition collapsed. Must speak to Gore-Booth in the morning.
Tuesday 31 October. Dinner with Thomson. Was very frank.
Wednesday I November. I am very worried about Wally [The Rt Hon Harold Wilson, PC, MP, then the Prime Minister]. This morning in Moss Brothers when we were trying on our court dress for the Turkish state visit he ex- hibited scant sympathy with me after the wicked mauling I received at the hands of the newspapers, and chuckled to himself constantly in a most\ unseemly manner. At one point he walked out into the shop wearing his high- heeled black court shoes, and pulled up his trousers to reveal the black silk stockings under- neath, remarking, 'Oh deary me, I haven't worn these since I did the can-can in Ralph Reader's Gang Follies of 1926.' He also showed great interest in the paste set of Crown jewels in the tiara department, slipping on the crown and saying: 'I fear I shall never wear one of these.' I am sure someone must have over- heard. The foreign papers are already pullulating with rumours.
Thursday 2 November. Can Wally be serious about wanting to be Queen of England? His appetite for power is certainly insatiable. Today he announced his plans for the abolition of the House of Lords. I am delighted with the photos of myself in morning dress. I look very well in them and I feel they give me great dignity.
Friday 3 November. Dinner with Her Majesty. Phil [HRH The Duke of Edinburgh, then Prince Consort] rang earlier, asking me to `go easy' as his own national feelings for the Turks were likely to create a sufficiently tense atmo- sphere without me, as he put it, 'sticking my bloody oar in.' He recalled a previous recep- tion at Buckingham Palace and certain sub- sequent events of which I must confess I had no recollection whatsoever. What grandeur and magnificence on our arrival! The whole dining-room seemed literally to be swimming in Dresden. What beauty, what extravagance, what perfect taste. I little imagined that I should end the evening sitting in the lap of a reigning monarch. Nor, apparently, did she.
Tuesday 7 November. I have barely slept for four nights, let alone attended to my diary. I Visited Wally late on Saturday night. He re- ceived me in his inner sanctum, and I could hardly believe the evidence of my own eyes. He was dressed from head to foot in full coro- nation robes, ermine trimmings and all, an astonishing red wig with the Crown pulled down low over the eyes, the sceptre in one hand and the orb with the Moss Brothers label still hanging from it in the other. I had only a moment to fortify myself with a small tumbler of port when he turned from the mirror, in which he had been examining himself with evi- dent satisfaction, and contorted his face into an expression of awful rage. 'I know they are all against me,' he said, 'the bishops, the party, the unions—But I will be Queen!'
He seemed lost in angry reverie for a moment, then returned to the mirror, tucking the sceptre under one arm and using his free hand to adjust the curls of his red wig. I was in the very act of recharging my tumbler when he swung round yet again, now suddenly quite hysterical. 'Who excised the passage in the Speech from the Throne about My Govern- ment introducing legislation to exile the House of Windsor and establish the House of Wil- 'ion? Eh? Tell me that? Who makes my management of information into a hollow farce? Eh? Yourself. The Brownie in the woodpile!' With this he gave a banshee cry and chased me round an occasional table, down the stairs, and out into Downing Street. Some- where in the darkness beyond the windows as I write, he is out there still.
God knows, I have done my best. I have sacrificed myself again and again to the press in an attempt to create a diversion. I have danced the length of Whitehall for Pattie News, I have fallen into the fountains in Trafalgar Square for the Pictureprobe team of the Daily Express, I have climbed on Eros for Time Magazine and Der Spiegel. Am I doomed to be a decoy for ever?
Next Week; The Queen flies to Rhodesia : Wally at the Palace : the Constitution re- written and Windsor Castle renamed : an embarrassing incident in Parts.
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