DEBORAH DEVONSHIRE
It is strange to see your family enacted on television from an old book about them, written half a century ago. I suppose the royal family and politicians such as Bush and Mandy, whose ancestors played a part in public life, do so continually. But for ordinary folk it is indeed an odd experience. It was also odd to read the reviews. Mr Paul Hoggart in the Times made me sad. I don't know what wing he favours politically, but his dismal summing-up of what was meant to be high comedy reminded me for all the world of my sister Decca's communist friends of years gone by. They were incapable of enjoying themselves, had never really laughed at or about anything in their lives, and to be in their company for long was a lowering experience. Decca saw jokes better than anyone — it was her farLeft friends' determination to see the downside of everything that was reminiscent of Mr Hoggart's summing up of the first episode of Love in a Cold Climate. He disapproves in a governessy way of the idea of my father hunting my sisters with his bloodhounds for Jim. What else would he have done it for? (Alas, I was considered too young to be hunted and, by the time I was of huntable age, the bloodhounds had gone.) I know that some misguided people, for reasons best known to themselves, are against hunting foxes, but surely children are fair game? He complains, too, about a mother's reaction to the hideous appearance of her newborn baby. I wonder if, in his sheltered life, the reviewer has ever seen a newborn baby. Referring to Nancy, he goes on to say that 'she presents her cast as freaks'. Another reviewer states we were the 'lunatic fringe'. Oh dear, freaks and lunatics. Well, never mind.
People who live in the country (sorry, countryside) are apt to have a shotgun. The new laws about how you must look after it are incredibly complicated. It must be kept in a locked cupboard, as stout as a safe. That's fine and everyone understands the reason for this. The difficulty begins when you see a grey squirrel — killer of trees, digger-up of crocuses and tulips, eater of birds' eggs — in the garden, and your fingers itch for a weapon. Where is the key to the gun cupboard? No one knows because no one is allowed to know. It has to be locked up and locked up and locked up again in an unlikely spot. You have to be a Senior Wrangler to count them all and a Brain of Britain to remember which is the right one. If by chance you pass these tests, you must be armed to the teeth with bits of paper — firearms certificate, gun licence, licence to shoot game. By the time you've done all this and found some cartridges the hateful creature has pushed oft. Gone are
the days when every self-respecting hall table had a .22 rifle on it with a few slugs at the ready.
T,
o be in the swim you must change your name. Steel has turned into Corns, which makes you think vaguely of singing, but I bet the steelworkers don't feel much like singing just now; Woolworth suddenly became Kingfisher, a flash of blue on a quiet river and not exactly the image of the old sixpenny high-street stores. Now the dear old Post Office is to be called something so odd — not a real name but a concoction of letters, like the name of a film star's baby — that I've already forgotten what it is. I suppose stamps and postmen will go the same way. The Royal Commission on Historical Manuscripts is to drop the Royal (of course) and twist itself round till it becomes the Historical Manuscripts Commission. I wonder if that is sharp
enough for 2001. Why not call it the Pony Club or the Delphinium Commission? Then it might make an impact. They say that the V&A is threatening to follow this extraordinary fashion because it used to get confused with the clothes shop C&A. I can hardly believe this. If true, what will Victoria & Albert turn into? Maskelyne & Devant? No, that is out of date. Morecambe & Wise more likely. And I'm longing to know what the National Gallery will choose, and Waterloo station, the Royal Observatory, Madame Tussaud's and the rest of the institutions we were brought up with. I fervently hope that John Lewis and Peter Jones won't turn into the Two Ronflies. I love all four too much to contemplate it. Chatsworth has been lumbered with the same name for 450 years, which is far too long. It is time for a change. Suggestions on a postcard, please.
The banks of the canal in the garden here are being mended. This has necessitated emptying some of the water so that the retaining wall can be rebuilt. Crowds of crayfish live there. In spite of a notice in Heronese saying 'Don't touch the crayfish. They are a protected species', the opportunistic herons, also protected, have thoroughly enjoyed some free lunches. I wonder how the nature people deal with these little local difficulties.
There are some rare treats to come in March. Elvis is back with a bang and can be seen in all the big cities in a tour beginning in Newcastle on 5 March. This incredible show is a deeply moving experience — I know because it came to this country last year. There he is on a vast screen in a vast arena, thousands of fans gazing at his beautiful face and inspired by his extraordinary voice. As if this wasn't enough, his real old band surrounds the screen, playing live — the inimitable pianist, the guitarist, the wild drummer and the rest. The Sweet Inspirations, the singers who accompanied him, take clothes a few sizes bigger than in the olden days, but they still make everyone feel happy. It is the man himself who dominates, as he always did, and the adoring fans drink it in, knowing every word and every gesture, unable to sit still in their seats till the whole arena erupts in clapping and shouting to celebrate the greatest entertainer ever to walk on a stage. ELVIS LIVES. He is often seen in supermarkets. I wish he would call at our Farm Shop in Elizabeth Street.
See you on the March on the 18th of next month.
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