There was no 'burning of the books', just the 'shrieks of yesteryear'
PAUL JOHNSON
The death of Will Camp, the gifted PR man, inventor of the famous High Speed Gas campaign, has given rise to a legend, in the obituaries of him, which ought to be clarified. Will was an exceptionally genial man who radiated good nature, but he was also mischievous. One of his teases was to write a short, debunking biography of F.E. Smith. first Earl of Birkenhead, published in 1960 and called The Glittering Prizes. The title was taken from a phrase Smith used in a controversial address he gave in 1923 as rector of Glasgow University. In it he sought to combat the prevailing idealism of the times, centred on the League of Nations, by putting to youth a more realistic view of the way the world actually worked, reminding them that the world was still full of 'glittering prizes' for those who had 'sharp swords' to win them. This was denounced at the time as brutally cynical, and self-advertising too, for Smith was an outstanding example of a young man with a sharp sword — his lightning brain and devastating wit — who had indeed carried off the prizes. As such, however, his memory still glittered among the ambitious young.
Camp's book was an attempt to deflate the Smith cult by drawing attention to some of the darker aspects of his life, especially his drinking, arrogance and boasting. In particular it 'revealed' that, late in life, in his cups, Smith had claimed that in his youth he had been forced to flee the country for a spell after knocking down and killing a man in Liverpool. The book was a particular tease on Lady Pamela Berry, Smith's youngest child and keeper of his flame. She was married to the editor-proprietor of the Daily Telegraph, later Lord Hartwell, and was then, and for many years after, London's leading hostess. Her celebrated lunch parties at her house in Cowley Street were indeed glittering prizes, to be awarded to those brilliant enough to be invited. Naturally, as a passionate defender of her father's memory, she objected strongly to Camp's book. His obituaries have suggested that she gave a party at which it was ceremonially burnt. The truth is different.
Lady Pamela and I had not yet met, but I had already aroused her antagonism as a result of a controversy about her father which had raged in the correspondence pages of the New Statesman, where I then worked. It concerned his role in the conviction and hanging of Sir Roger Casement, the traitor, during the first world war. Many, especially in America — not then in the war — opposed Case
ment's execution, and in order to soften their resistance the government circulated privately his homosexual diaries. Smith, then attorney-general, played a leading part in this stratagem. His supporters contested the allegation. My contribution was to supply a contemporary reference backing it. Her Ladyship promptly added me to her long and continually replenished enemies' list.
When Camp's book was published I was asked to review it, and agreed. At that time I had become fast friends with a group of Telegraph writers, who included Peregrine Worsthorne and the editorial maestro and ideologue-in-chief of the paper, the great Colin Welch. Welch and I then disagreed about most things but we liked each other, and when he decided to give a grand party at his house in Putney, he invited me to it. He also invited Lady Pam, and she accepted but, knowing I was thick with some of her Telegraph people, she stipulated, 'But only if that monster Paul Johnson is not there.' Colin said he could not guarantee this. 'Well then, you must place us in separate rooms, and on no account are you to introduce him to me.' This stipulation was abided by, and we did not then meet, though I glimpsed her exotic figure — she had brilliant raven hair and wore glittering black-and-gold clothes and much bullion — across the chattering heads. By pure chance I had just received my review copy of the contentious book, brought it with me, and left it on a chair in the hall before joining the throng. Lady Pam left first, spotted the offending object, snatched it up and said, know who brought that nasty book into your house, Colin, and I also know exactly what I shall do with it,' Then she swept off into her waiting limo. Whether she in fact burnt it, I never discovered. It simply disappeared. Certainly there was no ceremonial burning.
The episode had, for me, an embarrassing but eventually fruitful aftermath. The next evening Randolph Churchill phoned me late at night, to read over to me a political diatribe he had just written for the Evening Standard. This was an irritating habit of his, more particularly since, as he told me, 'I don't want criticism, you know, just reassurance and praise: When his booming voice ceased, I told him the story of the book and Lady Pam. 'Oh ho!' said he, a favourite expression. 'Oh ho, ho, ho!' What I did not know was that he was currently having a noton-speakers row with Pam. She was the daughter of his father's greatest friend, but their battles were fierce and frequent. Within a few days I discovered that Randolph had embellished my tale of the book and fathered on me a malevolent punch-line: 'So what Paul says is, "It's not surprising that the daughter of a murderer should turn out to be a thief."' He told this in White's bar and elsewhere to anyone who would listen.
Mortified and aghast — for I did not believe in the story of the dead man — I took the drastic step of writing to Lady Pam and explaining I was guiltless of Randolph's outrageous tale. Normally, she would have dismissed my apology as mere cowardly cunning, for she hated to forgive an enemy and it was infinitely easier to get on to her list than off it. Happily, her fury against Randolph was so strong at this time, and the story of his mendacious gibe so good to tell, that she chose this option, in which I necessarily figured as an innocent victim of his malice, 'poor Paul Johnson'. The next thing I knew was an invitation to lunch with her 'to discuss what to do about that horrid Mr Churchill'. Thus began one of the most treasured friendships of my life, which lasted (give or take a storm or two) until her untimely death, I still miss her almost daily early-morning phonecalls to go over the news and gossip.
What will Camp and Lady Pam have to say to each other in Heaven? It is, after Purgatory removes all earthly stains, a place of friendship, especially among former enemies. Randolph will, I trust, be there too, now I think of it, and, beyond him, old Winston and T.E.' himself, with `L.G.' grinning and capering around them. Queue gatere, to use one of Pam's favourite expressions. I deplore the fact that few now remember her, and that her doings and sayings are becoming misty with time, though, God knows, they are as fresh as ever in my mind, forgetful though it is of so much else. I wish the family would allow some young scholar to edit and publish her incomparable letters, which reflected all her father's brilliant clarity and savage wit. The ones I possess are the best I have ever received from anyone, and there must be great hoards addressed to Evelyn Waugh, Nancy Mitford, Annie Fleming and others. There is a noble volume to be compiled from these sources, while there is still time; for there is nothing like an old letter from a lively pen to make old friendships sparkle again, and bring back what Nancy called 'the shrieks'.
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