DIARY
Imust be very careful what I say about dining last Saturday at All Souls, since in an earlier Spectator diary I was indiscreet enough to complain about a lecherous visiting American professor who had quite ruined the occasion for me by stroking the thigh of the beautiful girl who was sitting between us, thereby making it impossible for me to gain her attention. Shortly after being exposed, the dreadful professor left the College before his time was up. One might have expected the Fellows to be grateful to me. But they weren't or pre- tended not to be, and last Saturday which was the first time I had been invited back since the incident — I was told on no account to spill any more beans. As if I would. That earlier occasion was special and no self-respecting diarist could have been expected to resist the temptation nay, the duty — to write about it. In any case, last Saturday night, I sat between Sir Isaiah Berlin, whose sparkling conversa- tion was as courageously and trustingly uninhibited as ever, and the sub-warden, and although the latter did not have much opportunity to put a word in edgeways, he nevertheless thought it prudent to send me a message at breakfast in Hall the next morning expressing the hope that he had not said — still less done — anything untoward. All that is by the way, since the point of this paragraph is to describe what it felt like when the Fellows all filed into the Common Room after breakfast with a view to reading their Sunday papers.
To my relief, lots of them chose the Sunday Telegraph. So far, so good. What followed was not so good. For out of the corner of my eye, I found it impossible not to watch the faces of Lords Hailsham and Wilberforce, Sir Steven Runciman and several other scholars and statesmen no less distinguished, as they slowly perused our pages, taking what seemed like hours before they reached the centre page where my own leader appears. Oh, the agony of watching them read that, too! Being Eng- land, not a comment was passed. Lord Hailsham snorted a great deal. But that is his wont anyhow. None of them nodded off, which is something. My article, as it happened, was about the security services and the law — and I would dearly have liked to know what Lords Hailsham and Wilberforce, and some of the other great jurists present, thought about it. But I, perhaps uncharacteristically, was too dis- creet to ask and they, of course, too discreet, or kind, to say.
Many years ago I debated the colour question with James Baldwin — then at the height of his renown — on television. It PEREGRINE WORSTHORNE was a so-called high-brow programme chaired by Bryan Magee and the occasion is etched on my memory since it was my one performance on the box that has not left me at the end feeling dissatisified, embarrassed and a little ashamed . . . perhaps because it was the only time that I have ever succeeded in knocking my oppo- nent for six. It happened like this. James Baldwin was invited to start proceedings with a short statement, the last bit of which went as follows: 'Blacks born in the Har- lem ghetto don't have a chance in Hell.' His sad, tormented face gave all too much credence to this cry of despair and I realised that my only chance of keeping my end up was to destroy his underdog act at a stroke. 'Viewers may be interested to know', I said, 'how James Baldwin arrived at the studios this evening. He arrived by Rolls-Royce, accompanied by his pub- lisher, his literary agent, his private secret- ary and assorted other hangers-on. I, on the other hand, who was born in Belgravia and not in a ghetto, arrived unaccompa- nied by underground.' Baldwin was utterly taken aback. The fact that his own fame and fortune flatly contradicted the thesis that negroes had no hope in the United States seemed never to have occurred to him and he could do no better than keep on insisting that his experience was the exception that proved the rule. 'Does that mean, Mr Baldwin,' I asked, 'that James Baldwin is unique and the only Harlem negro clever enough to escape?' Although argument raged for another 25 minutes, he never really recovered. But he characteris- tically bore me no ill will and as soon as the lights went down came across to give me a passionate kiss. That also helped to make the programme memorable.
None of the obituaries o. f Duncan Sandys told his favourite story about him- self. Apparently in 1939 he was adjutant in some London territorial regiment in which another MP, a National Liberal, was serv- ing in the ranks. One day the commanding officer called Duncan in and asked him why he had never recommended this other MP for a commission. 'Because he's not officer material,' said Duncan. Some months later, the commanding officer cal- led him in again and explained that the then Minister of War, Leslie Hore Belisha, also a National Liberal, wanted the chap to have a commission. 'Is that an order?' asked Duncan and was told that it was. So he duly filled in the form, but left blank the section in which the adjutant was meant to give reasons for recommending someone for a commission. Again the Commanding Officer called him in and asked why, only to be told that there were no reasons for making the chap an officer. At this point the CO exploded and accused Duncan of insubordination. Either that form was fil- led in properly or Duncan was for the high jump. Next morning the form was duly filled up and in the section asking for reasons for recommending the chap for a commission, Duncan had written: 'Be- cause the Secretary of State for War orders me to do so.' Duncan heard no more and was not surprised, shortly afterwards, to find himself sitting in the House of Com- mons next to the MP in question who was now a full Colonel. The story itself tells us a lot about Duncan. Even more revealing is the fact that he so much loved to tell it.
Igather that all over Britain, and not only on the Isle of Dogs, women cleaners are being authorised to do their work in male lavatories during business hours. Lifting up my eyes the other lunchtime from the job in hand, I was deeply shaken to see two women with mops and pails swabbing out the adjacent stalls. I know that on the Continent segregation in these matters is less strict than it is here. But surely even foreigners do not go as far as that. My female colleagues tell me that they would not think of letting male cleaners into their lavatories, in spite of their arrangements being much more pri- vate than ours. This is a matter I feel very strongly about. Wherever a woman's place may be, it most emphatically is not in the Gents.
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