Rose is a rose

Marigold Johnson

Times to Remember Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy (Collins £4.95) Exactly a year after Chappaquidick, Rose Kennedy decided to spend her eightieth birthday in Ethiopia. She'd remembered from the White House era how the tiny Emperor, on a state visit, had "declared that since we were practically twins we must celebrate our birthdays together sometime, and invited me." Maybe he enjoyed being an inch taller than the US President's mother. She felt. "some chagrin" on finding he was only seventyeight, and thought the birthday party "not very festive"; afterwards, Jean commented that the little dogs and her mother seemed to be the only people not afraid of Haile Selassie. The 25,000-mile trip was made Economy Class.

Not that, after 450 pages of these amazing memoirs, one would be surprised to hear that Mrs Kennedy contemplated a moon-rocket trip; she recently thumbed a lift home, and when a knapsacked teenager granddaughter and friend arrived unannounced in Paris, she set off "in her long Dior gown" to quiz the concierge of a scruffy Left Bank hotel on whether the girls would be safe, lecturing them en route on Doric architecture. At one point, excusing her frequent presence in the White House during Jack's presidency, Mrs Kennedy says it wouldn't have done for her to appear "preoccupied with the frivolous life of a Palm Beach dowager" or "lacking in family devotion." Can she seriously imagine that even the most scurrilous of those wicked pressman, with the "millions and millions of words" full of a lot of "pure trash," would dare to suggest such an image?

There are, of course, a good many Dior gowns, ladies' lunch parties, and gushing tributes to the charm of our Royals during Joe's stint as Ambassador. But no one supposes that this is a Palm Beach dowager's book, nor that it needs the justification of press misrepresentation. It is, as we are never allowed to forget, "the only book about the Kennedys written by a Kennedy." No such book can do other than bolster the mythomania characteristic of American culture, and an eighty-three-year-old Kennedy grande-dame is not likely to let the side down by Telling All. We don't hear much, for instance, about Ambassador Joe's declension from non-interventionism in 1940, through a conviction that anychance of peace was better than none, to overt pro-Hitlerism; nor is there a mention of Bobby's early legal career as a junior in the McCarthy hearings. But even if she doesn't choose to expatiate on the murky manoeuvres whereby both Kennedys and Fitzgeralds made their millions, Mrs Kennedy is far too sophisticated to try and cover up the enjoyment and advantages that wealth has contributed to her long life. Impossible not to speculate once again, for instance, whether the political career of Jack Kennedy would ever have begun had not money enabled the education of an accident-prone and often idle boy to continue, regardless of long sick-bed interludes, dodging from the London School of Economics to Harvard, toying with business administration at Stanford, travelling the world. There's nothing like having your Dad rent a house to campaign from; or Mum lay on thirty three tea parties, each for several thousand women, so they can all shake the hand of her handsome son; let alone a

ready-made and unemployed cohort of pretty sisters keen to canvass. As Cabot Lodge Jr commented in 1952 when he lost the Boston Senatorial election, "It was those damn teas that beat me".

The dollars had been accumulating for half-a-century on both sides of the familY. Eldest of six, Rose Fitzgerald recalls her shy, strict mother's careful budgeting — while Honey Fitz bought up the local paper and campaigned as mayor with the slogan "A Bigger, Better, Busier Boston." His chief local

rival, P. J. Kennedy, had already progressed from bartender to banker, so it wasn't hard for the "spindly" little Joe standing beside his future bride in a seaside snap to become, at twenty five, the youngest bank president in

t.',e United States. The second-generation im

migrant success story is familiar enough. But in Boston, as Mrs Kennedy reminds us, the

split in society between Back Bay Yankees and Irish Catholics was complete — it was "one of those elementary facts of life" that throughout her youth and courtship separate society columns appeared in the press, and , never, at the many Clubs and Charity Balls, did she meet a Protestant. Years later, after 11 Pius XII had made her a Papal Countess, she , was tactfully prevented from campaigning for Jack in the West Virginia Primary because ■

manager Bobby suddenly realised that Papists were unpopular. Probably that bothered her less than having one daughter (Kathleen)

marry into the staunchly Anglican Devonshire family and another (Pat) divorce Peter LaW ford. Despite a token gesture or two to ecumenism, she obviously finds Rome's innovations a bit suspect.

It is well known that Mrs Kennedy's faith has kept her going, and even without the many anecdotes about trekking to Mass through the snow or the hours of private prayer on Hyannis Port beach, she is wholly convincing when she recalls that, at the Inaugural Address, her chief thought was that her son would "do God's work." She is clearlY certain — and only a rash and churlish man would dispute — that no woman without great faith in an afterlife could have sustained quite so many blows and yet manage not a hint of self-pity.

The catalogue loses none of its horror in the retelling, which is notably low-key and Spartan. A daughter whose brain-damage at first seemed possible for the family to cope with, but which in adulthood needed full-time supervisory nursing; another pretty, gaY, daughter killed in an air-crash; a husband overnight made speechless and chairbound, to linger on for eight years; and three sons, all with the world their oyster, to be mourned. It is clear from her book, if anyone doubted, that Joe Jr's death was the hardest to bear, and that Teddy, whatever the world or US voters may feel, is one prop his mother will fight hard not to risk losing — at least not in 1976.

Characteristically, she can't resist commenting that "when the time and circumstances are right" she would "like to see him President."

Because, above all else, Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy is a matriarch, and her maternal role is the most intriguing aspect of these memoirs. She recently wrote herself a note:

I would much rather be known as the mother of 8 great son than the author of a great book or the painter of a great masterpiece. Here and there,. in the many letters or diarY extracts contributed by friends, children, and grandchildren, Ambassador Joe gets a look-in we learn that Teddy had an extra share of his father's attention, and when it came to the mechanics of campaigning, Dad's advice invariably helped. But from the moment she began that famous card-index, with each 01 the nine children's health and progress meticulously recorded, Rose Kennedy ran the family. Daughter Eunice recalls almost twenty 'years of "continuous tooth-straightening" for , all the children — and not by any old dentist, 1 hut a super-dentist in New York. In 1965, .granddaughter Maria is firmly told she ustn't squeal about the dentist, because everyone speaks of the Kennedy smile" thanks to those years — though it does, of course, help if a houseful of servants can mind the baby. Throughout the book, untiring concern with each detail of upbringing is e.inPhasised proudly — chiefly, one feels, for Instruction. since every American mum is 'Eloubtless keen to learn how to rear a future rresident. If there's a magic formula, newever, Mrs Kennedy isn't telling. She has ,ways believed in strict discipline — a coat nger came in handy for the "good oldshioned spanking"; you can instruct even a n'esident on the need to wear the right hat, 4nd write notes to your daughters-in-law on Illaishing kids who leave their bikes out. "lore important, you can employ every ,.lhoment at family gatherings to instil , Itnowledge, move house for better schools, and encourage political interest with news' If?aPer clippings — that was old Honey Fitz's avourite ploy. Best of all, provided you never squestion a divine duty to propagate, you can [ hame your eighth child into cooperation by s ... aaying sternly "Every little Kennedy goes to liath and Tennis . . so just you run along k

-,,.e Your brothers and sisters." •

, maybe that's how the myth takes shape. If, qs Jack's early campaign organiser commentfed, "A Kennedy would rather get applause ,41 another Kennedy than ten thousand '1,ner people," the incentive is there from "rth• Ambassador Joe had a habit of chanting :we don't want failures in this family" and `yen Chappaquidick is discreetly presented as gallantry. Not that Mrs Kennedy minds r,evealing her own blushes. Collecting auLographed copies of books by the great uecame a hobby in the White House years; "I Was rather surprised," she disarmingly admits, to find that Generalissimo Franco had not tyritten a book, and even more that by 1961 or had Chancellor Adenauer." She wrote aking Kruschev to sign a photograph (he ado't written a book either), only to receive ' Curt letter from JFK: "If you are going to c, ontact the heads of state, it might be a good littl.ea to consult me or the State Department tit: st, as your gesture might lead to internaP-Innal complications." Not to be outdone, his other replied "I am so glad you warned rhe • . . I was just about to write to Castro." Though obviously proud that her editors rhanaged to incorporate a good many tributes some touching letters to Grandma among die,tn — Rose Kennedy does not appear unttly vain. Nor, however, does Jackie's corn'"ent "God, what a thoroughbred!" seem Illite to catch the image, which is certainly eqaunting enough for any daughter-in-law to °InPete with. Under the svelte little person, be i ady-eyed and busy, it is somehow reassurihg — especially to those of us who with far fleas excuse allow the maternal facade to ack, or liberated longings to push the family :11 one side — to glimpse, from the ,6 randchildren, a cosy old granny with "really °?,c'd Boston Cream Pie . . . millions of cakes I of the time . . . telling some of the same ttoriP, es and bewildered by scruffy young e4els. Shrewd and never at a loss, Mrs KentrIkectY nevertheless lets anecdotal snippets tell eqleir own tale rather than attempt cultured cttornent. And, like those two Wexford imitithgrants of 1840 who settled in Boston, she ,hew that faith and the raising of a tough, :11thiti0us, self-sufficient brood would provide qci!1 effective bulwark against grief and laaster.