A Spectator's Notebook

It often happens that the children of diplomats visit exciting and exotic places at a Young age. They twist their tongues round little-known languages and start to become assimilated into their new background, and then, as quickly, they are jerked back to Britain. At the age of seven this happened to me. My mother, a war widow soon after my birth, Married again. My stepfather was the British Consul in Abyssinia and by the time 1 was seven-and-a-half, Addis Ababa was my home. For some mysterious reason we lived in the ex-Imperial Russian Legation. It was spacious but primitive.

The British Minister (in those days there Were very few embassies and ambassadors) Was away when we arrived, and perhaps for this reason we seemed to drive about in the Legation carriage with Sihk outriders. My stepfather was an old friend of the present Emperor, then the Regent, and before long we set out with all the glory of the British Raj to have tea at his palace. For tea we had black bread and black honey — it was not very Palatable. The conversation was conducted in French, which was just as well as at that moment in time I had hardly mastered any 'Amharic. As tea was coming to an end the fIlture Lion of Judah made a sign and as velvet curtains parted lions entered the room. As they appeared to be heading straight for me, I lifted my feet off the ground and tucked them under my seat. "Most un-British," Shouted my Swiss governess as she slapped Ine on my bare knees and ordered me to put 41Y feet on the ground. I have since been told that in fact they were only lion cubs, but at the time I had my doubts!

Tea party

That is perhaps the most dramatic moment at I can remember in a year's sojourn in that attractive land, but there is another 91ildish memory which, perhaps, bears repe"tion. We rode everywhere, and I would set. %it for children's tea-parties on my pony acc°rnpanied by the groom, Habte Wold. My lnother insisted that I should always carry With me a small can of boiled milk in case I shnokl contract TB. I shall never forget the ark blue enamel tin with a top which turned Into a mug. , Returning one evening from a party at the Italian Legation we saw some tribesmen, and I rode on to the compound gate Habte old stopped to talk to them. He soon caught i,s1113 With me and as he shouted "Bad men!" Y ear we galloped home at full speed. They `"lowed us on their horses and we just managed to shut the gate before a hail of

missiles narrowly missed us as we rode up the drive. It later transpired that the tribesmen thought my small empty milk can was a pot of gold! Looking back, it must, I suppose, have been odd to see a small boy wearing a pith helmet, riding a pony and carrying a strange-looking receptacle, and in later life it made a good bedtime story for my son.

Churchill centenary

Some readers may have noticed a certain amount of publicity about Sir Winston Churchill's centenary without realising what lay behind it all. In fact there are two main memorials to this great Englishman. In the first place there is Churchill College, Cambridge, and in the second the Winston Churchill Memorial Trust, which sends people all over the world on travelling fellowships. Understandably, both these organisations could do with more finance so that they can provide a better service to those who benefit from their activities. Those of us who formed the Centenary Trust to try to assist both these organisations are asking for a million pounds from a million people. In addition, however, there is a fascinating exhibition now in , progress at Somerset House.

Few people have ever seen Somerset House. As you go under the arch from the Strand you see in front of you a vast courtyard, hidden away from the noise and dirt of Central London, and on the right you see the entrance to the 'Fine Rooms.' Here you will step into the rooms originally used by the Royal Academy and never before seen by the public within living memory. Both the 'Fine Rooms' and the fine exhibition are well worth a visit. Owing to the age of the building not more than forty people are allowed in any one room at one time, so the exhibition can be viewed at leisure and in comfort.

Waiting for Lemass

In 1965 I stood at the door of the Prime Minister's official residence at Stormont. I had been informed by the police that the Prime Minister of the Irish Republic, Mr Sean Lemass, was now some three minutes away. It occurred to me that my words of welcome, unless carefully chosen, could jeopardise this historic moment. Obviously "Welcome to Ulster" would wreck the meeting before it began. "Welcome to Northern Ireland" would be preferable, but not perfect. Then, as I heard the car arriving, I had it: "Welcome to the North," I said as I opened the door of his car. There was no reply! The blow was softened for me as Ken Whitaker, then head of the Civil Service, greeted me behind him. As I helped him off with his coat I suggested that he would probably like to wash; there was a grunt of agreement.

I then took him along to the spacious loo at Stormont House and there, obeying the calls of nature after a long drive, he suddenly said, "I shall get into great trouble for this."

"No," I replied, "it is I who will get into trouble for this."

Once in the drawing-room for a pre-prandial drink, he became a charming guest, but the first encounter was distinctly difficult!

Anglo-Irish

It is very difficult indeed to be Anglo-Irish. In the first place, if you have an Irish name you are romantically involved with Ireland even if you do not speak with an Irish accent. And yet you are brought up to believe that London is the capital of the British Isles and that the Monarch is your Head of State. It must have been even more difficult to be a Castle Catholic (Dublin Castle) in Edwardian days — especially after the British withdrawal. Those who are interested should read the recent book on the Anglo-Irish by Terence de Vere. White.

The most attractive member of the O'Neill family was John O'Neill, who lived at Shanes Castle until his death in the rising of 1798. He was a liberal-minded MP in Dublin. George III and the Tories were then engaged in a crazy policy of hostility to Ireland. On one of the King's lapses into so-called insanity, John O'Neill, accompanied by three other MPs, travelled over to London and offered the Crown of Ireland to the future Prince Regent. He was on the point of acceptance when the King regained his sanity.

Despite John's hostility to the establishment in Dublin, he was first made an Irish Baron and then a Viscount in the 1790s. He favoured more liberty for Ireland and finally came out for Catholic emancipation over thirty years before it was enacted in London.

Hearing of the likely rising in 1798 while in Dublin, he rode home to the North as fast as he could, but arrived too late. A pike was rammed into him outside the walls of Antrim Castle and he died a lingering death inside the. castle, never reaching his own home at' Shanes Castle, another three miles to the west. Can it be that no moderate can ever succeed in Ireland?

O'Neill of the Maine