DIARY
DEBORAH DEVONSHIRE Ilooked at the television programme about Uncle Harold called Reputations. How strange to see his and Aunt Dorothy's private life trotted out like a story in a film. He would have considered the fashion for such entertainment unspeakably vulgar. And so do I. The point about Dorothy Macmillan was her charm, energy and earthiness; there were no frills. She was one of the few people I have met who was exactly the same with whoever she was talk- ing to, oblivious of their class — something which people keep on about now almost as much as they do about sex. She gave her whole attention, laughed easily, was unread and not smart, and was a tireless con- stituency worker. I was always told that it was she who won the elections at Stockton- on-Tees. Her time in Downing Street was famous for children's parties, and the branches, more than flowers, which she dragged up from Birch Grove in the back of her car. When Uncle Harold was Hous- ing Minister, Andrew, my husband, was president of the Building Societies' Associ- ation. It seemed to be indicated that Andrew should ask his aunt to the annual dinner as guest of honour. She asked, 'Shall I wear my best dress or the other one?' The thought of the other one made us wonder.
Harold was an intellectual and a politi- cian all right, no doubt about that; but the mistake so often made of putting people into categories left him there, and did not allow for his interest in the family publish- ing business and many different aspects of life, including his devotion to field sports. The press called that the grouse moor image. After he married, his father-in-law expected him to go out shooting, even though he had never before fired a shot- gun. Reg Roose, a Chatsworth gamekeeper and a delightful man, was detailed to be his tutor. Uncle Harold was a quick learner. Years later Reg and I watched his perfor- mance when large quantities of pheasants flew high across a valley with the wind behind them. 'Doesn't the Prime Minister shoot well?' I said. 'Yes,' answered Reg, proudly. 'I taught him and he's fit to go anywhere now.'
When Uncle Harold was 90 he stayed with us for three months. I will always remember his perfect manners. He dined alone with me often, and I am sure he would have welcomed other company. But he talked as if I were his intellectual equal — ha, ha — or another ex-prime minister, and I almost began to think I was. For much of the day he sat in an armchair in his bedroom and listened to tapes of Trollope. (It made me nervous when he dropped off, lest his smouldering cigar should fall into the wicker wastepaper basket by his side.) He once told me of a mistake made by the suppliers of the tapes. 'I think there is something wrong. They have sent a curious book called Lucky Jim, by a feller called Amis. Have you ever heard of him? I don't like it much. Must be a very peculiar man.' He was frail and shuffled down the long passages at his own speed. He couldn't find the door to the hall and I heard him mut- ter, 'The trouble with this house is you have to throw double sixes to get out.'
His relationship with President Kennedy was worth watching. The Presi- dent had never seen anything like him, and you could say the same for Uncle Harold. They struck up an unlikely friendship and were more surprised and more amused by one another at every meeting. They talked endlessly on the telephone — usually in the middle of the night. I used to hear of these conversations from both participants. It was the time when initials of organisations began to be used as a sort of shorthand. One night, after speaking of Castro, they went on to discuss Seato and Nato. Uncle Harold was stumped for a moment when the President said, 'And how's Debo?' When Mrs Thatcher was new to the job he had had for years, she went to see him. 'Oh good,' I said, 'and did you talk?' No,' he replied, 'she did.'
Uncle Harold's good manners were often tested when he stayed with us. I am not good at place a table, and one night I saw he was sitting at dinner between my son and his friend, both in their first year at Eton. There was the usual political crisis on and the PM was preoccupied with his own thoughts, while the boys anxiously cast round for a suitable subject of conversa- tion. After a long silence I heard Sto say, 'Uncle Harold, Old Moore's Almanack says you'll fall in October.' To his eternal credit, after a suitable pause, he answered, 'Yes, I should think that's about right.'
Ihave reached the stage in life when I wake up earlier and earlier in the morn- ings. The wait till breakfast time has forced me to put a kettle and a toaster in my room, so I can help myself to their merciful productions whenever I like. I advise all early wakers who have fallen for this plan to buy a clock with a minute and second hand of immediately recognisable lengths, or you may have my disappointing experi- ence of last week. Waking at 6 a.m., I made and ate my breakfast, only to discover that the clock's similar-looking hands had played a trick on me, and it was in fact only 12.30 a.m. Too early even for me, but too late to pretend I hadn't had breakfast.
Avolume of the ding-dong correspon- dence between my sister Nancy and Evelyn Waugh, edited by Charlotte Mosley, will be published this autumn. It has thrown up some good stuff. Soon after the war, Nancy told Evelyn that my father was staying with her in Paris. He read her newly published book, The Pursuit of Love, in which he played himself, as Uncle Matthew. When he was halfway through, he asked her if the ending was sad. He had once read a book with a sad ending, he told her, and had never been the same since. 'What was it called?' Nancy asked. 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles,' he replied. Apparently, soon after they were married my mother had read it out loud to him and as the tragedy unfolded he started crying. 'It's all right, darling. It's only a story,' she said to com- fort him. `Do you mean the damn sewer invented it?' he bellowed, furious at having been taken in. That's books for you — best left alone.
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