What the devil was Lees-Milne getting at when he described me as 'a nice jolly man'?
Nvhen a volume of the Lees-Milne diaries came out, I mentioned here that, after the period which it covered, LeesMilne came to lunch with some of us at the Sunday Telegraph when I worked on that paper: the one occasion I met him. I wrote of how frightening it was to know that one would be dining with the arch-aesthete; the terror that one would pick up the wrong fork, or use a non-U word, thus ensuring that the occasion would be written about, with the greatest of horror on the author's part, in the next volume.
When I wrote that, he was safely dead. He died in 1997. But this month another volume emerged — the 11th. A friend alerted me that there was indeed a passage in it about that Sunday Telegraph lunch. I hurried in terror to the bookshop and looked myself up in the index. Trembling fingers then turned the pages.
'Thursday, 23 November [19891. To London again. Was called for at Brooks's by Peregrine Worsthorne's smart car [Sir Peregrine being then Sunday Telegraph editor] and motored to Telegraph offices in Docklands. Ugly block in hideous mess of wasteland and skeletons of future blocks. Met at door by P.W.'s secretary, taken up in lift. P.W. received us in room with glass walls, sun streaming in. A party of eight, the others Frank Johnson, a nice jolly man of East End origins, Tony Harvey, Simon Blow, Geoffrey Wheatcroft, Ali Forbes and Lucy Lambton. I was treated like an idol, but owing to acoustics of the room, had difficulty in hearing. Liked Worsthorne much, fine shock of white hair, neatly dressed with waistcoat and chain. We sat down to lunch, not waiting for Lambton, who was late. P.W. clapped his hands and said in authoritative tones. "Please, cease tote-a-Cote talk, I want to hear the views of our guests on the National Trust. Is there a necessity for it? Cannot owners now afford to maintain their own houses? Is it N.T. policy to allow the families to continue in residence?" As soon as I tried to speak, Ali interrupted and talked ceaselessly. Eventually our host clapped again. "Does not Mr L.-M. think that the aristocracy are returning to power and authority in England and Eastern Europe?" Mr L.-M. did not think. Then Ali made the remark of the day: "As I once said to Pope Pius XII at a cocktail party.. . ". I can't understand why I was invited. Rather like the Queen's luncheon parties at Buckingham Palace. Filthy luncheon, hardly edible.'
So it was Mr Forbes and the food that suffered censure, not me. I am sorry that it happened to Mr Forbes. But it was probably either him or me. I must have shut up. Mr Forbes apparently did not. I regret having had to use this ruthless tactic against Mr Forbes, but dining with Lees-Milne, and trying to avoid being hit by the diary, was a ruthless business. It was a jungle, every diner for himself. Even then, silence did not buy immunity. Many a silent diner has gone down in the diaries as a bore.
'Nice jolly man of East End origins.' I cannot quarrel with that. The thought occurs that it would make a good epitaph. Unless, in the Lees-Milne usage, 'nice' meant inconsequential. One never knows with these aesthetes. What of 'jolly?' Any hidden meaning there? Perhaps it was oldfashioned upper-class slang for 'homosexual'. Perhaps Lees-Milne formed an erroneous impression of me.
By now, the reader might have noticed that the mention has aroused in me a fear. I thought he thought I was nice and jolly. Perhaps he thought nothing of the sort. He thought I was boring and gay. Would that had received Mr Forbes's treatment. Mr Forbes was depicted as a powerful presence — caring nothing for a favourable diary mention — not prepared meekly to allow this aesthete to be the centre of attention. I was just some chirpy cockney, sitting there being nice and jolly. But that is an example of the Lees-Milne diaries' peculiar power. Among the great diaries, they are the most disturbing. That is because they are the most lifelike. True, they deal with what egalitarian reviewers might dismiss as a narrow, unrepresentative section of life. But over them all hangs an air of unease, and that air is to be found hanging over all sections of life. It is just that the diaries of, for example, politicians do not admit it even when they notice it.
Lees-Milne's other strength, as a diarist, is that, like the greatest diarists, such as Pepys and Nicolson, he sacrifices himself as well as others. He is too brave just to be a camera snapping others' flaws and weaknesses. He reveals enough about himself to show us flaws and weaknesses of his own.
Consider the entry for 15 December, 1992: '1 stay with Alex Moulton for the night. He has three friends to dine who are pheasant-shooting on his land tomorrow, all decent fellows. One of them, Derek Strauss, is big in the City, and knows everyone in the business world.... [He said that] Tiny Rowland is a rogue but not as had as his arch-enemy, the shit Fayed; he [it is unclear whether the 'he' refers to Rowland or Fayed] exercises enormous influence, and could probably get Gaddafi to hand over the two assassins who brought down the airliner, if the government would ask him. I recommended my Italian tailor in Bath to Alex, who said he would send for him to The Hall.'
Many of us will enjoy the way in which the mention of high politics — the best way to influence Gaddafi — moves instantly to what is of greater interest to the diarist: high tailoring. Did it move like that in the real conversation, we might wonder?
Mr Strauss: 'So, as I say, that would be the best way to get Gaddafi to hand over those assassins.'
Lees-Milne: 'I recommend my Italian tailor in Bath, Alex.'
Mr Strauss: 'What? To persuade Gaddafi to hand over the assassins? Well, I suppose Italy has an old connection with Libya. It is just possible that an Italian, working under cover as a tailor in Bath, could be the man to influence Gaddafi.'
Alex: shall send for him to The Hall.'
Mr Strauss: 'Who, Gaddafi? Good idea.'
Lees-Milne: 'Awfully good idea. D'y' know — it sounds absurd — but one's never met Gaddafi.'
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