Dear Lupin... (10 page)

Your affec. father,

RM

P.S. I am busy writing an article on the Daily Mail to be published in Arabic in the Lebanon!

My father's account of the middle-class existence of a long-suffering, elderly gentleman in Berkshire, together with his self-deprecating humour, continues to prove to be a big hit in Africa
.

Dear Lupin,

When you next see the Field Marshal will you please give him Mr Parkinson's kind regards. Apparently they were chums at Sandhurst just before the war. I have had a delightful morning firstly cleaning out Cringer's run and then scraping the dirt off my typewriter which carries a little plaque with the inscription ‘Underwood Speeds the World's Business'. Hardly true in my case. I have bought a new carpet for the sitting room and have received a crushing demand for income tax. We lunched on Sunday with Bobby Kennard who was completely boracic lint until ten years ago when he netted a rich widow as his third wife. He lives in some comfort but is constantly reminded of his position just to keep him in his place. On Saturday we went out to dinner but our hostess had quite forgotten she had invited us. There was a tiresome man there who claimed to have been secretary to some Prime Minister. He drank copiously and was a monumental bore. The Surtees have just gone to some Spanish island with a tall man whose wife recently (and I believe with good reason) did a pineapple chunk. Yesterday I was accosted in Newbury by a lady in a red wig who claimed to have known me many years ago. I leapt into my car and drove off at high speed before she could inflict any embarrassment on me. Your mother is off to Martin McLaren's funeral on Thursday. On Sunday we go to a party at the Cardens'. Lady C. has some odd Welsh name like Eggfroth. Did you read about the bizarre case of the lady who took an overdose of hormone pills? Within twenty-four hours she was covered in hair like a gorilla and then she expired.

Your affec. father

Back in Fulham I am renting a room from a friend whose father is promoted to Field Marshal. While mildly inebriated we compose the following congratulatory telegram:

This morning seated on the pail

I chanced to glance the Daily Mail

A new Field Marshal for the nation

Quite relieved my constipation

Congratulations from your sons

Joe and James two idle bums

And Mort the Sport would like to say

Let's crack open a bottle of Pol Roger

Understandably, the Field Marshal does not find it all that hilarious
.

The Shambles

Burghclere

Newbury

Dear Lupin,

It is very quiet here with your mother in Jersey. I was left with about a thousand instructions about dealing with the cat, the birds, etc. and I think I have forgotten most of them. I had a peaceful weekend chez Surtees, good food and a high standard of comfort all round. I think the Bomers are in Kent and Farmer Luckes is in Jersey. (Thinks: has he done a bunk with Nidnod? Nothing would surprise me nowadays.) Guy McLaren has died suddenly in Scotland. I hear your distant cousin Phil Blackwell cooled recently. He passed the last fifty years of a blameless life writing a history of the Blackwell family. I believe he had almost completed three chapters. I had lunch on the train to Basingstoke last Friday. Unfortunately it went so fast that I had not finished lapping up the ‘potage du jour' when we pulled in at Basingstoke. The Surtees are off on what Germans call a ‘Kulturfahrt' to Florence: there is nothing I would loathe more. The Parkinsons are off on a ‘tour gastronomique' of Normandy. We have quite a lot of apples on two trees and Randy Randall has hinted at plums but I have not yet seen any. Audrey managed to smash up a fair amount of kit while she was here: a good horse always runs true to form. I hope you enjoyed Scotland (a loathsome country, in my opinion) and did not pepper any of your fellow guests. It is very easy to do so with grouse coming towards you. I enjoy eating dead birds but don't really want the bother of killing them. Cringer has killed three rabbits, two of them dazed with terminal illness and the third about four days old. However, he is very truculent and now seems to regard himself as a sporting dog. I came upon the following phrase in Bagehot's ‘The British Constitution': ‘There is nothing more unpleasant than a virtuous person with a mean mind.' Very true, in my opinion, and I could quote several examples. Fitz Fletcher went to a buffers' luncheon given by your mother's – and the first Mrs Parkinson's – old boyfriend (to say nothing of being the second Mrs Parkinson's third husband) – I am getting muddled, but he is an alcoholic ex-airman called Bill Boddington. The main course was curried turkey which gave one and all acute food poisoning and in fact several guests were put into ‘intensive care' in the local hospital. The local stomach pumps were working overtime. The Basingstoke dustmen are on strike and have been so for three weeks so I feel no desire or obligation to tip them at Christmas. I have come to the conclusion that I hate publishers: they combine inefficiency in their public duties with intolerable complacency over their private lives. I dislike them, in fact, almost as much as naval officers. I once caught crabs off a naval officer's wife called Myrtle who had red hair and a hint of B.O. – and when I say ‘hint' I am giving her the best of the argument. I hear the lovesick bloodhound is living in Lambeth with Paddy Hadfield. I take it that Paddy H. is female: not that it matters much these days, so many people seems to ride under both rules. We had a barbecue the other evening: at my age consuming charred pork chops and Co-op Chianti in a searing north-east wind provides only a modicum of pleasure. Tomorrow I am sending off for my winter wardrobe by means of a number of special offer advertisements.

Your affec. father,

RM

I am now trying my hand at painting and decorating. While driving to a job in Lowndes Square, my current business partner turns to me and says, ‘I quoted £110 for the chasing . . . Tell me, Chas, what exactly is chasing?' Dad is full of news, much of it about his prisoner-of-war friends. He is clearly not a great fan of Scotland where I am invited (rashly, in my opinion) grouse shooting
.

Chez Nidnod

20 September

Dear Lupin,

I enclose some tickets for the usual old draw. Best of British Luck! It is sweaty hot here and yesterday we sunbathed and had a picnic. We had caught seven moles during the last few days but the invasion has not been halted. I expected they would start coming up inside the house soon. Your mother hauled me off to the Newbury Agricultural Show where I was rewarded with a glass of tepid Cyprus sherry in the presidential tent. I purchased a hamburger sandwich; it was like eating a warm slug. I bought a kitchen knife from a Pakistani who looked as if he was just starting smallpox. The Cottrills gave us dinner at the Swan at Great Shefford kept by a former Daily Express journalist. It was very good – particularly the grouse. I'm glad I was not faced with the bill. Peter Walwyn told me he had killed 400 moles on one of his gallops, all in traps.

Your affec. father,

RM

A keen gardener, my dad has something of an obsession with attempting to exterminate moles. On one occasion he bought, by mail order, some ‘special offer' mole bombs, from which he mistakenly stood ‘downwind' and ended up in the local A&E
.

Budds Farm

30 October

Dear Melville Miniwad,

Would you like to come to the annual beano of the racing press that takes place on 13 December at the Dorchester (12.45)? If you are unable to get away I shall of course quite understand. However, I think I can guarantee a fair tuck-in and a good laugh if you come.

Your affec. father,

RM

The Crumbling Pile

Berks

12 March

Dear Charlie,

I'm glad you've got a bed in the Royal Free Hospital and trust that it won't be too ghastly there. Life here is much the same. Your mother is in poorish form and apt to take it out on anyone who happens to be in her vicinity. Pongo is getting more and more doddery but his voracious appetite remains unimpaired. The other day he stole half a chicken mousse (your mother blamed and punished the unfortunate Moppet) and brought it up the following day on the carpet just as the Parkinsons arrived for lunch. We had dinner with the Surtees on Saturday and I sat next to a thin lady from Kensington who talked about death. The next day we lunched with the Thistlethwaytes which I much enjoyed. I slept in the car rather heavily on the way back. Peter Carew finished fifth at Sandown on a horse that appeared both unsound and unfit. Last Tuesday I had to go to a lunch in London and found myself at a table with Frank Chapple, head of the E.T.U [Electrical Trades Union], and a boozy left-wing MP called Russell Kerr, a tiresome right-wing Tory MP called Winterton, and the Editor of the Sunday Mirror. The poor little Home Secretary made a pathetic speech; it is hard not to despise him particularly as he is Welsh. The next day I went to a champagne and oyster party at Bentley's given by my bookmaker. I got cornered by two jolly surgeons who terrified me with talk about strokes. I hear Paul has had 'flu badly and one of Jane's sons has been poorly. Elizabeth Johnston, who lived at Eversley and used to photograph you and Louise, has had a ghastly operation at Windsor and I am anxious for her future. I had a letter from Cousin Caroline today; she is slowly recovering but is very weak still. I gather Audrey finds her neighbours in Basingstoke a pretty rough lot, mostly immigrants from East London. Your mother hasn't yet seen a house she likes. She is determined to drag me into some hunting country where I shall not know a soul and be bored to extinction. I suppose at my time of life it does not really matter; the main thing is to be near a cemetery. We are off to the Popes this afternoon. It is a good place to stay; excellent food, lots of bad vulgar jokes, no cards and early bed.

Well, best of luck and don't let the doctors bully you. They are apt to be conceited and dictatorial and don't like it all that much if you confer on them the status of garage-hands.

RM

I am briefly back in hospital for yet another liver biopsy under the care of the female equivalent of Sir Lancelot Spratt from Doctor in the House. My father's advice on how to treat doctors is sound
.

6 November

Dear Sir,

As your son Charlie delights in reminding me, I am rapidly approaching my mid-twenties whilst remaining unemployed. My father tends to agree.

I realise you are no longer fully involved in journalism but I am writing to you in the hope that you may be able to offer me some advice on how to rejoin the ranks on the staff of a reasonable newspaper.

Sorry to trouble you on so dreary a subject.

Yours sincerely,

Joe Gibbs

7 November

It might be more appropriate if you and I tried to find regular employment for Lupin Mortimer; who is now in his late twenties and whose activities seem to be of a somewhat irregular nature.

What do you call a ‘reasonable' newspaper? What have you got to offer a ‘reasonable' editor?

P.T.O.

Your background (Eton + distinguished military father) is against you. Most journalists are inverted snobs. Are you a union member? By all means come down here and talk to me about it. Frankly I am not optimistic about my ability to help: I have been out of the business too long.

RM

Do bring Joe down here one day though I doubt if my advice would be useful.

We have been asked to a party by Willie Carson and Dick Hern: fancy dress – we have to go as the name of a racehorse. Have you any ideas – not
too
vulgar or too expensive? Your mother's horse is lame so the atmosphere here is gloomy. Saw the Pirates of Penzance by the local school last night. Surprisingly good.

RM

My father is not exactly a connoisseur of fine music
.

Little Shiverings

Leaking

26 January

Dear Charlie,

I hope you are having a good time and that your health is improving. Life here is not entirely enjoyable thanks to appalling weather and a wide variety of strikes. I'm sure this nation has a death wish which may before long be fulfilled. There have been no trains from Basingstoke this week – two days of strikes and the lines iced up the remaining days. There is no food shortage anywhere but patients are having to leave hospitals because of the bloody-mindedness of the employees. Your mother had the time of her life today, being first on the scene at an accident near Kingsclere and therefore in an excellent position to boss the victims and apply first aid. We are off to the Surtees tonight – dinner for twenty in a shed! What price a touch of hypothermia? Your mother has a septic nose, a septic finger, a cracked elbow and an inflamed antrum but under the circumstances is remarkably cheerful. Your elder sister has been on holiday in Paris, presumably at the expense of Torday & Co. Unfortunately Paul's dog was run over and killed while they were away. He had cost £250 – a contrast to old Turpin who cost 7/6d. Aunt Joan is recovering well from her hip operation but has to be careful on the icy pavements. Not much news of Louise: I have not set eyes on HHH since that memorably disastrous Christmas party. At tonight's party I am sitting next to Lady Graham (née Susan Surtees). She can be rather sharp and I'm not sure whether she likes me. Surtees and I will have a party next June to celebrate having been friends for forty years. I first met him soon after becoming a POW and we were both really riding on the rims. He always swears the first thing I did was to swindle him out of a lettuce sandwich (we were on starvation rations); the second to teach him picquet and take off him what little money he possessed. I deny both charges. Tiny Man does not like the snow much and goes out as little as possible. Your mother is ordering a new car – another dreary old Renault. I met at dinner a year or so ago a man closely involved in a murder at Nairobi: in fact, I think he had pulled the trigger. I believe the atmosphere gets people rather overexcited out there. An old friend of mine, Dick Twining, died recently: he had played cricket for Eton in 1907 so was fairly old. An exceptionally nice and charming man.