Dear Lupin... (11 page)

Yours ever,

RM

I am in Kenya again, driving around in an old Land Rover earning my keep by doing odd jobs. I have managed to avoid a rather lively Christmas at home where my mother beat up my brother-in-law, HHH, following a row about flat racing. This particular Christmas came to be known as ‘The Shining' with my dear mother playing the lead role of Jack
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Budds Farm

12 May

Dear Charles,

Two items of news: John Boyce died early this week. Could you represent the family at the Memorial Service? Secondly I see the Simmons factory in Newbury has been destroyed by fire.

I went to a very bizarre cocktail party in Boxgrove. A man I had never seen before asked me to come and meet his wife and himself. Unfortunately the wife was unable to be present, having decided to do a pineapple chunk! I hope never to see the husband again.

Yours ever,

RM

The retired headmaster of my preparatory school dies. My godfather, who once taught there, confided to me, ‘He used to beat boys naked.' I said, ‘Well he never beat me naked.' He replied, ‘You were all right, you were family.'

Budds Farm

6 August

Did you read about Aunt Boo in the Sunday Express? She is described as an ‘ex-actress'. I bet she contributed the paragraph herself. All quiet here but the geese crap all over the lawn. Your mother's dog is settling down well and the Cringer is like a mother to him. Your mother adopted three young hedgehogs all dripping with maggots and lice. Happily they have been transferred to the Bomers. The Derby winner Troy is coming to stand at the Highclere stud. They are trying to syndicate him for £7,000,000. Nick Gaselee won a race on the opening day of the jumping season.

RM

There isn't a political party in existence for which my mother's sister Aunt Boo didn't stand at one time or another. ‘Keep Britain out of the Common Market' was a familiar theme, as was ‘Keep Dorking White'
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Budds Farm

19 September

Dear Lupin,

I have not heard much news of you lately. What are you working at now (if anything)? Thank God our four geese were decapitated last week and not a day too soon. I hated them. Unfortunately Nidnod had allowed them too much liberty and they weighed far less than expected. We ate the first one last night and it tasted like a moist flannel shirt. Not much local news: Serena Alexander is back home after a rather nasty operation. Colin Bomer told me that the annual communications bill for his firm was over £10,000. He must talk more on the telephone even than your mother. On Sunday we went to a champagne party with the Cottrills in the morning which I quite enjoyed. Mr C. is now seventy-three. In the evening we trudged off to the Darlings, drinks and then supper. It was all quite agreeable; as you might imagine the guests were a thoroughly respectable, dull collection of middle-aged members of the middle class so your mother and I fitted in well. Mr Randall has speared an unwary mole to death on the lawn and is very pleased with himself. Both the Surtees have had 'flu badly. Mrs S.'s son marries Miss Palmer on 5 October. All concerned rather hope he will treat himself to a wash and a shave prior to the nuptial ceremony. He has asked Major S. for an axe as a wedding present which strikes me as original. Your mother went off to Mrs Tweed's funeral today. I hear rumours that Hot Hand Henry is off on a trade trip to Italy.

How did you find Jane? What is her new house like? Has she managed to shoot anyone yet with her new gun? Mrs Wright is pushing the boat out and having a luxury swimming pool installed. Farmer Luckes treats the Bomers house as a convenient club and costs them a fair amount in John Haig. Mrs Luckes was seventy-nine on Monday. Several letters arrived for you this morning: they look to me like bills. Lord Carnarvon's horse irritated him by running extremely slowly in the St Leger. We had quite a lot of plums this year and I am getting a bit browned off with stewed plums for lunch and plum fool for supper.

Your affec. father,

RM

I am doing some odd jobs under the beady eye of my older sister in Northumberland. My mother's home-reared geese are clearly a huge culinary success
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Dear Lupin,

Thank you for your telegram which was greatly appreciated. I feel very old and doddery. Seventy-one is a ghastly age.

Yours ever,

Tightwad

In fact, almost any age for my dad was a nightmare
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Budds Farm

26 November

Dear Lupin,

I hear you have had influenza and are a bit seedy still. Your health is very important as if you are reasonably well you can just about cope with the inevitable asperities of life. Why not come here for a few days rest? Nidnod is devoted to you (appearances can be deceptive) and I enjoy your company even though your way of life is apt to be puzzling.

A warm welcome awaits you.

RM

The Leakings

Burghclere

Wednesday

Dear Lupin,

Not much squeak out of you lately. Are you all right? Life here is fairly normal. Your mother tried to annoy me by putting a dead rat on the kitchen table just as I was about to consume my usual hard-boiled egg but it really did not put me off all that much. Six inches of snow and a fearful blizzard. The herbaceous border crushed and our lovely laburnum tree broken off a few inches from ground level. No electricity for thirty-six hours. Your mother rashly invited the Bomers to lunch but unfortunately an emergency cooker blew up during the first course and nearly suffocated us with a nauseous gas that Himmler would have envied. Later that day the Bomers's black dog was killed by a lorry. Sarah was very upset. A man is here mending the burglar alarm and being a fearful nuisance. I shudder to think of the expense. Major Surtees is inspecting American vineyards in California; Mrs S. is in Holland with a lover. Their garden took a fearful battering the other day. No news of Louise though I wrote what I hoped was a tactful and conciliatory letter. On Monday we lunch with Lady D. On the whole I would sooner have a tooth out without gas. My horse was beaten by three inches at Wincanton so I shan't be able to buy a new hat after all. Today I try and sort out my tax affairs. I suppose financial simpletons like myself invariably get hotted both by the tax authorities and their own accountant. Did you enjoy Scotland? That country always make me think of ‘Macbeth' and depresses me. The only time I enjoyed seeing ‘Macbeth' was at Windsor where the old gentleman playing the title role was terribly pissed and kept on thinking he was King Lear. We get v. few invitations nowadays: as I am an aged and repetitive bore and your mother suffers from an incurable form of verbal diarrhoea, it is hardly surprising. The Surtees asked a local General and his wife to dinner. The General duly arrived but explained that's unfortunately his wife had been too drunk to get in the car! My old friend Desmond Brownlow has had his lovely statue of the famous greyhound ‘Master McGrath' stolen from his garden.

Your affec. father,

RM

I am now having a go at ‘knocking' on doors to buy antiques. I am told that I am not a natural. Lunch with my mother's oldest sister, Lady D., is clearly not one of the highlights of my father's life
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Budds Farm

Dear Charlie,

Thank you for cleaning my quasi-suede shoes so well. When you tire of your present employment, there could be a future for you as a chauffeur-valet. Also thank you for returning, after nine months, my snow boots. The fact that one boot was deficient of a lace is of no account.

Yours ever,

RM

Budds Farm

9 January

My Dear Lupin,

All (fairly) quiet down here. Nidnod went to Dorset on Friday for the funeral of Dr Hollick who made a pass at her at the Portman Hunt Ball in 1938. In the evening she went to the Old Berks Hunt Ball with her boyfriend, Rodney Carrott, a portly, middle-aged insurance director, very rich and divorced from his wife who has been divorced again since. He has houses in Chelsea, the Isle of Wight and Corfu and drives around in a big BMW. He gave me a large bottle of Calvados and did not kick up a fuss when the Cringer made a mess in his room. The dance went off well and the next day Nidnod and the boyfriend went off for a ride on the Downs. Their pleasure was slightly marred by the boyfriend's horse dropping dead, I think from old age. It is a mistake to take a horse over twenty out of a sedate trot as the ticker is liable to pack up. I hope you like Rodney Carrott as he might be your stepfather once Camp Hopsons have wheeled me off to Swindon Crematorium. A friend of mine died in London last week. He fell and broke a leg in his flat and no one found him for thirty-six hours: by then it was too late. Aunt Boo is back from Israel: she departed madly pro-Jew and has returned fanatically pro-Arab! I hear Jane and her family have all been sick. Jane's cooking or a virus infection?

All the best,

D

Aunt Boo has a set of mahogany steps from which she holds forth most weeks at Speakers' Corner wearing a Jayne Mansfield-style nylon wig. Her political alliances are both numerous and various
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Budds Farm

24 January

Dear Charlie,

Is it true that you have achieved promotion? If so, I am indeed delighted and hope your success will be reflected in your wage packet. I trust life is not too awful for you; you ought to have some sort of fun at your age. Mrs Cameron came to lunch yesterday. She achieves the truly remarkable feat of talking more opinionated balls than even your dear mother. No wonder her husband declines to buy a hearing aid; it would not be to his advantage. Tonight I have to go to a Conservative meeting, the chairman at which will be Brigadier Eastman, who looks just like the German Commandant in the ‘Colditz Story'. I am seeing Cousin Tom about your legacy on 8 February and will of course notify you of any development to your advantage, or otherwise. Your sister was twenty-four yesterday; she's getting quite an old bag. I met Captain Forsyth-Forrest yesterday. I gather his daughter has handed back her engagement ring to her ever-loving fiancé. They have decided that marriage is a waste of time and will continue to doss down together without the blessing of the Established Church. I have just sent an indelicate birthday card to Major Surtees; I hope it will please him and slightly shock his ball and chain. A heavy man with bobbed hair looking like a crooked Bishop in the reign of Henry VI came here to discuss burglar alarms. Nothing would surprise me less than to ascertain that he has done a bit of bird himself.

Your affec. father,

T. Tightwad (T.T.)

Any form of promotion for me is, indeed, unusual. Observations on my poor Danish godmother's ability to outtalk my mother is ‘classic Dad'
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Budds Farm

Thursday

My Dear Lupin,

I have just forwarded to you a communication from Lloyds Bank. Would it not save time and trouble all round if you disclosed to Lloyds your London address? All v. quiet here. Nidnod is suffering from depression, quite common with ladies of her age and nothing to do with Beefeater gin. A lady from a London VAT office rang me up yesterday and was threatening in a distinctly offensive way. I told her I was just recovering from a stroke and if she caused me to have another my family would unquestionably take legal action. That caused her to adopt a slightly less hostile stance. The Randalls are in Scotland, having just returned from Blackpool. Their life consists of continual holiday on full pay. Major Surtees is due to make a speech at some big dinner and wants to know of a story rather vulgar but not downright disgusting as ladies will be present. If you can help, ring him at 01-636-3506. Mr Parkinson (D.F.) is unlucky; an elderly American-Jewess turned up on his doorstep demanding board and lodging TFO and claiming to be his geriatric mother-in-law's oldest friend. The Adams boys shot some pheasants yesterday; they have both passed into good colleges at Oxford [Christ Church and Magdalen] from a state school in Newbury. We had lunch at the White Hart with Sarah and Mark before the latter went to Oxford for his first term. The fried squid tasted like a very old bicycle tyre. Kate sent some photographs she took here. I look like something dug up for exhumation by Sir Bernard Spilsbury. Nidnod just looks wizened. Perhaps the camera can lie despite what is said to the contrary.

Keep working hard. I rely on you to keep me in my old age.

RM

Dad is an expert at debunking over-inflated egos and defusing zealous government officials
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14b Via Dolorosa

Burghclere

My Dear Lupin,

I have suddenly remembered it is your birthday on 4 April. I am unfortunately not in a position to give you a cheque for £1,000 as I am distinctly short of do-ray-mi at present so I fear you will have to make do with some smoked salmon which I have ordered to be sent to you. If my arithmetic is correct (it usually isn't) you will be entering your thirtieth year. It is an unlovely age: receding hair, shortness of breath, growing pomposity and in general a feeling that life has singularly failed to bring you your just rewards. However, cheer up! Forty is better as you then tend to give up caring, and accept the fact that in life's ranks you come into the category of ‘also ran and made no show'. I think I became reconciled to that status during my second year at Eton and I have never seriously sought to improve it. Failures are usually more agreeable than the Lord Soames of life, and ambitious individuals are unhappy more often than not, being consumed by jealousy of any contemporary that shows signs of being a success. If there is any character in literature that I really admire it is Oblomov. If I had my life over again I think I would like to be a history don at a provincial university not far from the sea – long holidays with every excuse for reading, and during the term a chance to persecute any Marxist under-graduate with sandals, a beard and a proletarian accent. Recently a lady with a voice like the bottom of a gin bucket rang me up and asked me to write an article for Harpers & Queen. I have rashly accepted (am I now a sort of geriatric male Jennifer?) and I am going to be paid in liquor. Your mother is in v. poor form and very cross with everyone, particularly me. Louise seems to have broken off diplomatic relations with her so I don't visualise Hot Hand Henry coming down here for a year or two, and I think the Kennards can be erased from our Christmas Card list TFO. We stayed with Mrs Pope for Cheltenham: she was having a row with a horsedealer who obliged by dropping down dead on the Thursday. We went to lunch with Rosie Villiers who in a very nice way has lost most of her slates. She and her husband at intervals retire to the local asylum for running repairs and emerge a bit dottier than before. Captain Villiers is mad on hunting and politics and would like to impose the death penalty for a lot of not very serious offences such as nose-picking. Their son did himself in with drugs the other day. Lady de Mauley talked about the cost of temporary cooks while the Gold Cup was being run. Apparently she is known locally as ‘The Duchess'. Miss Burnaby-Atkins (Rosamund) has got engaged to a twenty-year-old Belgian, a Roman Catholic whose parents speak not one word of English.