Rose: My Life in Service to Lady Astor (18 page)

‘Once the main area had been dressed came the difficult and dangerous decoration, that of the tables. I say dangerous because it was here that her ladyship could and did interfere. Before I travelled up, and indeed some time before the party, it was my business to find out what dinner service was to be used, because my flowers and plants would have to blend in with it, not always easy particularly in winter when there was no recourse to outside blooms. Another of her ladyship’s foibles was her dislike of fern. I was seldom allowed to use it anywhere, which was a great limitation to have put on me, particularly for table work. Another hardship was that Lady Astor wouldn’t have anything of any size on the table; it interfered with her talking to and looking at her guests. She had to put up with it though when we used the gilt or silver. Then things had to be taller because of the size of the containers. It was very easy for me when they used silver; you can do anything with silver. Gilt too is reasonably easy, but some of the china, as I say, was a real challenge. The oval tables at St James’s Square were hard to cope with. I’d have to climb on to them to get the centre decoration arranged, and there’d be the footmen around shouting advice, sometimes abuse.

‘I wasn’t the only one to climb on those tables. I remember Mr Lee meeting me in the hall the day after a party. “Hello, Frank,” he said. “Just the man I want to see. You and your flowers nearly wrecked my dinner party last night.”

‘“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” I said. “What did I do wrong?”

‘“Nothing in my eyes, but her ladyship saw you as a criminal when she looked at the table decorations. Why didn’t you check them with her?”

‘“She wasn’t back from the House of Commons when I left.”

‘“No more she was, she came back late and there was royalty to dinner. Well, she came into my dining-room, took one look at your flowers, screamed, kicked her shoes off and climbed on to the table, knocking my glass and silver all over the place and spilling water on the tablecloth. Then she started pulling your centre-piece to bits, saying nasty things about you as she was doing it.”

‘“What did you do?”

‘“The only thing possible under the circumstances. As I’ve told you, she was already late so I said to her, ‘This won’t do, my lady, you’re ruining Frank’s work and my work. If this is the way you want to run your dinner party you must run it yourself. I want no more of it.’ And I left the room. As I knew she would, she came running after me. She looked pathetic in her stockinged feet. ‘Don’t worry, Lee, I’m going to change now.’ She dashed back in the dining-room, picked up her shoes and raced upstairs with them in her hand.” I must say she didn’t look so pathetic when she saw me later in the day. I got similar treatment from her as I’d had from Mr Lee, starting with, “You nearly wrecked my dinner party.” Oh well, it was all in a day’s work,’ Frank ended philosophically.

‘Other plants that we grew that were her ladyship’s pride and joy were the poinsettias,’ continued Frank. ‘They weren’t like the small ones you see today: ours grew to six foot and made a wonderful indoor show at Christmas. Orange trees were another delight, though they couldn’t be relied on to be in fruit when you wanted them. Still a little subterfuge could work wonders. I remember having a beautiful pair at the foot of the staircase for a wedding reception at St James’s Square. Everyone was commenting on them, they were in blossom and fruit. His lordship came up to me and said, “Wonderful orange trees you’ve got there, Frank, a pity we can’t have them in the house at Cliveden.”

‘“Why not, my lord?” I asked.

‘“Well, the fruit’s bound to drop when they’re travelling,” he said.

‘“I don’t think so, my lord, we’ll take it off before we move it, and put it back on again at the other end.” And I showed him how it had all been attached by wire.

‘As you know, Rose,’ Frank said to me, ‘her ladyship was not much given to paying compliments.’ I was able to assure him on that point. ‘But she did occasionally pass on what other people said. There was a party for the Prince of Wales, and her ladyship told me she wanted something different for him this time, as he was a frequent guest at the house. “What do you suggest, Frank?” Well, I told her that I didn’t think we made enough of the water garden. There are many beautiful varieties of water-lilies that would make lovely floating decorations. “But don’t they close at night?” They do of course, but I said I thought if I put them into the boiler-room until just before dinner, then opened them by hand, that they’d stay open throughout the meal. She agreed we should try, but we had to have alternative arrangements standing by. We didn’t need them. Everything worked perfectly and though I say it as shouldn’t, they were a lovely sight. I had them in bowls with a big white centre lily
Gladstoniana
and two red ones,
Escarboucle,
on either side.

‘Some two or three days later her ladyship saw me at Cliveden and said, “Frank, I thought you’d like to know, two of my guests came up to me after the dinner and said that while they’d enjoyed meeting the Prince of Wales, they’d enjoyed seeing my plants and flowers more – and particularly those beautiful lilies.” She didn’t add that she had liked them too, but that was the way life went. For all her ladyship’s moods and tantrums I grew very fond of her. There’s nothing like flowers for bringing people close. I was always a shy sort of chap, I’d had the stuffing knocked out of me as a child, and she seemed to sense this. It didn’t stop her going at me hell for leather when she was in a mood, or me giving as good as I got, but at other times she seemed to understand and almost to mother me.’

The picking, packing and arranging of fruit also came under Frank for big parties. On ordinary days the arranging for luncheon and smaller dinner parties would be left to the housekeeper or another of the servants, and if Frank was around while they were doing it I’d hear him grinding his teeth and muttering under his breath, ‘They just don’t know how to treat it. The pains we go to over the years to create and preserve the wonderful bloom, and they wipe it away in a few seconds with their clumsy fingers.’ And the fruit at Cliveden was wonderful, everyone said so. The grapes, peaches, nectarines and the most glorious ‘black’ strawberries. I’ve never seen anything like them before or since. There was always fresh fruit no matter what time of the year it was, and of course a lot was given away. The same kind of scrounging that goes on the world over. ‘What beautiful strawberries. How do you grow them? Wouldn’t my father/mother/ sister/brother just adore these. Oh, you will? How awfully kind of you.’ The Colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady are sisters under the skin.

It was the same with plants and flowers, her ladyship was always generous with these. As a rule the gardeners accepted it philosophically, but, for the fortnight before Ascot week, they were like Scrooges. Which brings me to Cliveden and the entertaining that was done there, in her ladyship’s ‘country style’. It was the perfect house for weekend parties: the hall and reception rooms were compact, and the beautiful terrace was ideal for outside entertaining.

Cliveden was easy of access, and the river and the gardens and the nearby golf and tennis courts provided everything a visitor might wish to enjoy. And believe me, they were enjoyed. The resources of the house were strained to their limit, and I include the servants when I talk about resources and limits. We’d move to Cliveden lock, stock and barrel on Friday, and I’ve already described the packing and unpacking that that entailed. Guests would generally start arriving on Friday evening. They were many and various. We could accommodate up to forty though I’m glad to say we only rarely had that many. While St James’s Square had been largely political and high society, Cliveden was more for friends, relations, visiting Americans and personalities of every kind, though of course the ‘Cliveden Set’, on which I shall later pass the domestics’ opinion, didn’t get called that without some reason as there were generally a few politicians there as well. The atmosphere there was gayer, friendlier and more relaxed and the pace a little slower, though it could hot up at times. Her ladyship enjoyed the company of literary people and sometimes actors. She rarely entertained musicians. I suppose she thought writers had more to say and of course Cliveden was one long buzz of conversation while she was there. I don’t think she appreciated good music but she loved the songs of the American South and was a fair performer on the mouth-organ. I remember her once going to the opera at Covent Garden. She didn’t see all of it; she was late of course and had to cool her heels in the foyer until the first act was over.

Bernard Shaw was her greatest literary friend, an ill-assorted couple I’d have thought. I believe they were brought together by the Labourite Margaret McMillan, whose nursery schools her ladyship fought for in the House of Commons. Their friendship was later cemented by a visit to Russia together and they remained close until Mr Shaw’s death, which even though he was ninety-four came as a shock to my lady, and which she took badly. I was surprised at this because in his later years I thought he found her ladyship too overpowering and too oppressive for him and had made this plain to her.

The Irish writer Sean O’Casey and his wife were also regular visitors. Of the political and other talk that went on I’m afraid I can say little; I wasn’t there. I’d get snippits from her ladyship during the day, but I’d plenty of other things to think about. There would be some chat in the servants’ hall, but, as I say, Mr Lee didn’t encourage gossip of this kind, and again they mostly spoke of things that concerned them. Even in our private chats ‘Father’ didn’t comment much. He used to say, ‘It’s difficult if you start getting interested in what’s being said when you’re among the guests because if you do your concentration goes. Also, as I’ve told my fellows, it’s easy to spot a servant who is following a conversation. His expression changes, particularly his eyes, and it’s out of place to do it. Another thing that is most difficult is when some guest, who doesn’t know any better, tries to draw you into a conversation. Very hard. I just answer noncommittally and withdraw. It’s entirely another matter when they talk to you alone. Many’s the interesting conversation I’ve had with people then.’

The footmen would always be particularly busy at weekends. Not everyone would bring his own valet and of course some of the guests didn’t even have one, so the footmen would have to look after one gentleman each or sometimes more. It was the same with the housemaids and the ladies, though some preferred to look after themselves. This way the footmen got to know quite a deal about their charges because despite what is said to the contrary, men tend to talk and confide more in their servants than do women.

At Cliveden guests tended to be up later than in London, probably because they were staying. Many liked to play cards, bridge or poker into the early hours of morning, so there would have to be the groom of the chambers and a footman on duty. It was the groom of the chamber’s duty to look after the cards. These would be regularly changed; a pack would be used for two nights and then discarded. In big houses they were ordered by the gross.

Compared with some servants we had it easy after dinner. Some establishments would give supper on top of dinner parties. When Charles Dean went as butler to Miss Alice Astor, when she was married to Prince Obolensky, these were regular occurrences. All right, generally they were cold buffets, but this meant cooking and decorating whole salmon, turkeys, hams and game pies, as well as providing a range of sweet dishes, chilling and decanting wine and then looking after the guests, often until dawn broke. My sister Olive worked for Alice Astor for a few weeks in the kitchen, but even after so short a time she felt the strain of the late hours, and had to leave.

Prince Obolensky was a near-penniless Russian exile, so Alice Astor’s millions came in useful. Like her ladyship, he believed in spending and his friends and brother exiles encouraged him. Mr Dean remembers an evening when the Prince and his cronies were drinking after dinner and recalling the death of Rasputin, the monk whose influence and dominating personality caused havoc amongst the Russian royal family. They told the story of how the Prince and his friends had decided that it was time he was put out of the way for good. They invited him round for tea and, knowing his weakness for cream cakes, poisoned some, the coloured ones. Suspecting a trap, it was some time before he could be persuaded to eat, and to their dismay he selected two white cakes. Over-confidence and greed however eventually got the better of him and he ate a third and duly expired – or so they thought. They dragged his body outside and threw it into the river Volga. As he floated downstream, he raised an arm and shook his fist at them, yet they said there was enough poison in each cake to have killed ten men instantly. But, as Charles remarked, ‘It’s my bet they’d told that story for meals and drinks so long that they began to believe in it.’ I’ve never found out whether what they said was the truth or not.

After a few years with the Prince, Alice Astor divorced him and married Raymond von Hofmannsthal, son of the poet Hugo. Raymond was a bit of an actor and he had a small part in the production of
The Miracle
when Lady Diana Cooper played the part of the Madonna, so of course again there were parties every night after the theatre, and even when he was ‘resting’ these went on. He had a liking for the ballet and as Sadler’s Wells was beginning to show the way at that time, Frederick Ashton and Robert Helpmann were frequent late-night visitors. Many years later Mr Dean met Sir Frederick Ashton – it was probably when he was at the British Embassy in Washington – and Charles was astonished that he not only recognized him but that he said, ‘You know, Mr Dean, you used to terrify me, in fact I think I was more frightened of you than any man in London, when you were butler at Hanover Lodge.’ Charles tells the story with astonishment but secretly I think he’s rather pleased.

After a spell with von Hofmannsthal, Alice Astor married yet again. Mr Dean was in New York with her while the divorce was going through. One day, when he was buying flowers, the shopkeeper said, ‘Hello Mr Dean, nice to have you back. I hear your lady is getting another divorce.’