Rose: My Life in Service to Lady Astor (23 page)

Cats were something never seen in any of our houses; strictly taboo they were. Her ladyship could not tolerate them. I can bear witness to the fact that she was terrified of them, because when during the war we rented Bray House, Rock, Cornwall, after Elliot Terrace, Plymouth, was bombed, a cat was as it were let with the house, and it was my job to look after it and see that it was kept out of my lady’s way. It was such a beautiful, happy creature that I couldn’t believe that she wouldn’t like it if she saw it, so one evening I carried it down to her room. If I’d had a bomb in my arms it couldn’t have had a more startling effect. She went as white as a sheet and started to tremble. ‘Get that creature out of here,’ she shouted. I did, and fast. It was then that I could understand why the gamekeepers at Cliveden had orders to shoot any cat that came on to the estate.

Let me now go back in time to the outbreak of war. Like almost all children of their kind the boys immediately became involved. Mr Billy went into the Navy. Mr David was commissioned into the Marines. Mr Michael came back from America to join his Yeomanry Regiment, the Berkshires, and Mr Jakie was already an officer in the Life Guards. Mr Bobbie was in a bit of a fix, his head injury from riding seemed to keep him out of everything, but he was determined and eventually served with the Home Guard, and then later with the ambulance service.

Both his lordship and my lady accepted the boys’ loyalty as a matter of course, but like any other parents were always anxious for them. It was so good that they all came through and a matter of great thankfulness to my lady, who for the rest of her life remained conscious of her good fortune, and never ceased reminding herself of it. Her pride in her boys manifested itself in the most extraordinary way. She began knitting socks for them. I was sent out to buy the most expensive wool and then had to cast it on to the knitting needles so that she could begin. I suppose she’d learnt the rudiments as a child, but that was some time ago. She was hopeless at it; it was comic to watch her. I got a number of ‘Shut up, Roses’ for doing just that. When I remonstrated by saying I hadn’t uttered, she said, ‘It’s the vile expression on your face that I can’t stand.’

Give her her due, she persevered with them. Came the day when they were finished and she handed them to me to press. I held them up to look at. They were ludicrous; one had a long leg and a short foot and the other a long foot and a short leg. ‘I take it one’s for Mr Michael and the other for Mr Jakie,’ I said.

‘Mind your own business, do as I tell you and parcel them up. I’m going to send them.’

‘They won’t get past the censor,’ I said as I went out of the door. Eventually there was a family conference about them and it was agreed that a mother’s love could be taken too far. Nanny Gibbons was commissioned to unravel them and knit them up properly.

By the end of the war all the Astor boys were married, Mr Michael in 1942, Mr Jakie in 1944, and Mr Billy and Mr David in 1945. Perhaps it was as well there was a war on because it allowed for the minimum of interference from her ladyship; there were plenty of other things around for her to think about. Mr Jakie married the daughter of the Argentinian Ambassador. Chiquita she was known as. She was of course a Catholic, which was as a red rag to a bull to her ladyship. She wouldn’t attend the wedding, nor did his lordship. Again I couldn’t interfere, but I rumbled a lot. The absurdity of putting a human relationship at risk on account of religious bigotry just beggared my belief.

My lady’s attitude to wives was predictable in view of the possessiveness she’d shown towards all her boys. She was critical; this was a fault she readily admitted, but knew she could do nothing about as it was in her nature. I remember her once saying – it was after his lordship’s death – ‘I’m inviting all my sons to lunch, Rose, but I’m going to tell them they can’t bring their wives.’

‘Now there’s an absurd thing to say,’ I told her. ‘You can’t possibly do it. The child leaves his mother and cleaves to the wife. That’s the nature of things. They won’t come and it’ll only cause trouble. Suppose someone had done that when you married his lordship, saying, “He can come but you can’t,” what would you have said and done? It’s stuff and nonsense!’ It was one occasion when she took my advice.

Miss Wissie, who was the first to rebel against her mother’s domination, was also the one to grow closest to her as the years went by. She put herself out to try and understand and help her, and well she succeeded in the later years. Hers was a marriage which her mother had been unable to fault. To begin with she and Lord Ancaster were what society would call the ideal match, but that apart he was a man of great distinction, a gallant soldier, gentle, kind and thoughtful of others. He and Lord Astor were men of similar quality. I’ve never heard a word spoken against him, either above or below stairs. But although my lady left Lord Ancaster alone, even after Miss Wissie’s marriage she continued to treat her as if she was a child. I remember once when Miss Wissie had come to see her in her bedroom, just before dinner, her ladyship looked at her and said, ‘You’re not coming to my dinner table in that dress, go and change it at once.’

Well, naturally, if Miss Wissie had been in sackcloth she’d have stayed in it after being spoken to in that way, so she refused, forcibly. Then the feathers flew and the tears began to fall. I waded in and separated them, getting some ‘shut ups’ and ‘don’t interferes’ for my pains. Eventually Miss Wissie stormed out leaving me with a tigress. All this over a dress! I busied myself for a bit tidying up, and then went to see Miss Wissie. ‘I’m not changing it, Rose, if that’s what you’ve come for.’

‘No, it’s not that, Miss Wissie,’ I said. ‘I’ve really come to apologize. It’s my fault her ladyship’s in such a state. I rubbed her up the wrong way earlier on and you got the stick that I should have had so it’s a bit silly to ruin your evening on my behalf.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I won’t do it.’

‘Do it for my sake, otherwise I’m going to feel responsible.’

She thought about this for a moment and then said, ‘All right, Rose, but I shall tell Mother I did it for you.’

Well, I wasn’t going to protest about that, so I went back to my lady.

‘I shall not be going down to dinner, so tell Mr Lee to inform his lordship.’

‘Very well, my lady,’ I said, ‘but it’s a pity as Miss Wissie has gone to the trouble of putting on a new dress.’

It was a Pyrrhic victory. She looked at me suspiciously and said, ‘You didn’t apologize for me did you, Rose?’

‘No, my lady.’

‘Then what did you do?’

‘Never mind what I did, you just go down to dinner,’ I said. But she didn’t care for it and kept sniffing around like a bloodhound to find the reason. Servants mustn’t be allowed to win. In a way it’s a footling story, but attitudes are built up by a series of petty incidents in all walks of life.

Now I come to something which I don’t really want to write about, because in all conscience enough has been told already, and it’s best forgotten. Yet to ignore it would only be to draw attention to it. I refer of course to the Profumo Affair and Mr Billy’s part in it. It all came to light in 1963, a year before my lady died. She was eighty-four at the time and though in many ways she was as bright as she’d ever been, her memory was beginning to go. We were living at Eaton Square, and Charles Dean was her butler. Mr Lee had stayed on at Cliveden after his lordship died and had enjoyed serving the now Lord Billy. He was in on the beginning of what was later to become a
cause célèbre,
though he retired before the scandal broke.

Lord Billy had had an accident on the hunting field and he was attended by a physiotherapist, Doctor Stephen Ward, who aided his recovery. A riverside cottage was vacant on the estate around that time and Doctor Ward and his brother, an army colonel, took it as a weekend retreat. After a time, according to Mr Lee, it was noticeable that the Colonel didn’t come down so often and in retrospect he thinks this was because his brother started bringing girls with him. Doctor Ward and the girls made very occasional visits to the house. Mr Lee liked him: ‘An affable and friendly gentleman.’ It may have been forgotten that Doctor Ward had talent as an artist; he persuaded Mr Lee to sit for him and did an excellent sketch. I wouldn’t have seen it had it not been for a perfectly splendid mistake someone made. At the height of the scandal six of these drawings were published in the papers. Mr Lee’s was among them, but under his portrait he was described as ‘Lord Astor’. He dined out on the story for weeks from his home in Eastbourne, and many others of us had a good laugh. It was about the only one we did have during the whole sorry affair.

The girls Doctor Ward brought with him seemed ‘well enough behaved’ to Mr Lee. He thought they were Windmill Girls, from the theatre’s
tableaux vivants
. ‘I treated them just as I would any other guests and, as far as I know – and I should have known if they hadn’t – they conducted themselves properly when they were in the house. I didn’t meet Mr Profumo and his wife, they were visitors after I left. I honestly believe, Rose, that his young lordship was just an unfortunate victim of circumstances, as indeed were many others who were concerned in the case.’
¹

At Eaton Square Charles Dean was the butler and Mrs Campbell-Grey, one-time Lady Boothby and later Lady Gage, was companion to her ladyship. Our job was to ensure that she saw or heard nothing about the business. It wasn’t easy. The newspapers had to be spirited away or doctored. The television was put out of order. The radio was more difficult to deal with without arousing my lady’s suspicions. It was arranged that every day a little before one o’clock in the afternoon and six in the evening, the times the main news bulletins of the day were read, some friend of her ladyship’s would ring her up and keep her in conversation until they were over. Once, whoever’s stint it was, forgot. Charles Dean was ready for the occasion. Just as the news was being announced he came into her boudoir and switched the programme over to another station. ‘Why have you done that, Dean?’ my lady asked.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it just happens that they’re playing a series of tunes from the American South, your favourites, on the Light Programme. I know you’ll want to hear them.’ They weren’t of course, but by the time her ladyship and Charles had argued it out between them, the danger was past.

Visitors were warned to keep off the subject. We only had one big scare when Mr Bobbie appeared one evening a little the worse for drink. ‘I think Mother ought to know and I’m going to tell her.’ Within the limits of our position, which were a lot wider now, we did our best to dissuade him. I don’t like imputing motives to people but I think he felt that since his own misdemeanours had become common family knowledge, that Mr Billy’s should be too, that he was a bit lonely being the only black sheep in the fold and was looking for company. He must have said something to her because she rang for me and said, ‘Get Pover [the chauffeur] and put your hat and coat on, we’re going down to Cliveden.’

‘What for?’ I asked.

‘All this trouble going on and no one telling me about it.’

‘What trouble?’

‘I don’t know and that’s what we’re going to find out.’

‘Whatever trouble there was happened three weeks ago. Lord Astor is now in Ireland.’ I posted him there quickly.

‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘Well then, get Cliveden on the phone. I want to talk to someone there.’

I spoke to Charles. There were two telephone lines in the pantry; he dialled his own line, naturally got the engaged signal, and put it through to her ladyship. ‘Keep on trying,’ she said. He did, using the same ruse, until we were able to get her mind on to other matters. By the next day it was all forgotten. I am firmly convinced that she never knew anything about what had happened. If she had she would most certainly have spoken to me about it. I was by then her confidante in everything. So she was spared what most of the rest of the country revelled in.

Today attitudes have changed. People are ashamed of how they behaved at that time and look for a scapegoat. They blame the press. It’s nonsense. The press give the public what it wants. If it wants a campaign against foxhunting, it gets it. If it wants a man-hunt, it gets it. It’s the law of supply and demand. It was the sanctimonious Members of Parliament that were responsible. Spare me from them! I admit to being a prude; a Yorkshire prude at that. I don’t swear, I don’t drink much, I’m unmarried and I like it that way, I’ve a code of behaviour over sex and I’ve lived by my rules. Come to my flat. You’ll find it spotless. Everything in its place, that’s me. It’s my nature. That’s the way I like it. But that doesn’t mean that I expect everyone else to live in the same way, or would want them to. Please yourself, get on with it, I won’t interfere with you so long as you don’t interfere with me. Nor am I the sort of person who goes around saying, ‘Isn’t it awful? How disgusting! She ought to be ashamed of herself.’ The trouble with people is that they worry too much about what other people think of them, and the reason they do that is that they’re worried about what other people think and do. I believe if you leave people alone they’ll leave you alone. And I mean this on the big scale. Why do we have to gloat when things go wrong for others? Why do we enjoy destruction? Only because we are not prepared to live and let live.

My Lord Billy was a victim of the Profumo Affair and was tried, judged and sentenced by the public on no evidence. My last words on the subject are that I am a better person for having known him.

T
here is a saying that ‘no man is a hero to his valet’. Arthur Bushell would give the lie to it on behalf of his lordship, and if it can be taken to apply to a lady and her maid, so would I. This may come as a surprise as I don’t seem to have given any heroic impressions of my lady as yet, but heroism requires the occasion and it wasn’t until the war that this came. It gave her what she wanted, the opportunity of doing things for people, for individuals, and of being able to see the results of her actions. I suppose I must have listened to Chamberlain’s speech on the radio when he announced that we were at war with Germany, but I don’t remember where I was. I know it caused both Lord and Lady Astor a lot of distress, because up until the last minute they believed that war could and would be avoided. People now blame them for this and call them appeasers, singling them out as if they were the only ones who didn’t want war. They seem to forget that only a few months earlier most people in the country didn’t and for the right reasons. The Astors stuck to their guns to the last and, though they may have been wrong, they too did so for the right reasons. Once we were committed, no one could have fought more strongly for their country.