Laurie Graham - Gone With the Windsors

I said, “I think I’d like to know Sir Philip Sassoon.”

George said, “You mean you haven’t met him? Violet, what are you thinking of?”

She said, “But we never see him. I see Sybil, of course. She’s on my Blood Bank committee, but Philip, almost never.”

George said, “Well, I shall introduce you, directly we get back to London.”

I said, “And where do Sir Philip and Lady Sybil live?”

“Oh no,” he said, “Syb’s not his wife. She’s his sister. She’s the Marchioness of Chumley, spelled Cholmondeley , nota bene Maybell. She’s married to Rocksavage, but Philip’s not married to anyone.”

So much the better. Sir Philip sounds much more to my taste than Viscount Minskip. Penelope says Minskip owns practically half of Yorkshire, but I don’t care. He’s welcome to it.

Ena of Spain has arrived, wheezing and perspiring but all smiles. She has perfect English, being an actual granddaughter of Queen Victoria and almost raised by her. She’s an ex-queen though, so there’s no need for those time-consuming deep curtsies. A sincere bob is quite sufficient. The ex-King isn’t with her. They take separate vacations.

More thunder. More insects. Tonight’s much-trumpeted treat for dinner was sea trout caught by Melhuish and Ulick. “How wonderful,” Violet kept saying. “Only an hour out of the water!” Still a fish though, when all’s said and done. I long for a filet mignon.

Ena took my hand and said she hoped we’d be friends. She said, “Violet has been my rock and Doopie’s almost like a daughter to me, so I’m going to claim you, too. Then I’ll have the full set!”

Ena Spain is quite gay, considering the circumstances of her life. Her children are all sickly, her husband goes with actresses, and last year, when the rebels drove them out of Spain, he left without her. Ran off to Paris and left her to take her chances and follow with the youngest of the brood once they were healthy enough to travel. She says there were rioters ramming the palace doors with trucks, and if it hadn’t been for two footmen helping them slip out the back way, they’d have been murdered in their beds. I wonder whether she lost her jewels. No one dresses here, so it’s impossible to know whether she’s been reduced to paste copies.

She’s especially attached to Doopie, because by an extraordinary coincidence, one of her sons is the same kind of dullard. His name is Hymie, but they spell it with a J in Spain. She said, “Hymie and Doopie get along so well. They understand each other perfectly. It’s a pity they’re not closer in age, because I think they’d have made a very happy couple.”

The very idea. I told her, they must never be allowed to breed.

She said, “I don’t see why. It’s not an inherited kind of deafness. And in every other respect, they’re just like you and me. The Greeces have an aunt with exactly the same problem and she’s led a very full life.”

Penelope Blythe agrees with me that Doopie doesn’t seem all there. George Lightfoot says she’s sharp as a tack but deaf as a post. I’m beginning to think information has been kept from me.

It’s official. Doopie is deaf. I had it out with Violet while she was dressing.

I said, “Someone might have thought to mention it to me.”

She said, “Mother told you. I know she did. You just never listen. And anyway, it couldn’t matter less. Doopie manages very well and she’s perfectly happy.”

I’d just like to know when it was decided she’s not an idiot.

She said, “You’re the only one who ever said she was. Things take her longer, that’s all. Some things.”

I suppose now I’ll be expected to apologize. Violet says there’s nothing can be done about her ears. Apparently, Prince Hymie with a J tried a hearing aid, an electrical box that hung around his neck and plugged into his ears, for when he had to go to receptions, but it didn’t help him at all. I’m not surprised. No one at receptions can hear anything. The only thing to do is nod intelligently and move swiftly along.

Rory says Thomas Edison, inventor of the light bulb, was also deaf. Greek aunts, ex-Prince Hymie, Thomas Edison. Suddenly deafness is all the rage.

Flora is wearing an Atora suet carton hung on a string and is playing at Hearing Aids. George Lightfoot said there was no need to apologize to Doopie for thinking her an idiot all these years, because there have been many times when she’s thought the same of me. But I did apologize, because even deaf people may have feelings.

Doopie said, “Aw ride, Bayba. No needa shoud. Dudn’t mayg any divrent.”

She has such a cheerful disposition. Of course, being handicapped, she has never been subjected to the stresses and strains of life as we normal people are.

Melhuish’s sisters motored over from Birkhall for luncheon. Jinty is even sourer than Elspeth, but she lives in the far, far north, so I’m unlikely to be troubled by her company again. Elspeth may be reconciled to the idea of a foreign sister-in-law; in fact, I think she’s rather fond of Violet, but Jinty doesn’t even approve of the English, so what hope for a patriotic American. The only time she addressed me was to ask me when I’d be returning to the United States. Worried I might stick around and bag one of those spare Scottish lords, I suppose. And she looked at the jug of iced water I requested as though I’d asked for a doggie woops to be brought to the table.

I said, “September. I’ll be going back in September.”

I hadn’t realized I’d decided until I’d said it.

Tears from Flora. She fled from the table, Doopie followed her, and Rory followed Doopie.

Penelope said, “Oh Maybell, don’t go. I rather thought we might be chums. You’ll find things much livelier after the summer. Balls, parties. Do stay. Violet has room for you.”

But I didn’t say I was going back for good. Not at all. I’ll simply settle my affairs, let it be known to provincialites like Nora Sedley Cordle that Maybell Brumby has gone international, and then return. And Violet’s having room or not won’t enter into it, because I shall take a house anyway. Somewhere I can have my bath run as deep and as hot as I please. And I won’t have to lose sleep over the price of a good rib roast.

I’ll be one of the Baltimore belles who are making their mark on London.

A boot boy has gone by bicycle down to Aboyne with a wire to Fishbone and Strong. I’ve instructed them to find a good tenant for Sweet Air. Flora is happy. She’s been dancing up and down the Long Gallery, singing, “Aunt Bayba’s staying forever!”

Penelope seems very pleased, too. She says there’s a house that may be coming up across from them in Cadogan Square. I don’t know. I’ll have to see if it’s my kind of neighborhood.

The Anstruther-Brodies have arrived, which signals the start of the shooting party.

The quarry is a small bird called grice.

The guns went out early, Ailsa Anstruther-Brodie among them. It was all too obvious at dinner last night that Melhuish is very smitten. He kept gushing about her being a first-rate shot, and bounding across the room to light her cigarette. It all seems to sail over Violet’s head.

Everything now revolves around the shooting, even luncheon, so one has the choice of piling into motors and joining the guns, or going hungry. Even Viscount Minskip has been forced to reschedule his daily battle. Two long tables had been taken up to the moor and set with china and flatware kept especially for these occasions. Shooting lunches, they’re called. The whole thing must be an enormous strain on Violet’s struggling staff, and it would be altogether simpler if sandwiches were sent up in a shooting brake and the rest of us were left in peace, but no. Ladies, children, and Minskip at one table; men, loaders, beaters, and Ailsa Anstruther-Brodie at the other. Stag pie and salad and a cake decorated with flaked almonds, which Rory calls Toenail Cake.