Laurie Graham - Gone With the Windsors

“The problem with owning a ballroom,” he said, “is that one feels an obligation to use it.”

Lightfoot sang my praises as a dancer, but, sadly, Sir Philip doesn’t dance.

He said, “One always feels obliged to buzzz around like a bumble bee, pollinating one’s guests with gaiety, and then, when the evening’s over, the room looks horrrribly like the Battle of Culloden Moor.”

A location from his Baghdad period, I suppose.

I said, “What you need is a woman to hold your balls for you.”

“Maybell!” he said, “I think I may thrrrreaten you with an invitation to Trrrrent Park.”

I said, “Invite away! You don’t frrrrighten me.” How we laughed.

A small point of accuracy for Melhuish. Sir Philip does not have a footman serve tea. He has footmen . And why not!

Wally was infuriatingly vague about her plans for the day, and then, when I walked into the Ivy to meet Pips, there she was, tête-à-tête with Thelma Furness. They waved but made no move to invite us over to join them.

Pips says she finds it horribly entertaining to watch Wally at work. “Spinning her web,” she called it.

She said, “Look at her. I mean, Thelma’s nice in her own sappy way, but Wally can’t possibly find her that interesting. She’s just cultivating her so she can get her foot in Wales’s door.”

I said, “There are worse projects. I wouldn’t mind meeting him myself. They say he’s a nifty dancer.”

Pips said, “Well, I think it’s all rather desperate and sad. It reminds me of the trouble she went to snag a dance with Chevy Auburn. Remember? Cozying up to his sister. Memorizing all his sprint times. And men are so dumb. They fall for it every time. I’ll bet she worked the same old business with Ernest. I’ll bet she pumped Mary Kirk for useful tidbits, filed them under ‘Ernest,’ and then fed them right back to him.”

I think Wally just uses what little God gave her. She has a very plain face, no figure, and no fortune. It stands to reason she’s had to develop her wits.

Pips could have shown more interest in my tea with Philip Sassoon.

All she said was, “But isn’t he a fruit?”

Penelope Blythe says a fruit is a very useful, unmarried type of man friend, and she’s often thought of getting one herself.

To Carlton Gardens for drinks. The Billy Belchesters were there, and Leo von Hoesch popped along from the German Embassy. So charming, and never married. I wonder if he’s a fruit, too. Violet says he’s the civilized face of Germany and quite abhors Mr. Hitler and his new ideas.

A note had arrived for me from young Rory, to remind me he’ll soon be coming home on his midterm vacation. He writes, I should very much like to take you to a Tea Room but I’m rather out of funds .

No matter. What are aunts for if not the occasional piece of pie?

I’ve pinned down Violet and Melhuish to come to me today week. I want to throw a little party while the Crokers are still in town.

Violet said, “Just drinks, Maybell. Melhuish will never manage your jazzed-up food. And please, no gangsters.”

I said, “Boss Croker is not a gangster.”

She said, “Well, he sounds like one.”

I’ve a good mind to invite Thelma Furness.

I am launched, and to great applause! Just champagne, whiskey, and salted almonds, but Padmore served them very nicely. I believe she’s thrilled with her new livery.

Came: the Crosbies, the Erlangers, George Lightfoot, the Benny Thaws, the Whitlow Trillings, the Crokers, the Fergus Blythes (who brought along with them a sweet creature called Cimmie Mosley, married to a mad revolutionary), Violet and Melhuish, and Wally and Ernest. Thelma sent regrets, as did Philip Sassoon, who was unable to get away from the Ministry, and Leo von Hoesch, who had to give a little reception for some Hohenzollerns.

I omitted to invite Ida. I didn’t want her arriving with a bag full of pamphlets, or worse still, with Mr. Acolyte on her arm.

Much talk about Mr. Mussolini. Ernest has read that he’s a great all-rounder. He plays the violin and governs his country, and yet he’s not above rolling up his sleeves and helping with the corn harvest. A Renaissance man, Ernest called him. Also, he’s electrificating the railroads. Freddie said that will be all very fine for the Italians but not so good for the Welsh miners, whose coal the Italians will stop buying. Well, I’m behind Mr. Mussolini on this. One has to look out for one’s own.

Melhuish allowed Wally to flirt with him wickedly on the subject of trout fishing. He was quite pink by the time he and Violet had to leave for the Londonderries. He said, “Come to Sunday luncheon, Maybell. Bring your Simpson chums with you.”

Violet was on the telephone first thing, putting paid to that.

She said, “I really don’t want Wally here on Sunday. I’m sure her husband is perfectly pleasant, but she’s as raucous as ever. We’ll have the Habberleys and anyway, Wally’s just not the kind of guest we’d want Flora to meet. Melhuish only suggested it because you’d given him far too much whiskey.”

I said, “Don’t worry. Wally and Ernest can’t come anyway. They’re going to a polo tournament. But I don’t see why you have to be so against her. It was you who wrote excitedly to tell me she was in London.”

Violet said, “I did not write excitedly. I mentioned her as one might report the arrival of a new dancing bear at the zoo. But I didn’t mean you should pay to watch it day after day, and I certainly didn’t mean you should bring it home.”

Wally’s in a state of great excitement. She and Ernest are invited to the Thelma Furness’s country house for a weekend. Leicestershire. This will undoubtedly involve a long, cold train journey, because everything in this country does. It’s a pity Mr. Mussolini isn’t an Englishman.

I said, “And will the Prince of Wales be there?”

She said, “I don’t know. I could hardly ask. But we’re going to be quite prepared for it.”

Ernest has a book on etiquette, and Wally’s practicing her curtsies, but the main thing on her mind is clothes. She’s talking about empire-line georgette with capped sleeves, but my advice was to buy every item of warm underwear Gamages have on sale, and fur-lined boots, too. Crazy. Wherever Leicestershire is, you may be sure it’s nowhere near the frontiers of fashion.

Hattie Erlanger says Wally and Ernest will be expected to ride. She says it’s inconceivable to go to Leicestershire without a hacking jacket at the very least. Wally says that’s the trouble with people like Hattie. Their minds run along narrow, muddy ruts, and they fail to notice that thousands of civilized people go their whole lives without ever sitting on a horse.

Yesterday to Fuller’s Tea Rooms with Rory and Flora. If you want to know what’s being said on the back stairs, take your nephews and nieces out to tea. Prince George goes dancing with black girls. The Duke of Westminster shouts at his new wife. And Lady Furness is getting a divorce. Funny Wally never mentioned that.

I brought them back to see my new house before Kettle drove them home. Both chiefly interested in which bedrooms they would have if I were to invite them to stay the night. I don’t know that I would invite them. Tea is one thing, but not the complications of bedtime stories and prayers and night-lights.

Found a dear little cashmere cardigan for Wally, edge-to-edge with a braid trim. If she follows my advice, that’s what she’ll wear to dinner in Leicestershire. As a matter of fact, I think she should avoid décolletage whenever possible. She has no bosom to speak of, and the skin on her back is poor.