Rose: My Life in Service to Lady Astor (26 page)

‘All right, Rose, I’ll go,’ she said. At that moment it was hard to believe that this sorry-looking person was my heroine of a few hours before and would be again a couple of days later.

During the next six weeks at Rock I got to know his lordship more intimately. I think I rather enjoyed having a man to look after and spoil. I did all I could for him, though it’s difficult nursing a Christian Scientist because you have no doctor’s orders to go on. Once he was over the chill and the effects of the row with my lady I tried to get him to continue to rest. It wasn’t easy. When he and Lady Astor had seen the damage inflicted on Plymouth after the first two terrible raids, they said publicly, ‘We will rebuild it again,’ which those who heard it thought was meant to apply to them and the other citizens, as I’m sure it was. But by the way his lordship began to work now it seemed as if he meant it to apply personally and he saw this period at Rock as an ideal time to get things started. The government had other things to think about, so he worked without its help, and it was during this time that the new foundations for Plymouth were laid and the great work was conceived that Professor Abercrombie later carried out as the planning consultant. If the Astors loved Plymouth when it was whole they loved it more now when it was so badly wounded. It was at this time too that a codicil was written into their wills saying that in the event of them being killed during a raid, they wished to be buried in a common grave with the other casualties.

So it was that much of my work was answering the phone, taking and giving messages, sending telegrams and generally acting as a sort of secretary-cum-mouthpiece. I remember one day, while I was fumbling over the reading of some message to him, his lordship said, ‘Give it to me, Rose.’

‘No, my lord, it’s not meant for you to read.’

He roared with laughter. ‘Don’t you think I’m old enough, Rose?’ he said.

‘It’s not that, my lord; it’s written in my particular brand of shorthand.’ This seemed to amuse him even more. Still, as he had to admit when he was well enough to return to Plymouth, it had worked.

Almost exactly four weeks after the first two appalling raids on Plymouth the Germans struck again, and the night attacks of 21, 22, 23, 28 and 29 April were as ferocious as the earlier ones had been. Now their main target was the Devonport area, the dockland. By the end of the month the city had become the most heavily bombed of any in the country. There was hardly a building that had escaped some damage. His lordship and I were safe at Rock, I’m grateful to say, but her ladyship was often in amongst it all.

My stay in Rock with his lordship had an eventful ending for me. I received from him the first tip I had ever been given during my time in service. I’d had presents, of course, from my lady and others, but those came as it were in the line of duty. When we left Rock he handed me an envelope containing money. I took it as I’d seen other servants take such things and regarded it as a tip, something given for that bit of extra service. I was quite thrilled and excited about it.

I remember shortly after speaking of it to Mr Lee and we got on to the subject of tipping in general. ‘You know, Rose, there’s a mistaken idea among some people that we behave as we do in the hope of getting a financial reward, and particularly do they think this is true of menservants. How wrong they are. I can’t recall in the whole of my service ever doing anything because I thought there would be something at the end of it. Naturally when I was a footman and I was asked to valet for a visitor I expected to be given something for the work that I’d put in, but my opinion or respect for him was never formed or changed by the amount he gave me. Most gentlemen work on a given scale, just as you and I do with porters and taxi-drivers and the like. Nevertheless I never could like the person who rushed about as he was leaving, sort of not seeing you so as to save himself a sovereign, neither did any of my men, and strangely enough that kind of behaviour generally came from those whom we knew to be loaded.’

From now on my lady and I went backwards and forwards like shuttlecocks between London and Plymouth. We rented two different houses in Rock, Bray House and later Trebetherick. It did mean that after either of them had finished their work in Plymouth they could be sure of a reasonable night’s sleep. Some people may criticize them for leaving the battleground when others couldn’t, but commanders have to if they’re to be in a fit condition to direct operations in the future, and in these circumstances I looked on my two as generals. From May onwards, we were lent a house, Bickham, on Dartmoor. It was easier and quicker for us to get in and out of Plymouth. I don’t know whether someone told Hitler about our move, but the moment we got in there the bombs began to fall around us again.

By now of course our jobs had ceased to have any definition, we just did whatever needed doing. Cleaning up seemed to be my main occupation. Since we’d left Cliveden for Bickham in something of a hurry, I’d only packed a few things and the frock I’d got on at the time was the one I had to work in. Whether it was a bit worn or whether it was the effort I put into my work, it eventually split, making a big hole underneath my arm. As Arthur Bushell was going into Plymouth with her ladyship, I asked him to get me an overall for decency’s sake. He returned with a parcel containing a maternity smock. He pretended to be very penitent when I opened it so I couldn’t be sure whether he’d done it on purpose. Anyway it protected my anatomy, so I put it on.

That evening when I went in to dress my lady she took one look at me and screamed, ‘Oh, Rose, I didn’t know you were in that sort of trouble.’ I tried to explain. ‘It’s no use trying to blame that on enemy action,’ she said.

In exasperation I pulled the smock up. ‘It’s only a hole I’m trying to hide.’ We both of us ended up screaming with laughter. His lordship popped his head round the door and said, ‘Oh it’s you two, I thought it was the air raid sirens.’ He eventually ended up in stitches too when the situation was explained to him. I never found out whether Arthur had done it purposely or not. If he did it was one of the best jokes he ever perpetrated.

I won’t say that bombs in the country are better than those in town, but they’re different. To start with, when you hear a stick of them coming down you don’t find yourself wishing them on your neighbours by praying that they’ll miss you. To find the next morning that they’ve hit a sheep or a cow and made their craters in a field brings only a sense of relief, it doesn’t trouble the conscience. But while they’re actually falling the country has its hazards. We seemed to attract incendiaries and as Arthur and I continued our fire-watching at Roughborough we were kept very busy. Baskets of the wretched things were dropped over and around us. It’s one thing putting one out on a roof or a pavement, but we were kept running around the grounds and the fields with our buckets of sand and water and our hoses and stirrup-pumps.

Now, in normal circumstances I’m fond of roses, but their bushes at night are a hazard, and if there were any around I seemed to find them in my chases to put out incendiaries. I’d study the garden in daylight to make sure that I wouldn’t make the same mistake again, but there is something about the dark that makes me lose any sense of direction. Then often Arthur and I would be out in the fields, and though I may not have shown much sympathy for cows and sheep earlier on, I felt even less as I skated about in their pats and droppings.

Eventually Arthur and I struck a bargain. I’d do the near incendiaries and he would tackle the more distant ones. There’s a saying ‘He travels fastest who travels alone,’ and that was certainly true of Arthur one night when he ran to put one out. One moment I saw him silhouetted on the skyline, and the next moment he wasn’t there. I thought I heard a cry from his direction but I couldn’t be sure so I busied myself putting some earth on a nearby incendiary. When it was out I called into the direction in which he’d gone and got a muffled response. I went to look for him, picking my way carefully, which was just as well because I found myself on the edge of a small sandpit, and from the noises that came from below I realized that that was where Arthur had disappeared into a few minutes before. I eventually worked my way round it and rescued him. He was none the worse for his fall, but was covered in sand and mud. ‘Perhaps you’d like to borrow my overall,’ I said to him as we went back to the house.

I also found that bombs can have some funny effects on people. One night Arthur and I were outside the house, we thought that incendiaries were raining down on us. Well, it’s one thing to put them out, it’s another to be hit by them, so we made for the house. In the hall were my lady and his lordship, looking somewhat startled. ‘Where did they drop?’ she asked. Both Arthur and I tried to reply. We must have looked very comic because although we mouthed the words no sound came out; we couldn’t utter. We were later told that three bombs had dropped some way beyond the house and that what we thought were incendiaries was in fact the earth and stones from the craters they’d made, and that the blast had in some way stopped us from speaking. ‘I want to get a supply of them,’ her ladyship said, somewhat cheekily, I thought, when we’d recovered, ‘then I might be able to get a word in edgeways.’

One of the more pathetic sights around this time was in the evenings when people were leaving the city on foot for the comparative peace of the countryside. They would sleep under hedges, in barns, out on the moors, anywhere where they could feel safe from the bombs. If a car of ours was returning from Plymouth it was always packed with these nocturnal refugees. Then from time to time her ladyship would ask friends to stay the night. We always had to be ready to receive them and, more difficult still with the rationing, to feed them. I remember one evening when she turned up with three sailor boys. ‘They’re hungry and need a good rest,’ she said as she put them in my charge in the servants’ hall. We gave them eggs and bacon, our personal rations, and prepared beds for them. Then the sirens sounded and soon our peace was shattered. There was a lot of activity that night and the sailors were kept busy putting out fires and running down to the village where help was needed. At about four in the morning all was quiet so we made ready for bed, only to be told that the sailors had to rejoin their ship at six o’clock and that they were hungry again. So we cooked them more eggs and bacon – this time it was her ladyship’s rations though she never knew it – and saw them on their way, eventually thumbing a lift for them on a passing lorry. About a week later her ladyship got what she described as a lovely letter from them, thanking her for all she had done. ‘We gave them a good time, eh, Rose?’

While we were on Dartmoor Mr David spent part of his leave there, looking very splendid as an officer of the Marines. He saw some action while he was with us. One night we were standing together on the lawn when I heard a bomb whistling over. I went to ground. He stood his and when I’d recovered myself said somewhat patronizingly, ‘Only a bit of shrapnel, Rose.’ I was convinced it was a bomb that hadn’t exploded, but couldn’t argue with an officer who spoke with such calm authority.

The following morning there was an explosion which could only have come from a delayed action bomb. I was in the sitting-room at the time with Lady Astor and her son. ‘What on earth was that?’ said her ladyship.

‘That,’ I said, ‘was Mr David’s bit of shrapnel going off.’ I’m glad to say he had the decency to wince.

Nineteen forty-one was Plymouth’s most terrible year and probably my lady’s greatest. It wasn’t that she’d changed – she just had the opportunity of showing her real quality. I was rewarded too. It made the years I’d spent with her so very much more worthwhile. Service is something you give without expecting anything in return. When you get it, it somehow has a purpose.

By the end of the year the raids had decreased. Indeed in 1942 nothing of importance in the way of air action was recorded. Now America was in the war so the Astors, on top of their other duties, became unofficial ambassadors to our friends who had now become our allies. They were of course ideally suited and not only because of their birth. My lady revelled in it and she became almost bilingual, reverting constantly to her Deep South drawl. We had moved back to Elliot Terrace and a part of the house next door had been incorporated in ours as offices. We were entertaining again and having visitors, many of whom now were Americans, officers from all the Services. The G.I.s and other ranks were not neglected by my lady, as she superintended the opening of canteens and clubs for them. I particularly remember General Lee staying the night with us. I went up to his room after he’d left to make his bed, and had the surprise of my life. The bed was laid out as if for a kit inspection; it was impeccable. I ran and fetched my lady so that she could see it. She was as delighted as I was and as we left the room she turned and saluted the bed, American fashion. ‘Thank you, General,’ she drawled.

The year may have been peaceful, but it was busy. There was one event which caused my lady a great sadness: the death of the Duke of Kent, who with his wife Princess Marina had been a regular visitor to Cliveden before the war, and whose visits to us at Plymouth had been even more frequent because he always stayed with us when he inspected R.A.F. airfields in the district. His plane crashed in Scotland during August 1942. It was only a day or two after he had been with us with his pilot Squadron Leader Fergusson and his batman John Hall. John had been his valet before the war. Charles Dean and he were great friends, and Charles was also well acquainted with the Duke and always used to look after him when he and the Princess went to stay with Mrs Bouverie, for whom he was then butler and was a regular visitor to Coppins, the Duke’s country place, always spending Ascot week there. Such was their relationship that whenever John Hall knew that the Duke was to be anywhere where Dean would be he took the days off, telling his Highness that Charles would be a more than adequate substitute. The Duke must have been of the same mind because perhaps Charles’s most treasured possession today is a cigarette case which was given him inscribed ‘George and Marina’. Even the royals don’t give that sort of thing easily.