Dearest Jane... Page 16
In the Raceform Handicap Book of 1989, my father wrote of a touching relationship between a horse, her stable lad – and a cat. Kincsem was a Hungarian mare, foaled in 1874, who won the Goodwood Cup. The nature of her life as a professional racehorse demanded much journeying by train and, for comforting companionship, she travelled with a cat.
Provided she was accompanied by her stable lad, Frankie, and her cat Kincsem thoroughly enjoyed her journeys. Only once was there trouble and that was at Deauville on the way home to Goodwood. Her cat was missing when she left the ship and she flatly refused to enter the train. For two hours she stood on the dockside calling for her cat. Eventually the cat heard her, and running to her, jumped on her back. Kincsem at once boarded the train and lay down.
Kincsem’s stable lad, Frankie, was in charge of her well-being and it seems, she of his:
One cold night Kincsem noticed that Frankie had no rug. She somehow managed to pull her own rug off and put it on Frankie. From then on, she never wore a rug at night. If she was given one she always managed to get it off and drop it on Frankie. Frankie boasted no surname and did his military service as ‘Frankie Kincsem’, under which title he was buried when he died.
That is the kind of story I love from my father. Here is another from the Sunday Times in 1990 where he weaves together some disparate strands to great effect:
November 27 was a big day for Huntingdon. For the first time it staged a £27,590 steeplechase. On the same day its parliamentary representative, Mr John Major, was elected Prime Minister.
Mr Major is the youngest Prime Minister since the 5th Earl of Roseberry, who was in fact a Liberal. Quite apart from that, the two do not appear to have a great deal in common. Lord Roseberry owned three Derby winners. I have no reason to believe Mr Major has any particular interest in the turf. Mr Major is a cricket enthusiast and perhaps there is a tenuous link between him and Lord Roseberry in that the 6th Earl captained Surrey and awarded the great Sir Jack Hobbs his county cap.
Mr Major apparently aims to establish a classless society and his admirers regard it as a point in his favour that he never went to a public school. Lord Roseberry was very happy at Eton, where he had a brilliant career, and as he lay dying at The Durdans, his house at Epsom, he had the Eton Boating Song played on a gramophone.
The non-conformist wing of the Liberal party was anything but keen on Lord Roseberry’s racing activities. He himself said that they did not seem to mind all that much when his horses lost; it was only when they won that a real fuss was kicked up.
Mr Major’s admirers will doubtless be pleased to learn that racing is becoming more and more classless. One has only to glance down a Royal Ascot racecard of 25 years ago and one of today to see that the aristocracy has largely opted out. Gone are the colours of Lord Roseberry, Lord Astor and the Duke of Norfolk, etc., etc., while those of Lord Derby are seen all too seldom . . .
I have always thought Huntingdon rather a dull town, perhaps rather like Bedford which was described by a US airman during World War II as resembling a cemetery with traffic lights.
The last time I attended Huntingdon races I ran a novice chaser there which I backed at 4-1. Approaching the final fence with John Francome in the saddle, with several lengths clear, he over-jumped, crumpled on landing and that was that.
The end of a perfect day came when we got lost going home. My wife was driving and I thought something was wrong when we passed Oliver Cromwell’s statue for the third time.
I have said that I rarely saw my father close to a horse. His own trusty steed was his typewriter. A few yards from my room at home, the hottest news in racing – as well as much of its history – would be compiled and dispatched to the nation from his study. Yet racing was an esoteric and rather intimidating world to me, full of people speaking an unintelligible language. However, I was aware of the huge pride at home when my father’s first major book was published in 1958: The History of the Jockey Club, which I have since read. It teems with as many compelling characters as a Charles Dickens novel.
It would be untrue to say I never went racing – very occasionally I had the fun of accompanying my father. The great perk was to have my father’s company to myself for the car journey back and forth, where my constant longing to be grown-up was gratified by the nature of the conversations I was able to enjoy with him.
For excitement, there was the occasional privilege of standing beside my father in the BBC broadcasting box. I regarded this as a huge honour, which could only have been improved upon had I been handed the microphone and invited on air to make a comment. Strangely enough, I wasn’t. For several years Roger was employed by BBC radio to provide commentaries on the line-up of runners prior to a race, and for the post mortem following the event. He worked alongside Raymond Glendenning initially and then the BBC’s first full-time racing commentator, Peter Bromley. These were the few occasions I was permitted to spend in my father’s company on the racecourse. It was his workplace so I would be left to my own devices – from the age of around eleven – but with a member’s enclosure badge pinned firmly to my lapel.
It wasn’t all fun and games. One boiling summer’s day, my father took me, aged thirteen, wearing my best frock and clutching my autograph book, to the ‘Celebrities’ meeting at Sandown. ‘Enjoy yourself and meet me back at the car at 5 o’clock, my dear child,’ said my father as he melted away into the crowd. The day was long, hot and, far worse, devoid of a sighting of a single star. I was hoping at least to see Adam Faith who was reputed to be a keen racegoer. Back at the red hot car at the appointed hour, thirsty and cross, another age passed before my father appeared. When he finally trundled cheerfully into view, he said: ‘Sorry I’m late, dear, but I got delayed by Elizabeth Taylor in the bar.’ It was one of our more silent journeys home.
If I have ever made a contribution to the joys of racing, it was in Northumberland. My parents came to stay and I escorted them to a icy, wind-blown winter meeting at the little country course at Hexham, way beyond Roger’s normal territory. We spent a lot of time imbibing whisky macs in the bar, roaring with laughter at a joke, the meaning of which I never quite discovered, but the hilarity was contagious. In a later article on the aesthetic aspect of racecourses, Roger concluded: ‘Goodwood and Hexham are the two most beautiful courses in the country.’
In 1972 my father won the Lord Derby Racing Writer Award. In the awards programme, Brough Scott wrote an perceptive profile of my father, concluding : ‘Roger Mortimer is modest about everything he has done, with one vital exception. When his elder daughter was at school, he used to write to her so often and so amusingly that she used to hand the letters around. Did he take pride in this? “Yes I think I write a very good letter.”’
My Dearest Jane . . .
The Maudlings
Heathcote Amory
Berks
[Late 1960s]
Four perspiring days at Ascot which I think your dear mother enjoyed, including dinner with the Majendies one evening; Paul with his socialist bird Miss Mallalieu who is trying to educate him. I fell for Miss Mallalieu whose socialist principles did not prevent her from having a merry drink with me in the Royal Enclosure the following day.
From Yateley days, my first real friend in the shape of a boy was Paul Majendie, then at Oxford and later a successful journalist. In 1991, my father wrote again, in an article, of Miss Mallalieu:
Of those individuals recently elevated to the House of Lords, the one in my view worth keeping an eye on is the charming and attractive Ann Mallalieu QC. Unlike many left-wingers, she is a keen fox-hunter. She contributes lively articles to the Field and is a dedicated follower of the Turf. Ann Mallalieu might one day make a very useful member of the Jockey Club.
Budds Farm
[1970s]
Great lunch with the swells before the Irish Derby – lobster, duck, strawberries, hock and a lively conversation with a tough, entertaining old bag whom Belper used to consort with in the 1920s. She has wisely abandoned sex
for gardening. Lunch today with a charming old queen who has a marvellous garden; dinner with a lively widower whose one eye gleams with lecherous anticipation when he sees your dear mother – so good for both of them. Amusing lunch with millionaire Jock Whitney. He opened as follows: ‘I have just had a heart attack and am on a very strict diet. However if you will twist my arm a little, I will probably give in and we will consume a number of very large dry martinis.’
Love
xx D
Hypothermia House
Burghclere
[1970s]
Yesterday I took the coach to London and went to the Hyde Park Hotel for the Horserace Totalisator Board’s Annual Lunch. Many self-important individuals, including MPs and union bosses. I had the ill fortune to sit next to an arrogant, pompous old bore Sir Gladwyn J. He took a quick look at me, decided I had nothing to offer (true, possibly) and turned his back for the entire meal. On my other side was a racing character I don’t much like. The Chairman, Woodrow Wyatt, was once a leftish Labour MP but is now a jolly ‘Establishment’ man. His speech was not unamusing.
Budds Farm
6 May [late 1960s]
Charles came both days to Ascot and rather enjoyed himself. He has a pleasant life here; he rises at 9.45 a.m., plays the gramophone and smokes till lunch; smokes and plays the gramophone till tea; watches the cornier programmes on TV till the labours of the day overwhelm him at 9.30 and then retires to rest.
Budds Farm
10 February 1968
My Sports Editor on the ‘Sunday Times’ is leaving. I shall be lucky if I ever get anyone so indolent and disinterested again. In twenty years not one word of praise or blame. Only the wage packet on the dot each month. What more can you want?
La Maison des Deux Gagas
Grand Senilite
France
[1973]
My relations with the Sunday Times continue to deteriorate. The Sports Editor, John L., who believes what he reads in the New Statesman, proof of his puerile intellect, told me he was not in the least interested in racing. I replied that it was rather akin to the literary editor saying that all biographies bored him. I also pointed out in plain terms that the top brass at Thomson House is distinguished chiefly for bad manners and incompetence. There the matter rests at present.
My colleague Tom D. of ‘The People’ (do you remember him telling crime stories to you and Charles during a rough crossing to Le Havre?) committed suicide the other day, the pain from his spinal cancer having worn him down. Because he accelerated the inevitable end, his employers are endeavouring to reduce the amount payable to his widow. I would gladly strike for a case like this; I fear though that journalists are only stirred by threats to their personal affluence. Quelle cochonnerie!
I am battling with two books at present, one for Cassell, one for M. Joseph. I keep on getting them muddled up but no one seems to care. I hope the Cassell book will appear in October; in my opinion it is a rare bargain at £8. Whether anyone else will think so is by no means certain.
On Sunday I lunch with Jim Joel at Childwickbury. He is a bachelor, nearly eighty, worth at least £40m. The son of a desperado who made a fortune by questionable means in South Africa, he is the mildest, kindest and most generous of men.
In World War I, Jim Joel was a dashing Hussar. Shortly before the great battle of Arras he was short of a charger and his father sent him out a horse that had been placed in the Middle Park. Despite lack of military training, the horse survived the battle, was taken back to England and won a couple of small handicaps there.
I have been invited to see his horses but I expect we shall look at his pictures and china. He is my favourite millionaire and in a diffident way tells hilarious stories of his youth.
Best love,
xx D
Budds Farm
23 July 1973
I lunched with Jim Joel yesterday in full Edwardian splendour. Four of us to lunch and a butler and 2 footmen in attendance. Israeli melon; lobster mousse with lobster claws and a rich sauce; choice of chicken pie or lamb; gooseberry fool; peaches, cherries and raspberries.
Schloss Buddestein
Worms
1973
The Sports Editor, John L. has made overtures to me re writing a leading article for the ‘Sunday Times’ on the malaise of this country at the present time. My recent expostulations seem to have made an impression. However, I have declined. Ancient cobblers should stick to their last (whatever a last is).
Budds Farm
31 October 1969
I may have had a bit of good fortune as some optimist wants to produce an American edition of one of my books so with luck I may be able to buy myself a couple of new shirts and a packet of Wills Whiffs. I look forward to seeing you soon and hope you will entertain me by hamming the part of the up-and-coming female tycoon.
Love
xx D
Budds Farm
Thursday [1970]
Nidnod and I went to Oxford to see William Douglas Home’s new play ‘The Jockey Club Stakes’. Of course it is not noticeably avant-garde – rather derrière-garde in fact – but it is not unamusing and the audience received it well. It opens in London on Wednesday. I can’t go to the first night as I shall be at Newmarket but I can get a couple of stalls any time I like. Do you want to come? You are welcome to but I think it would hardly be your cup of Horlicks as it is all ‘establishment’ jokes about the Jockey Club and Eton. William D. H. is very kindly giving me a percentage of the profits for my help so I hope to God it runs. It will get ghastly notices from the trendy critics who prefer themes on lesbianism and incest in draughty cellars but I can only pray that it gets by as ‘The Secretary Bird’ did. I have just received rather a fat cheque from my publishers plus the news that my last book is being reprinted so I enclose a v. small sum for you to have a drink or buy some new smalls.
Love
xx D
The Turf Club
January 1969
Typical business lunch. Two men from Cassell’s, one from the Jockey Club, my agreeable literary agent + myself. Endless drinks, too much to eat, and total avoidance of topic for which we had met. Result: two wasted hours in uncouth W1 district and nothing accomplished. I concluded by saying that at the current rate of progress we might meet in the geriatric ward of an ‘Eventide Home’ at Woking. This was reckoned poor taste!
Chez Nidnod
14 Rue Prinker
12 September 1973
This afternoon I have to go and see a bearded man at Cassell’s. He likes me as much as the head of El Fatah likes Moshe Dayan; his sentiments are reciprocated in full.
Maison du Vieux Crapaud
Burghclere
1 January [early 1970s]
Yesterday I went racing at Windsor but found I had arrived a day too soon! Surely a portent of impending gagadom; or perhaps déjà arrive. I went to a pub and ordered an expensive ham sandwich which to my disgust was smeared with margarine of a revolting nature. When I timidly expostulated, the genial host threatened to send for the chucker-out. Later I saw an elderly man trip and fall when trying to catch the Slough bus. I recognised him as an individual called Gunner Bennett (real name Joseph Stavinski), a heavyweight boxer who came and taught boxing at Windsor Barracks in 1936. I called out to him and he was pleased to be recognised and to have a drink and a chat. He looked, unlike so many old boxers, happy, healthy and prosperous. My next step was to visit the rather posh Windsor and Eton Art Gallery. Having £250 to invest as the result of some work done, I thought I would buy a small picture. I had a long look round and narrowed the choice down to three of the type I used to buy from Harry Sutch for £50–£150. Their respective prices were £5,400, £4,700, £3,700. Thanks awfully! With a light laugh which might have been interpreted as a distinct sneer, I pissed off into the January gloom.
Love to all,
xx D
The Crumblings
Cowpat Lane
31 January [early 1970s]
I had to
sign three copies of my book at Newbury on Saturday and was instructed to write a very embarrassing little message in all three, rather suggesting I loved the owners of the book, who in fact were all men I had never set eyes on before. It’s awful the things I have to do for money; I wish I drew the line somewhere.
Budds Farm
14 October [mid 1970s]
I have just had an article published dealing with the law of libel (Chapman v Jockey Club) and only hope that I got some of the facts right. Libel is not a subject on which I claim to be well informed. I am a bit nervous myself as recently owing to a misprint in my copy a certain individual was described not as a well-known breeder, but as a well known bleeder.
Budds Farm
March 1974
We had an enjoyable stay at Tetbury with the Popes for Cheltenham. The browsing and sluicing is of the highest order. It is a man’s world there. After dinner the ladies are herded into the drawing-room and the men sit round the fire in the hall, swilling port. The sexes only meet again to bid each other goodnight.
The Popes – military John (a terrific tease) and charming Liz – were a most handsome and hospitable couple. They were superb riders and true friends of my parents.
The Old Tudor Doss House
Burghclere
[1970s]
The Sunday Times have given me a 33 per cent pay rise. I wish they had thought of it earlier. A book I was editing for George Allen and Unwin has been cancelled due to the enormous cost of coloured photographs. However, I have got some assignments from magazines I had never previously heard of.
La Domicile Geriatrique
Burghclere
Sunday [June 1980s]
And the rain comes pitter patter, pitter patter down, beating flat the few flowers in the alleged herbaceous border and soaking my Japanese-made-special-offer shirt from J. Levine of Atlee Crescent, Chingford. I went to Ascot all four days; in these hard times the dresses would not have been too smart for a rural dean’s garden-party in the remoter part of Lincolnshire. I lunched twice at Ascot with Mr K. Abdullah (oil tycoon) who has a private lunch room at Ascot and is rather apt to dish out Arab appetisers that look like dog turds. Mr Abdullah comes with a friend who owns half Bombay and always has such a terrible hangover that his lunch consists of mineral water and a digestive biscuit. I don’t suppose either gentleman is all that interested in women; unlike the African Chieftain who visited Queen Victoria and informed her he had thirty-one wives. The Queen graciously asked how he occupied their time and received the answer, ‘I fok them.’