Lunch with an old raascal

Robert Rhodes James recalls being summoned to the home of a legend

IT WAS while I was completing my biography of Lord Randolph Churchill in 1958 that I had the idea of writing one of his great friend, political opponent and memorialist, Lord Rosebery. I wrote to his son, who replied, somewhat bleakly, that the task had already been undertaken very satisfactorily by his brother-in-law, Lord Crewe, and that, I thought sadly, was that.

I then had an amazing stroke of good fortune. My publishers had presented me with a leather-bound copy of my book, which I sent, with a suitable inscription, to Sir Winston, to whom the biography was, with his kind permission, dedicated.

Churchill was staying with Lord Beaverbrook at the latter's villa in the South of France when my book arrived in August 1959. So was another old friend of his, Lord Rosebery. Churchill took :my book up to bed with him, and must have been reading it for much of the night and morning, because when he appeared for lunch the next day he had not only read it entirely but had dictated a glowing letter of congratulations to its author, which is one of my most treasured possessions. He was full of it over lunch, and urged both Beaverbrook and Rosebery to read it. They did, with the result that Harry Rosebery changed his mind, and wrote to invite me and my wife to lunch at Mentmore to discuss the matter. All went well, and we were approved of. And thus began perhaps the happiest of all my literary and biographical ventures, and certainly the luckiest.

One wholly unexpected result of my projected biography was a telephone call to our Wimbledon Park flat in the summer of 1960. I was told that 'Lord Beaverbrook would like to talk to you', and onto the line came a voice only familiar to me through old wartime newsreels. I do not forget the dialogue.

'I would like you to lunch with me on Sunday at my home, Cherkley.'

`Thank you, I would be delighted to meet you.'

`Good. Do you have a wife?'

`Yes.'

`Good. Bring her. Do you have a car?'

`No.'

'I have. It'll pick up you at 12 noon. Goodbye to you.'

There are some days so remarkable that recollections of them are so vivid and enduring that they defy the decades, and this was to be one of them.

The chauffeur and the car, inevitably, I suppose, a Rolls, duly arrived at noon on Sunday, and we were wafted from south Wimbledon suburbia to our imposing destination on a glorious midsummer day, to be greeted by a somewhat cheeky and condescending butler, who we soon discovered was wholly typical of the Cherkley menage. Editors and journalists in Beaverbrook's employ might tremble and cringe at the rasping voice or the dreaded rebukes on his fabled soundscriber, with their unmistakable tone of menacing disappointment that the Daily Mail had somehow scooped the Express, or that he found it strange that Mr Gaitskell was getting so much attention while Mr Macmillan was not, but at Cherkley the master was treated with something approaching light-hearted condescension and even amused scorn. He seemed to relish and encourage this.

We were shown into the garden through a huge and ugly drawing-room, and onto a terrace. Very shortly, a little old man came through the doors, far smaller than I had expected, and with a friendly and rather impish grin. We then realised that we were the only guests, and there were only three places at the table. Beaverbrook mixed a cocktail, our first-ever daiquiri, remarking that the lime juice came from limes grown on his estate in the Caribbean, not in any boastful manner but simply as a statement of fact; fresh limes were not readily available in England at that time.

Beaverbrook, like Churchill, greatly appreciated beautiful young women, and my wife was clearly an instant success. After politely expressing our admiration for the garden and the estate, the talk passed to Rosebery - `Harry is a wonderful man - a wonderful man' - and then to Churchill, whom I had recently seen, and whose appearance had saddened me. 'Aah,' he said, suddenly withdrawn and sad, `it's coming to all of us, all of us.' And then he brightened, and bade us indoors for lunch.

We were rather poor in those days, and my wife had bought a chicken which was intended to last us for the weekend. At Cherkley we were served an entire one each, and rather insolently served by the sneering butler. But the conversation rippled along happily, and I particularly encouraged Beaverbrook to reminisce about the great men he had known. 'Aah, he was a raascal, a real raascal, was F.E., but so were we all. Chaarchill loved him, you know. So did Gaarge.' For a moment I thought he meant Curzon, but realised he was referring to Lloyd George. For `Caarzon' he had affectionate derision. His next book, he said with much satisfaction, `probably my laast', would utterly destroy what remained of Baldwin's reputation, although he was `one hell of a craafty politician'. To my considerable surprise he did not share my high opinion of Robert Blake's biography of his one real political hero, Bonar Law: perhaps it was too objective. We talked over coffee on the terrace until my wife quietly nudged me; our host had fallen asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of a car coming down the drive. 'Aah, that'll be my son. A fine boy. A fine boy.'

It was the signal for our departure. The `fine boy' was Young Max, who clearly had been summoned and was, equally clearly, very nervous. Here was a man of 50, with a fine war career in the RAF, frightened of a meeting with his father. It was at that moment that I inwardly resolved never to work for Beaverbrook. The affable geniality to us, and the very real charm that he exuded, were abruptly replaced by another, and far less agreeable, face. He greeted his son with a dismissive grunt of displeasure, and then, the charm replaced for us, courteously ushered us into the Rolls. Our final glimpse of him was him scowling bleakly at Young Max.

A few days later I was telephoned at the House of Commons. It was the literary editor of the Evening Standard offering me a contract to write two book reviews a month for six months at a fee of 50 for each one. This was a staggering sum for me, and infinitely greater than my salary as a junior Clerk of the Commons. I accepted with alacrity, and wrote to thank my benefactor, as I had no illusions about how the literary editor had had my talents drawn to his attention.

Over the years, Beaverbrook's kindnesses to me continued. When my wife had our first daughter, she received a vast quantity of flowers, sufficient to fill a small shop in February! - with a handwritten card, and I was bidden to a celebratory dinner in his weirdly 1930s art deco apartment in Arlington House. Before it we were alone together, and he was in marvellous form about 'Chaarchill', 'Gaarge', 'Caarzon' and all the other 'raascals'. 'Caarzon was a terrible gossip; he would say ghaastly things about his friends; I didn't mind, but they did when I told them' (much reminiscent cackling laughter). It was rather like Ruth Draper filling the room with invisible people you could believe you were seeing. But when the door opened it, it was none of the 'raascals' entering but Lady Dunn, and the entertainment abruptly finished.

Indeed, dinner was a rather gloomy affair, and the old man had lost his sparkle. He seemed to eat more pills than food, and he had become an aged and sad little man, ,with only occasional flashes of interest. I found Lady Dunn, his future wife, something of a trial; she certainly proved a formidable dampener of Beaverbrook's spirits. But the arrival of the first editions of the next morning's newspapers galvanised him. He grabbed the Daily Mail first, and swiftly scrabbled through it, before turning to the Express. Thankfully, especially for the Express's editor's nerves, he was satisfied, and rang at once to congratulate him, but ended, in case there was any complacency in the newsroom, `And do the same tomorrow. Goodbye to you.'

I could understand why people like Michael Foot and Alan Taylor loved him; I could also discern his deadly attraction to women; but I had also had a sudden glimpse of the other side of his complex character when he had turned, almost contemptuously, away from his son. And I had seen the tears start in his eyes when he spoke of Churchill's decline and the prospect of his own death, and could think of the retribution he was convinced he would receive in the next life for all his many sins and misdemeanours. He was, after all, a son of the manse, for whom hellfire was a reality, and which he thought he richly deserved.

I hope he was wrong. Paradise will indeed be boring if the 'raascals' are not permitted entry. And many of them, after all, saved this nation and the cause of democracy in 1940 - including Big and Little Max. For that they should be forgiven everything, and their memory honoured.

Also, I have always believed that a benevolent Almighty enjoys stimulating company, and that Heaven is a much jollier place than is often assumed. I am sure that He found Beaverbrook a place at His table - next to Curzon, of course. And I trust that they have fresh limes in the Elysian Fields.

A Spirit Undaunted: the political role of King George VI, by Robert Rhodes James, is available for 22.50 post-free from the Spectator Bookshop. Please ring 0541 557 288 and quote ref. SP120.

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