Daughter of Empire (22 page)

14

I
missed India. I missed Leela Nand, I missed Panditji, I missed the noise and chaos of the clinic and I even missed the long marble corridors of
Governor-General’s House. I was finding it difficult to adapt to life back at Broadlands, roaming around the house moodily or standing in the schoolroom twiddling the knobs on the wireless in
search of the faint crackle of Indian music. It was some compensation that we had brought Neola with us – he didn’t seem to mind which continent he made mischief in, and spent his days
turning my bedroom into a mongoose stronghold. Downstairs there was a little more to remind me of India as my parents had brought their bearers, Wahid Beg and Abdul Hamid, to Broadlands. Both were
Muslim and it was thought they might fare better away from Delhi when we left. To me they seemed rather lost in England, shivering in the navy blue waistcoats they had worn in Simla. Seeing them in
their uniform brought on a wave of nostalgia, but these small touches of India did not make me feel that I belonged back in England.

I wrote to Panditji, initially to thank him for all the kind presents he had given me before we left, but the letter became a reflection on all that I had experienced in India. My letter crossed
in the post with the first of his, dated five days after our departure. He was missing us too: ‘A visit to Kashmir always cheers me up and so today I felt a little better than I have done
since the Mountbattens left.’ He added that ‘not being a slave to duty like your mother’ – not
exactly
true, I reflected – he had felt sufficiently low to take
some rare time out to walk in the mountains, swim and do some ‘surf riding’. He described a wrestling match which although he had lost he had enjoyed ‘thoroughly and immediately
after spoke at a meeting for an hour and a quarter’. His opponent ‘had not fared so well and had to apply various balms and ointments! I am rather sorry for him but I must confess that
I have gone up in my own estimation. Obviously it must be due to my standing on my head. I am sorry you have not taken to this.’ I was even happier with his next letter that responded to my
one in which I had recorded my thoughts about my time in his country. It had revealed to him, he wrote, that not only was I a good letter writer but someone with ‘inner depths who is on a
voyage of discovery’. I was flattered and even more moved by the advice that followed as it crystallised perfectly so many of the emotions I had been experiencing since our return to
England.

‘It is a fascinating business not only to grow in every way but to be conscious of that growth,’ he wrote. ‘I entirely agree with you that it was more worthwhile for you to
witness and feel the extraordinary things happening in India during the past year and more than to lead just a comfortable unexciting life. Unhappily we have to pay in life for everything
worthwhile. If we want experience, depth and an understanding of life’s infinite phases we have to suffer shock and sorrow and then, if we are strong enough to rise above them, life is a
curious bittersweet affair. Too much of its bitter aspect is of course terrible, but too much of unalloyed sweetness can also be bad enough. So your experiences in India may perhaps have fitted you
a little for your future journeys through life and given you a broader and deeper vision. How I envy your youth with the adventure of life stretching out before you.’ He signed off
‘with my love and yours affectionately, Mamu Jawaharlal’. Seeing the affectionate signing off as Mamu brought back fond memories of his wish for me to call him Uncle, something that my
father at the time had thought a little too familiar.

I also wrote to Leela Nand. Ever since the death of his son I had always been concerned for him. When the reply came it was written by his brother Amla, who expressed his sorrow that Leela could
not reply in person. Leela Nand, who was just thirty-six and perfectly healthy, had died. He had not shot himself, he had not taken poison or thrown himself out of a window. Leela Nand had merely
lain down and died because he willed it. He died of a broken heart. I stood with the letter in my hand, trying to take in the shock of this dreadful news.

Grandmama was relieved that she had lived long enough to see us all safely back home. I had missed her hugely and in turn was relieved to see that in spite of the ever-present chilblains on her
poor fingers and toes, she was surprisingly well. On a trip to the British Museum, I went to pick her up from Kensington Palace, intending to hail a taxi to take us to Bloomsbury. ‘A taxi,
dear child?’ she asked, setting off, best foot forward, towards the nearest bus stop. As the bus pulled away, she ran ahead, while I followed breathlessly, just managing to jump on behind
her. Sensitive to my ennui, she picked up on the difficulties I was having in reacclimatising. She remarked drily, ‘We have many beautiful things in this country too, my dear. When you go to
stay with Patricia, ask her to take you to Canterbury Cathedral.’

And slowly, I did begin to enjoy myself again in England. To my delight, my family was invited to attend the opening ceremony of the 1948 Olympic Games in London, and from the
Royal Box we were swept up in the pride of each team as they came past the royal family. We were rather shocked as the American team fell out of step and began taking photographs of the King and
Queen. We even took the Shah of Iran – at the time a charming, progressive and enthusiastic young man – to see the show
Oklahoma!
and then on to dinner and dancing at the Savoy.
It was the first time I had driven with a police escort in London and certainly the first time that the car in which I was being driven had ignored any red traffic lights. The day after that, I was
on my way to stay with Patricia when I met the Shah’s chamberlain on the station platform, waiting for the same train. The chamberlain was very gallant, and as the train pulled up, he threw
open the door of a first-class compartment for me. I, however, was on a very strict allowance and had a third-class ticket. Being a courteous man, he got in with me. I could see from his expression
that he had never travelled third class before but manners prevailed over comfort and that was fortunate for me as he made a delightful companion down to Kent.

It also helped to be surrounded by so many guests that summer, and we enjoyed a particular rowdy weekend with Yola, Prince Philip, his sister Tiny and her husband, Prince George of Hanover.
After dinner one evening Philip did his wonderful imitation of a coy lady preparing for a bath, complete with imaginary slipping towel, and our mood was so buoyant we finished the evening with some
rather mad games. It was all too much for Yola, who left the next morning. ‘
Non, non!
’ she cried. ‘
C’est trop fatiguant!
’ She never could cope with more
than one or two of us at a time, let alone an overexcited gaggle.

Neola spent most of his time upstairs, settled on a hot pipe – though once in a deep sleep his little paws would relax and he would fall off – or creating havoc in the schoolroom.
During tea one afternoon, my father asked me to bring Neola downstairs so that we could show him to our guests. These were no ordinary guests, for that particular weekend they included the King,
Queen, Princess Margaret and two of her friends, Johnny Dalkeith and David Ogilvy. ‘Nonsense, darling,’ my father said as I tried to make excuses, ‘I am sure everyone would love
to see him. Elizabeth, you would love to, wouldn’t you?’ And the Queen, ever polite and charming said, ‘Yes, of course we would love to, Dickie.’ So, with a great deal of
apprehension, I collected Neola, returning with him on my shoulder as the guests clustered round. The King – who suffered from lumbago and was renowned for his short temper – heaved
himself out of his armchair and made polite noises about my mongoose. Then, with an audible sigh of relief, he went back to his chair and slowly lowered himself into it. At this precise moment,
Neola took fright, jumped from my shoulder and leapt on to the back of the King’s chair so that monarch and mongoose collided. The King leapt up and Johnny called out wittily, ‘Ah, a
sovereign cure for lumbago!’ We all laughed until we noticed that the King was not so amused. We held our breath waiting for an explosion, but then he sighed wearily and sat back down.

Before he agreed to take the position of Viceroy, my father had made it a condition that on his return he could resume his career in the Navy. He had now been appointed to command the First
Cruiser Squadron in the Mediterranean Fleet, returning to the service with his real rank, that of rear admiral, well below the substantive position he had held as Supreme Allied Commander and the
giddy heights of viceroyalty. In the pecking order of seniority, he would rank thirteenth, something he thought would help keep his ego in check. But this caused huge confusion for the
commander-in-chief – who my father now addressed as Sir – as he had served under my father in SEAC and kept slipping back into old habits, absent-mindedly addressing
him
as
‘Sir’. Poor Sir Arthur John Power also had to deal with Prince Philip, who, joining the fleet as a junior officer, called him Sir. Mindful that Prince Philip was married to the heir to
the throne, the C-in-C couldn’t help but address his junior officer as ‘Sir’.

When we left that summer to spend some time with Yola and Henri my mother warned me to pack a black dress, ‘just in case’, as Henri was now very old – forty years older than
Yola – and his health was often poor. In fact, the indefatigable Henri was in fine spirits and welcomed us with open arms. ‘
Bon!
You are here finally.
Dépêchezvous
, I have tickets for the Folies Bergère tonight!’ He also used his influence to get me into the casino, as I was still under age, but being the Lady
Earnestine that I was, I was most disapproving of the goings-on inside. It was lovely to be back in Monte Carlo for an evening, however, as I had fond memories of the last time I had been there, my
sister, mother and I creating Princess Plink and Plonk costumes for Bunny’s photo from the hotel room furnishings. Before we left France, my father, ever the enthusiast, insisted on buying
underwater goggles, harpoon guns and snorkels. He had been talking to Jacques Cousteau and his interest in underwater fishing began to take hold.

Back at Broadlands, we started to pack for Malta, although we continued to welcome guests to the house. I was delighted to see Krishna Menon, still the high commissioner for India in the UK, who
was full of news about the surrender of Hyderabad to Indian government troops and, significantly, the death of Mr Jinnah. No one else, apart from his doctors and sister, had known how ill he was
all through the partition talks, and I reflected on how it must have hardened his determination to create Pakistan at all costs. A week before we left, Nehru came to England for the Commonwealth
Prime Ministers’ Conference, and he managed to find time to visit us at Broadlands. He was extremely playful with Patricia’s children, getting down on all fours in the drawing room and
making lion faces at Norton and his new brother, Michael John, who roared back in absolute delight.

Neola settled into life in Malta in his own inimitable way. We stayed at the newly opened Hotel Phoenicia while waiting for the refurbishment of our rented house to be complete, and Neola had to
stay with us. Returning one afternoon, we found the lobby of the hotel in uproar, two maids gesticulating wildly at the manager. As soon as I heard the words ‘A rat! It was a rat!’ I
knew that Neola had to be involved, and as the maids pointed in my direction, my fears were confirmed. Neola had escaped while we were out, run down to the floor below, and found his way into
another room. The occupant, a recovering alcoholic as it happened, was suffering from delirium tremens accompanied by frequent sightings of ‘pink elephants’. He had been advised by his
doctor that when he suffered such a delusion, he should ‘sit on it’ to prove there was nothing there, so when he had returned to his room to find a strange creature on his chair,
he’d simply walked over and sat on it. A mongoose bites hard – and hangs on – and the poor man’s screams could be heard throughout the hotel.