Tuesday 5th July 2011
Saturday I wore my new baby-blue summer jeans by Lindberg and a polo-shirt by Joseph adored in previous years, for my visit to Debo.
Oh it was rare! But I went off the polo-shirt half way there. This often happens with frockage got out of the cupboard for the first time in a season.
Few knew that you could visit Debo. It was only 157 miles each way. I mean Debo Devonshire, the Dowager Duchess of Devonshire, the last of the Mitfords, now 91. But I received private information. But Rufus Pitman poo-pooed. He said he sees her all the time, on visits to Chatsworth from his parents’ home. Harry Rollo has also encountered her in the grounds there. Poor Little Rich Gays love Debo – dripping with money and titles, Velázquez in her private sitting room, but absolute uproar and thrill when she applies the pen. Always doing up houses, putting in bathrooms, but taken with the idea that she might get away with not changing the sheets after Alec Douglas-Home only spent one night – because of a diversion from Row to Manchester on the way back from the funeral of President Kennedy. Princess Margaret, next in the bed, would never notice.
What a story that is! Royalty, the Prime Ministerial aeroplane, the Prime Minister of the day, President Kennedy (the present mini-series the only thing PLRGs are watching on TV) pinned around a domestic aspect of bed linen.
Now, after the death of her husband, Andrew Devonshire, Debo lives in a small mansion, called The Old Vicarage. And this is the thing, you see. It’s a big premises but it’s butted right up against all the other houses in the village of Edensor, on the Chatsworth estate. Every July they have Edensor Gardens Open Day. O! the radiant simplicity of it! Debo joins in. Other gardens are open, so why not hers? Even her house, I was told by top sources, is accessible; you can find her in the kitchen requiring the butler to dispense eggs from her upmarket chickens to passing members of the public.
So absolutely nothing for it but to pound forth, 157 miles and arrive in my big black car with Xenon driving lights, in an outfit for a village event of cream teas, brass band and tombola, as well as toilets, not resembling, it is fair to say, any other get-up present.
But Debo had gone in. In the summer house she’d been signing books. I missed her. And the house wasn’t open. There was a notice saying: ‘House not open. Sorry’. I do hope Debo’s not breaking up. I do hope there’ll be another chance next year.
The Late Queen Mother dipped in her early nineties then revived for another ten years.
All the same, by straining just a little, I glimpsed a coiffure in what appeared to be the kitchen. Maybe it was hers. On the other hand, the view of her fabric conditioners was excellent.
Debo's Fabric Conditioners and Washing Liquids
Debo's Premises
Debo's Summerhouse, Where She Signed Books Earlier, Missed by Me
Debo's Sculptural Detail
Andrew Devonshire's Tombstone
Kick's Grave: She Sister of Pres Kennedy, Married to Andrew's Older Brother Killed in the War. She Died 1948. Stone Below Marks Visit to Grave of Pres Kennedy Months Before His own Death
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Something of an exaggeration, surely, to say that all PLRGs love this snooty old harridan? What about her atrocious behaviour towards Decca, whom she accused of stealing a photo album, never apologising when she discovered she’d had it all the time and simply mislaid it? She was also beastly about Nancy, who – living in Paris, writing lovely novels and outrageously funny letters, hopelessly but devotedly in love with Someone Unsuitable who treated her badly – is much dearer to the properly regulated PLRG heart.
I’m so sorry, Robert Nevil, I meant to mention that you are the exception. I agree that Debo has been rather disingenuous in trying to put herself across as the most level-headed and ‘normal’ of the Mitfords. I suspect that she never forgave Decca for running away and this explains but does not excuse the business over the photo album. She always tries to make out that Nancy was an unfortunate with no home life and only empty celebrity as a writer, but look who’s talking: Andrew plastered in the second state drawing room, leaving her to undertake various naff business enterprises (the coach-house restaurant: special parking for wedding guests) to ensure continued substantial rakeage. Of course, if serious mun-mun needed she only had to open a drawer at Chatsworth, pull out a Raphael drawing and pack it awff to Christie’s.
I agree with Robert Nevil. Only the dullest of PLRGs are in thrall to Debo. The snobbish ones with no imagination.
That’s me, then!
yes that is you
And me.
Why are you watching the Kennedys mini series?
It’s my calling
Dear Adrian Edge
I was glacing recently at one of the 114 books Debo has written to date about Chatsworth, and wondered for a moment whether you, Adrian Edge, were her ghost-writer. The styles are very similar. Either you or that author of whimsical books about royalty – I forget his name.
N Taudevin
What a compliment! I think I know who you mean – the author of royal whimsy! He was rather unsatisfactory at Reggie Cresswell’s ceramic launch, it is rumoured; appeared to be on verge of breakdown
More like on the verge of fall-down, it seemed to me, owing to Val-like imbibing.
What an interesting blog. I forgot about the open days, though I’ve evidently missed her house being open this year anyway. Maybe next, don’t be uncharitable Debo. Some of the comments made me SHRIEK.
Anyway, let’s not worship Debo, as she’s quite hollow as a ‘celebrity’. But let’s certainly be fascinated by her and her family. And DO join the Mitford Society on Facebook! http://www.facebook.com/themitfordsociety
We certainly will!