This Much Is True

Sympathetic, funny, sharp as a tack — Mummy loved business: selling, making money, that was her pleasure. She was good at it, and good at being the boss. And so, whenever they had any difficulties, or if there was confrontation in any sort of situation, Daddy would say, ‘You speak, Ruth.’ And she would. I remember the rage I felt at his weakness. I used to despise him for that. It made me furious that he wouldn’t stand up and speak for himself, but he had no confidence and didn’t feel that he would prevail in any argument. Mummy fought for all of us and made all the big decisions in the family.

Mummy was extremely house-proud, and she did all the housework in the nude. It was a tad discomforting for our maids and au pair girls, but she liked to get it done, then have a bath. Mummy always had somebody to help in the house. Even when she was a child growing up in south-east London, my grandmother had employed a maid, Lizzie. To Mummy, it was an essential part of modern life. She was quite a tough employer, but always kind. When I went to Cambridge in 1960, she wanted a young person in the house, and started to have live-in au pair girls instead of maids. They were all innocent young things from various European countries, and her nudism most definitely upset them at first, but they got used to it. There was Marie Claire from France, Boyte from Norway, Simone from Sweden (we became friends and I went to stay with her family in Stockholm — her father was the stadsfiskal), but the most treasured one was Mummy’s first au pair, a sweet young girl from Vercelli in northern Italy, Francesca Franco. Her father was a rice farmer; I remember when he brought us a large sack of rice as a present, it lasted for a year. Franca was quiet, studious and ambitious. I was delighted when it was clear Mummy saw her as another daughter. They remained close and even after Mummy’s death, Franca became like a sister to me. In fact, I invited her to represent my mother and join me and my beloved cousin on Daddy’s side, Penelope Lerner, when Prince Charles presented me with the OBE at Buckingham Palace in 2002. Franca is still one of my closest friends; and her son Paolo is a glorious young man. I want them in my life for ever.

As Daddy was far more straight-laced than Mummy, I don’t know how he reacted when he first discovered my mother’s penchant for dusting the picture rails nude. He joined the qualities of being Jewish and being Scottish together — a formidable combination. A sombre, emotionally reserved man, he was measured, entirely moderate in every respect. He would always say, ‘Miriam, behave yourself.’ Of course, I haven’t, alas. He was a man who found it difficult to express joy, whereas my mother was a forthrightly joyous person. She was also tempestuous, unmeasured and immoderate in almost every aspect of her personality — and her habits.

They both agreed, however, that I must be educated. They encouraged my reading and studying from an early age. I liked Enid Blyton’s Sunny Stories and Miss Blyton’s oeuvre in general; I didn’t have an elevated literary world. I joined a library; in those days, local councils put money into libraries and the Oxford City Library was magnificent. I used to get through about six books a week. I loved stories set in girls’ schools; I think I read nearly all fifty-seven of the Chalet School series: The Exploits of the Chalet Girls, The Chalet School Triplets, Excitements at the Chalet School, A Genius at the Chalet School, etc. etc. etc., by Elinor Brent-Dyer. I especially enjoyed the ‘Dimsie’ books by Dorita Fairlie Bruce, or The Girls of St Bride’s, That Boarding School Girl, and The Best Bat in the School, etc., in her long-running St Brides and Maudsley series featuring Nancy Caird.

Daddy was not artistic; he went to the theatre only because Mummy insisted. He thought films and theatre were unnecessary, slightly absurd. He was tone-deaf, a legacy he passed to me which I could have done without. He didn’t notice pictures, or other works of art. When he was in his nineties, living with me in London, I commissioned Anne Christie to paint his portrait. He didn’t like the finished picture — ‘I look so small,’ he complained. It hangs behind me as I type — I love it. Daddy did enjoy the radio, and listened every night when he came home from surgery. It’s That Man Again was a great favourite and, later, when television was permitted to enter the house,^[3] Dad’s Army. He never told jokes but he was a terrible tease. I hated being teased, and he never stopped.