In My Own Time Page 2

  Her husband, my grandfather, Sir John Norton-Griffiths, was also a civil engineer, and she frequently accompanied him on his projects abroad. In 1905 she was with him in Angola where he was building the Benguela Railway. The labour force went down with yellow fever and it was necessary for someone who was fit to go down to Johannesburg to arrange for replacements. My grandmother volunteered and was advised that she should negotiate with a labour lawyer who was an Indian called Gandhi. If his agreement was obtained, all would be well. They had three days of talks and she returned to Angola triumphant. I once asked her what she thought of Gandhi, to which she replied: ‘Such a nice little man. I never thought he would give us so much trouble later on!’

  On another trip from the Argentine to Chile in 1909, she refused to take the boat round Cape Horn, being a very bad sailor. It was pointed out to her that the only land route was over the Andes, and winter was approaching. She promptly decided to make the journey and she and my grandfather set off with a pack of mules and some twelve thicknesses of clothing. Somehow they arrived.

  She was intensely musical and as a girl studied singing in Germany, where she met Brahms. When I asked her what Brahms was like, she replied: ‘long flowing beard and fat fingers like sausages’.

  I was particularly pleased when, in her eighties, my grandmother came down to North Devon and sat on the platform at a mass Liberal rally in the Barnstaple Pannier Market. Her last visit had been in 1926. I looked up the mayor’s visitors’ book which contains the signature of my grandfather, Sir John Norton-Griffiths, accompanied by my grandmother, on 13 November 1926. He had come to speak in support of the sitting Tory MP, Sir Basil Peto. The opposite page of the visitors’ book recorded the signature of David Lloyd George on 16 October 1926, who likewise had come to speak at a rally in the Pannier Market in support of the Liberal candidate, D. M. Mason. He was accompanied by his younger daughter Megan. On 21 August 1989 my mother, Sir John Norton-Griffiths’ elder daughter, and Lady Olwen Carey-Evans, Lloyd George’s elder daughter, called on the mayor and both signed the book, bringing the two families together in the common cause.

  At her 100th birthday party, Sir Harry Brittain, who was himself ninety-nine, bellowed at my grandmother: ‘Good evening Gwladys’. She called me over and said: ‘Please tell that old man that I may be older than he is but I am not deaf!’ At a later stage she said to me: ‘Darling, please take me home, I am slightly tired and very tiddly!’

  My grandfather, being an engineer, was asked to found the Tunnellers’ Regiment, which played an important part in the First World War in burrowing under enemy lines. He was also a Tory Member of Parliament. As an engineer, he was ordered by the British military authorities, at the height of the First World War in 1916, to blow up the Romanian oil wells at Ploesti, to deny oil to the advancing Germans. He asked King Ferdinand of Romania for permission to destroy the oil wells and told him that Romania would be compensated by the British government after the war. When asked by the King what guarantees could be offered, he said: ‘Sir, I am a British Army Officer and a British Member of Parliament, shouldn’t that be sufficient?’ ‘Yes’, said the King. ‘It is. But on what basis shall we be compensated?’ ‘Where are your accounts and company books?’ asked my grandfather. ‘They are at St Petersburg for safe keeping. The accountant involved in their preparation was Sir Harmood Banner, a British MP’. My grandfather suggested to the King that he, my grandfather, should collect the books from St Petersburg and take them back to the UK, where they would form the basis of a claim for compensation. Agreement having been reached, my grandfather carried out over a period of three days the wholesale destruction of the Ploesti oilfields.

  He was described as the great god Thor, wielding a massive sledgehammer, causing a vast amount of damage. A great volume of black cloud was generated which made it impossible to tell whether it was night or day. The Germans did not get a drop of oil. With unusual generosity towards someone carrying out such destruction to his economy, the King decorated him with the Order of the Grand Star of Romania, after which my grandfather set out to collect the Ploesti company books, commenting that he knew Sir Harmood Banner as a fellow MP and would accept his figures without argument.

  In St Petersburg, my grandfather was received by the Tsar and was created a Count of the Order of St Vladimir. He was probably the last man to be so decorated since the Russian Revolution broke out a few days afterwards. According to my uncle Peter (Sir Peter Norton-Griffiths), he also brought back the last letters from the Tsar to our royal family.

  In February 1967, I met Kosygin, the Soviet premier, when he was on an official visit to London from the USSR. I told him that my family had played a great part in the Russian Revolution. His eyes lit up like light bulbs and he asked for more information. I told him about my grandfather’s audience and decoration and said that for the Russian people, this was the last straw which sparked off the revolution. This was greeted by a rather wintry smile. The next evening Kosygin asked me about the decoration and whether the Soviet government could have it for the Kremlin museum. I told him that I thought it very unlikely. As it happens, my cousin has the decoration and I keep the ceremonial sword which goes with it in an umbrella stand to be used against burglars.

  My father and grandfather were both in the House of Commons as Conservative MPs. My grandfather sat for Wednesbury, and subsequently Central Wandsworth. My father won the Kusholme Division of Manchester in a 1919 by-election. Ironically, he was defeated by a Liberal, Charles Masterman, in 1923.

  My grandmother had a bizarre experience when campaigning in Wednesbury. There was terrible poverty, and a woman living in the poorest area had given birth to stillborn twins. My grandmother went to sympathise with her. The poor woman invited my grandmother to come into the front room, where, propped up on the settee were the two dead babies, each wearing a red rosette, which was the local Conservative colour. The mother commented: ‘You can see – loyal in life and loyal in death’.

  I am certain that I would have found the political views of my father and grandfather to be very much to the right of my own. However, they both enormously enjoyed politics, and this is something that I share.

  My grandfather used to campaign in a balloon and once persuaded his hapless opponents to come for a ride. Unfortunately, the balloon ended up twenty miles off course and they were not very pleased! He was known in the constituency as Empire Jack, or the Monkey Man. This was sparked off by a heckler who shouted out: ‘You do not know what it is to be hungry’. ‘Oh yes, I do’, replied my grandfather. ‘During the South African war we were so short of food that I ate monkeys!’

  I share my grandfather’s enthusiasm for what is now the Commonwealth. However, my activities revolved round the movements for independence in the colonial territories, whereas his approach was that of an Empire builder – hence his name, ‘Empire Jack’. In 1911, the Liberal government entertained delegates attending the coronation but nothing had been arranged for the delegates by the Conservative opposition. My grandfather decided to take steps and leased Temple House, near Maidenhead. There he offered hospitality to forty people over the weekends and invited 200 more for the day. The Tory Chief Whip was to draw up a list of MPs and Sir Harry Brittain was to provide the list of Empire guests. It must have been a glittering season.

  My paternal grandparents

  My paternal grandfather was a Protestant Irishman from Cork. He was Vicar of St George’s, Stockport, and become Archdeacon of Macclesfield He was appointed to the former by Wakefield Christie-Miller, who had donated the land and helped build the church. With a romantic touch, his son (Geoffry Christie-Miller), married the vicar’s daughter, my Aunt Olive, who was my father’s sister.

  My grandfather’s everyday uniform was a frock coat, top hat, apron and gaiters. I get the impression that he was intensely intolerant. On one occasion when his daughter, Ella, was entering into marriage with a groom he considered inadequate, he remained in the vicarage with all the blinds down at the tim
e the ceremony was taking place. Special family prayers were always held before anyone went on a journey, to pray that if they were not to meet again in this world, they would meet in the next. The advice which I most cherish was that given by him to a daughter: ‘You are going on a long journey. My advice is, put your faith in God and change at Clapham Junction!’

  In contrast to the Archdeacon, my grandmother, whom I also did not know, apparently had lovely Irish charm and vagueness. When she wanted to catch a train, she would go down to the station and wait till the right train turned up, saying: ‘There is plenty of time’.

  My father

  I adored my father. Our relationship was almost that of two brothers, and I was intensely proud of him. I remember him once telling me by the sea at Criccieth that he was frightened of his father, who subjected him to a harsh discipline, and he never wanted me to be frightened of him. I can honestly say that we never exchanged a word in anger. He was tremendous fun and had a great sense of humour.

  When my father was in the House, on 18 April 1923 he sought leave to bring in a bill by which ministers in either House were to be allowed to speak but not vote in the Other House. This was defeated by 244 votes to 100. Although it would not have been the ideal reform needed in our parliamentary system, it would have enhanced the chances of a peer, like Lord Curzon, to become Prime Minister and speak in the House of Commons, and it could likewise have been of use in the case of a peer of the calibre of Lord Carrington. I think I can claim to share with my father a deep interest in constitutional reform.

  In 1967 I was a member of the Inter-Parliamentary Conference, whose members were drawn from both houses, which sought to reform the House of Lords. Ironically, we all reached agreement, but when the report reached the House of Commons, it became clear that we would not be able to carry our backbenchers with us. The opposition to our proposals was spearheaded by a unique coalition of Michael Foot and Enoch Powell. As Viscount Samuel was to remark: ‘Mr Asquith said that the reform of the House of Lords brooks no delay. My Lords, we have been brooking ever since!’

  As a barrister, my father’s commitment to the Bar was total. He chose to practise at the Parliamentary Bar. This involved appearing before a committee of MPs when he would be piloting or objecting to a private bill. He could not appear before himself, and had to make a choice between regaining his seat and pursuing a parliamentary career or concentrating on his legal practise. The law won. In his full bottom wig he looked immensely distinguished.

  The Bar had its complications. On one occasion my father was travelling on a non-corridor train. He was conscious of a man sitting opposite him fixing him with a stare. The man ultimately leant forward and said to my father: ‘Excuse me, sir, are you the Recorder of Blackburn?’ ‘Yes’, said my father. The man said: ‘I have just come out of Preston jail, where you sent me three years ago’. ‘I never like sending a man to prison’, said my father; ‘did you have a fair trial?’ ‘Yes’, was the reply. ‘I want to go straight. My wife has kept the building business alive, but I am worried that I may be victimised by the police. Can you help me?’ My father gave him a letter to the Chief Constable. He also suggested that the man should call on my father in his room in the Law Courts after court hours to report upon his progress. This he did. He kept in touch with my father, who was delighted that the man had managed to remake his life. The word got around and several ‘old lags’ called on my father for advice.

  In 1940, at the beginning of the war, I was evacuated, aged eleven, along with my sister Camilla, to stay with my American aunt, Kay Norton-Griffiths, in the USA. My parents took this precaution as my father was on the German blacklist, and in the event of a German invasion, which at the time was a real possibility, he and the family would have been at risk. My father was vulnerable because of his work (with Norman Birkett) on alien tribunals, which had the difficult task of determining who were genuine asylum seekers and who were undercover spies.

  I was in America for three years. I was extremely happy at my school, the Rectory School, Connecticut. We all had some responsibility for the domestic side of the school – my privilege was to look after the pigs. My aunt came down to visit me during my first winter there just after a heavy snowstorm. By way of a compliment, I invited her to come with me on my toboggan, taking the food down the hill to the pigs. Rather nobly she accepted and, wrapped up in her mink coat, sat behind me whilst I clutched between my knees a pail full of swill which I had collected from the kitchens. The worst occurred. We hit a rock hidden by snow and Kay, myself, the garbage and mink coat were thrown off the sledge and landed in a heap! Needless to say she was not best pleased.

  My aunt lived in West Newton, near Boston, and in the summer we would go to her mother’s house on Lake Squam in New Hampshire. I had my own outboard motorboat and the place was idyllic. Before I left America I had developed an American accent and am therefore able to know what the English sound like to the Americans, which is rather prissy!

  By 1943 my father thought it was high time I returned home; otherwise I would become a complete American and lose contact with my country. A number of parents who had also sent their children across the Atlantic took the same view. The Royal Navy agreed to take on board a number of schoolchildren, although it was emphasised that the German U-boat threat was still very real and all ships had to travel in convoy. I was told that I had been accepted to be one of the ten children to be taken aboard HMS Phoebe, a light cruiser sailing from Norfolk, Virginia to an unnamed British port, which turned out to be Liverpool. An additional twenty-five children were to travel on the battleship Queen Elizabeth, which was part of our convoy.

  The Captain vacated his cabin and moved to a much smaller cabin near the bridge, which was the normal procedure on leaving port. I am ashamed to say that by mistake we flooded the Captain’s bathroom and were therefore relegated to communal plumbing on that deck. We did four-hour stints on the bridge on watch duty. This suited me, since the bridge was the least turbulent place in rough weather, and I was therefore marginally less likely to be seasick. We put in for the day at Bermuda and half the ship’s crew, in which we were included, went ashore for a picnic and a swim on a beautiful, totally deserted beach. Before disembarking in Liverpool, we settled up our mess bills – mine, I think, if my recollection is accurate, was £6 7s 6d.

  On the last lap of my Journey from America I caught a train from Victoria station bound for Oxted, which was the station for my home. Just before the train left I saw my father boarding the same train. I cannot analyse the reactions that followed, but although I was desperately keen to be reunited with him, I simply could not face the emotional situation in a carriage full of people, and decided to wait to speak to him when we reached Oxted. Because there were complications with my luggage I was a little late getting off the train and I missed him. There were not many cars around because petrol rationing was very tight, but I did manage to get a lift and arrived at home ten minutes after my father. I rang the doorbell and both my parents came to the door. I had been away for three years and was tremendously excited to be back home.

  My father was involved in an immense amount of war work: in addition to tribunal work, he was chairman of the vitally important Price Regulation Committee. This workload took its toll, and he suffered a stroke in 1944 aged fifty-seven, and died of a cerebral thrombosis. On my return from America I was blessed with less than two years of his companionship.

  Mother and Father

  My mother and father met in rather romantic circumstances – in Westminster Abbey at the wedding of Princess Mary, daughter of King George V in February 1922. Strictly speaking, they were not entitled to be there. The ballot for tickets took place in the House of Commons and an old bachelor MP drew tickets, one for himself and one for his wife. Rather than surrender the ticket, he offered it to my father. My maternal grandfather, Sir John Norton-Griffiths, drew tickets for himself and my grandmother. She for her part nobly suggested that Ursula, who was still in her teens, would enj
oy the ceremony and gave her her ticket. My mother was in her place in the Abbey when she saw a handsome man in military uniform, ‘with every button doing its duty’, and swore that she would die if he didn’t come and sit next door to her. As luck would have it, that was precisely where he was ushered. That same evening there was a ball at the Royal Albert Hall to celebrate the wedding. My father rudely abandoned his party’s host and hostess and spent the rest of the evening in Joynson-Hicks’ box, where my mother and grandfather were guests. They never looked back. One strange coincidence was that Princess Mary and my mother were both to become mothers-in-law to my wile Marion.

  My parents’ marriage plans received a severe jolt a few days before the wedding ceremony was due to take place. My father had visited a leading insurance company in order to take out a life insurance policy, and underwent all the conventional tests. He was asked whether he would call in to see the senior doctor in charge of the department, and the doctor, obviously shaken, said they were very sorry but they could not issue a life insurance policy on his behalf. My father asked why and was told that they did not regard him as a good risk. He pressed them further but the doctor declined to indicate on what basis they had formed this judgement. The doctor did say that my father’s life expectancy was not very good. My father went to see his mother-in-law to be (my grandmother) and asked her whether he should tell my mother the news; should he call off the wedding; should he go abroad? ‘No,’ said my grandmother: ‘get a second opinion.’ This my father did. The company rather sheepishly provided him with a life policy. They had by then discovered that they had muddled up the specimens of two applicants. The other applicant was granted a policy on the basis that he was A1. In practice he died within the year.