“Gossip and politics, hock and seagulls’ eggs” writes Chips Channon and that encapsulates the tone of his dairies. Two entries though are worth quoting in the light of my recent reading about President Roosevelt.
“13th April 1945
At 8 o’clock I heard on the wireless that President Roosevelt died yesterday. I never saw him, but he was frequently very kind to my son, Paul, who often went to tea at Hyde Park, and adored him. Paul’s first remark, when I told him was ‘Poor Falla’ which is the name of the President’s dog, a Scottie. This death bears out all the rumours that one has heard of the President’s poor health at Yalta. It is a tremendous tragedy.”
(Paul Channon was born in 1935. His parents sent him to Canada in June 1940 for safety and by 1944 he was at school in New York on East 74th Street.)
“17th April 1945
I took my son with me to the House of Commons where I picked up two tickets for the Service at St Paul’s in memory of President Roosevelt. Then we drove through the crowded traffic and parked our car in Amen Court. The great church was not full, though there were many people in the nave where we sat, surrounded by peers, MPs, soldiers and notabilities. The Lord Mayor stood at the steps of the Cathedarl to meet the sovereigns and he held the Sword of State high and erect. We saw the Royal Procession form, and then slowly advance up the aisle. We were very near. The King was in Naval uniform, the Queen in black. Immediately behind them was Princess Elizabeth in ATS uniform. Following them were the King of Norway escorting the Queen of Holland … The Norwegian King was tall and slender and stately. Next came George of Greece and Peter of Yugoslavia, both in uniform, Olaf of Norway, the Princess Royal looking as cross as ever; the Duchess of Kent, a dream, was with Lord Harewood. Four Kings and Queens made an impressive array, and the service then began. Winant read from Revelation. The Star Spangled Banner was sung like a negro spiritual, and the words of the Anthem were magnificent. The service lasted three-quarters of an hour, and then the Royal Procession defiled past us again, and left the Cathedral as the bells slowly tolled. The Last Post and Reveille were sounded, and then Winant, dark and romantically handsome, escorted Winston, who was in tears, to the door. After that, everyone in England walked to the exits. Paul and I slipped out, and turning back towards St Paul’s we saw Winston standing bare-headed, framed between two columns of the portico and he was sobbing as the shaft of sunlight fell on his face and the cameras clicked. We hurried sadly home to lunch in the nursery.”
