CHAPTER FOUR – TO PARIS WITH LOVE

 

My mother must have been filled with excitement coupled with a tinge of understandable nervousness in July, 1933, as she crossed the Atlantic for the fifth time in her life heading for her course at the Sorbonne in Paris.

 

She wrote: ”I landed at Plymouth and travelled along the coast and up to Bristol, where I arrived on a Sunday and found it difficult to get even a cup of tea. Then I took a train to Eckington, where Auntie Mim had sent a car to meet me and to take me to her thatched cottage in Great Comberton.”

 

Hugh and Mim had moved after their retirement from Southlea School to Stowe Cottage, Great Comberton, near Malvern.

 

The cosy black and white half-timbered cottage in Church Lane dates from the 15th century and was Grade Two-listed by English Heritage in 1972, being described as “timber frame and plaster with whitened stone and brick - a long low range with modern cross wings in keeping. Thatched roof with eaves rising over upper windows.”

 

My mother wrote: “Uncle Hugh and Auntie Mim gave me a wonderful time and took me to all the family places. It was wonderful weather. We had most of our meals on the porch of the cottage.

 

“Auntie Mim arranged for me to see all of the relatives, including those in Exmouth. I was not very keen to go as Eric had described Jeff as a typical Englishman, i.e. a stuffed shirt.

 

“I was met at the station by this fascinating man, who said to me: ‘The last time I saw you, you were a little girl at a birthday party and you said, I want to go in with Jeff’ – I had forgotten.

 

“He sang Lazy Bones to me and used all his considerable charm and I was captivated for the rest of my life.”

 

My father, who had impressed her with his impeccable British manners when not quite 11, had matured into a handsome 25 year-old, who was now attracting the local girls with his suave good looks and his athleticism.

 

He was a regular at the town’s swimming pool, where he would dive daringly from the high board and also earn gasps of surprise as he swam the length underwater with consummate ease.

 

But he was also recovering from the disappointment of being unable to buy into a solicitor’s practice, despite passing the Law Society’s exams after five long years of study as an articled clerk in an Exeter firm run by a distant relative, Henry Michelmore. That firm, Michelmores, now also has offices in London and in 2016 had a turnover of £30 million.

 

The lack of a job despite his newly-won qualifications had led him back to Exmouth, where his father, Raymond *5, was Conservative agent for the Honiton Parliamentary Division – he had once been vice-chaiman of the Junior Conservatives in Newport, Monmouthshire, where he trained as an accountant.

 

My father quickly made himself indispensible with his inexhaustible energy and organisational skills.

 

He also tried his hand at acting – a natural outlet for his love of the centre stage, which was still with him many years later, when his exuberant personality would bubble through the outer shell of a proud man forced by embarrassment at a continual lack of money to shun social gatherings and close friendships.

 

In February, 1933, he was the star of a production of Nothing But The Truth, a three-act comedy by James Montgomery, performed by the Exmouth & District Drama League at the town’s Church Hall.

 

His bravura performance was reviewed, among other newspapers, by the Exmouth Chronicle, the weekly edited by his best friend, R.F.(Ron) Delderfield*7, who was later to achieve fame as a leading playwright and writer of best-selling novels.

 

The reviewer said: “Mr Jeffrey Gibbs, as Bob Bennett, the truth-teller, was making his first appearance in a top-line part and the promise he has shown in other roles came into full blossom.”

 

The review ended with what now provides a fascinating echo of a past age: “On the whole a thoroughly enjoyable show, which earned the gratitude of every patron. One could only wish it had been put on a week or so earlier, in time to allow Exmouth people to laugh off the influenza epidemic.”

 

My father had never forgotten his first meeting with his cousin all those years before at his school in Great Malvern, but that paled into insignificance when they met again in sunny Devon - my mother, by then a devastatingly-beautiful young woman with abundant chestnut hair, sparkling blue eyes and the innocent allure of a slight French accent.

 

He was keen to show off all the attractions of his home town and surroundings, so there were fun-filled trips to the beach and regular outings into the Devon countryside in the car borrowed from his father, with picnic hampers prepared by the household’s maid and accompanied by the family’s Sealyham terrier, Yak.

 

By the time my mother was ready to leave for Paris and her studies, it would have been obvious to both of them that their feelings were more than just the companionable enjoyment of two close relatives of a similar age – it had become a loving relationship, which in the months of separation that lay ahead would deepen, helped by an ever-increasing flow of letters between them.

 

But they would also have been aware that love between first cousins was, and probably still is, regarded with disapproval and concern by many sections of society, breaking as it does one of the earliest taboos.

 

My father, still seemingly unaware of how his life was to change so completely, wrote on September 15, 1933: “We must certainly meet again before you go back to Canada, or else I must go to Canada. I’ll bet you could show me a dandy time.” He signed himself – Monsieur Le Cynique (Mr The Cynic).

 

A month later, he was devastated by the death of his beloved mother, Winnie, who was a warm-hearted counterpoint to the stern father, he and others called the Governor.

 

He wrote on black-edged notepaper to my mother on November 9, to thank her for sending “your beautiful cross of white given a place of honour on the grave.

 

“You were one of the few who helped to make little mother’s last summer such a happy one and I should like you always to think of her as on that glorious day when we visited Seaton, Beer and Branscombe, when she was so bright and cheerful in spite of the sure knowledge of the impending trouble, through which she undoubtedly knew she must pass.”

 

His love for his mother shone through his grief: “I was with her just before the end and she recognised me perfectly and insisted that mine were the only hands which cooled her brow and I was also the last to give her a draught of cooling water.

 

“Her passing was typical of the whole of her conscious life, which was always unassuming and without complaint, and she must surely stand as the incarnation of a model wife and mother. It was a life utterly devoid of self from the beginning and it remains now for me to attempt to absorb and promulgate some of that unselfishness, so that I may in some manner make the empty years through which my father must pass as peaceful and comfortable as possible.”

 

He might not have felt the same if he had known the antagonism his father was to show to my mother as their love became evident, but he wrote: “The red cliffs and the golden sands are appealing far more eloquently than I could for you to come to see us again before you cross the ocean.,” and signed the letter, Your very affectionate cousin.

 

Arriving in Paris, my mother settled down to her studies at the Sorbonne with customary enthusiasm, but it also meant she was reunited with her cousin, Olga Meras.*8

 

Olga had had a wretched childhood after the suicide of her mother, Suzanne, but by now was a model with Lanvin in Paris and the girl friend of Andre Louis-Hirsch*6, a scientist involved in the early days of space travel research and a relative of the Rothschild dynasty.

 

Thankfully it was not all studying for my mother and on one occasion Andre provided Olga and her with a limousine and a chauffeur, so they could make a grand tour of the chateaux of the Loire Valley – an unforgettable treat for the two young cousins.

 

My mother told me later: “Olga was fond of me and never showed the jealousy she must have felt for my happy childhood.”

 

My mother returned to England to spend Christmas 1933 with Hugh and Mim in Great Comberton and had hoped to see my father again, but he wrote to say it had been decided that he and his father would stay in Exmouth.

 

However he excitedly told her he had been asked to organise the entertainment for guests who would be spending Christmas at a large hotel in Exmouth (probably The Royal Beacon) “...I wish you were here to help me with it as I feel that together we could make rather a success of it.”

 

He also wrote that he had passed an examination on the way to becoming a Conservative agent and explained: “You see that under the altered circumstances, I am bound to remain with my father and to assist him in every way possible. It is my chance to repay him something of what he has done for me.

 

“I should love to be coming up to Stowe Cottage while you are there, but malheureusement, c’est impossible, et ce n’est pas juste, ou peut-etre c’est juste, mais ce n’est pas practique (or words to that effect).”

 

On December 28, 1933, he reported that he had been voted “the life and soul of the party” at the hotel’s festivities and the owner had offered him “the job of manager of his new luxury hotel – when he has built it, so I shall soon have a whole heap of strings to my bow.”

 

However there was a plea to my mother: “Is there the remotest possibility of your being able to spend a few days chez nous on your way home? Let us know and we will have the Royal Bedchamber prepared against your arrival.” and he signed the letter, Your desolated cousin.

 

It was not to be, but my mother must have written to say she would go to Devon when possible before her return to Canada in the summer as he wrote in American tough guy-style on January 3, 1934: “Your letter saying you would come and stay for a spell at our waterfront apartment has got me all het up and when you come we must go places and do things – and will I show you a dandy time? You bet I will.” The letter was signed: Yours impatiently (July, I mean).

 

Sadly my mother’s letters to him at this time have not survived, but on January 21, 1934, my father wrote: “Just imagine the selfishness of me last summer when there were so many lovely things I might have shown you and all I did was to take you to a swimming bath where I could the better demonstrate my prowess on the springboard. However there is yet time to make amends and let us hope that old Omar (Khayyam) was wrong and that the moving finger has not written.”

 

In the same letter, he said he was to attend a public meeting about the freedom of the press. His own view was that “newspapers should confine their activities to the purpose for which they were originally intended, namely to give us news and that the danger arises when they go beyond this and attempt to infect us with their opinions, which has an ill effect, which is two-fold. First it discourages and prevents people thinking for themselves and secondly it has the effect of producing panics and scares. The other side is of course that it can arouse great enthusiasm and patriotism, but I believe this latter is outweighed by the former – sez you!”

 

He continued: “What a dreadful letter for a healthy young man to write to a charming young lady? Perhaps you can do better. Try will you?”

 

She obviously did and I’m sure there must have been flurry of letters in the following months. By May, the tone of my father’s letters had become far more intimate.

 

He wrote on May 8: “You beast! I don’t want to write to you. I want to talk to you and see you and hear you.”

 

At the time he was due to take his final examination as a Conservative agent and said he was worried about leaving his father “stranded” if he took a job away from Devon.

 

By May 20, 1934, my mother had told him that she would be going to Devon after she finished  her exams in Paris and he wrote: “Do please come and stay for as long as you like or can, that is to say if you do not mind two dull old men. Let us know please when would be the best time for you to come and we won’t think about the time for you to go. We will have your room swept and garnished and I hope you will look upon our little house as home equally much as Stowe Cottage.”

 

He said: “I missed Mother very much when I heard I had passed my exam. Somehow joy loses most of its sweetness if one has no-one with whom to share it. I feel like that often, you know, when I am out in the country or by the sea and I am by myself and I see something beautiful. I long to have someone to say: ‘How beautiful’ to and no-one seems to come. I feel the need of someone to share my joys. ….You poor child! Fancy having to be inflicted with stuff like that! I am sorry.”

 

My mother replied on May 22, 1934: “My dear Jeff, I quite understand what you feel about having nobody to share impressions with. You will perhaps not believe it, but I have hated Paris for that reason. I have been so miserable at times that I have actually become pessimistic. You are quite right about casual acquaintances and ordinary friends not being enough.”

 

She went on to say, referring to her own imminent exams: “Yes, I hope I shall be able to move the stony hearts of these examiners. In any case I am not worrying very much as I have all the necessary degrees and diplomas for teaching and this is just something extra. As a matter of fact I have been rather lazy, but I believe one learns more by wandering about Paris streets than by spending afternoons in stuffy libraries… what would the professors say to this!!!

 

“Now, big boy, could you stand me as early as the 25th of June or in any case the 1st of July. I am afraid you are going to regret “them words” about letting me stay as long as I like. Don’t you remember the job you had pushing me into the train last time? It was rather unfair for poor Eastbourne – I came pretty close to hating it thoroughly.”

 

Both my mother and father often referred to their bombarding of each other with letters and she continued: “Big boy, I am very much afraid that you will have to show the white flag first; you know I am a terrible person when I get started. …..Au revoir and remember bombs and shrapnel, etc, are sweet music to my ears, so on with the bombardment.”

 

Despite her supposed “laziness”, my mother graduated at the Sorbonne with a “mention tres honorable”, placed fourth in a class of 150 of the brightest students from all over the world, each like her destined to introduce the beauty of the French language to others.

 

It was news which would undoubtedly have thrilled Lionel and Gabrielle back in Edmonton.

 

However my mother did not head back home to Canada and her doting parents, instead taking the boat for England.

 

She would have known that her growing feelings for my father were destined to lead to a permanent relationship, but she could not have known that her decisions over the next few months would estrange her from her adored family.

 

.*See numberered author's notes