Diplomacy, and the knot is tied

Dr Malan arrivas in London for the Commonwealth Prime Minister's conference in 1949 Left is H.C. Egeland. John Mills centre Brig.Willmott right.

In January of 1948 the new High Commissioner, Mr.Leif Egeland, arrived from The Hague, where he had been Minister Plenipotentiary. A former Member of Parliament and protégé of Smuts, he had the fair hair and blue eyes inherited from his ancestors - his Norwegian father had come out to Natal in the whaling industry - the looks of a cherub and an absurd schoolboy charm on which he traded shamelessly. He had been a brilliant scholar and for a while a don at Oxford, before returning to South Africa and entering politics. To the British Establishment he was all they could have desired; half the Cabinet and a number of senior civil servants seemed to have been up at Oxford with him, and he had entrée everywhere.

It was apparently the custom to appoint a new Private Secretary when a new High Commissioner arrived. Possibly because of my experience with Smuts I got the job, taking over from Bill Douthwaite, who did his best to explain the difficulties of being a buffer between the Head of the Mission and the Official Secretary, a professional public servant, Eugene Scallan, who had come to London from Brazil, where he had been Consul-General.

Here a word of explanation might be useful. Although the High Commissioner was in overall command of the Mission, work was divided between administrative and political departments. The Political section (i.e. that staffed by External Affairs officers) was small in numbers; the Political Secretary was a comparatively junior official. The Official Secretary had a rank almost equivalent to that of a Head of Department and was second in command, taking over when the High Commissioner was away. He reported to Treasury, rather than External Affairs, the latter in those days being merely a sub-department of the Department of the Prime Minister.

One of the principal bones of contention was what matters could or should be dealt with by the Private Office and passed on for action, and which should be the grist for Mr. Scallan's mill. Matters had apparently been exacerbated by the former Political Secretary (i.e.senior External Affairs representative) Don Sole, a great worker, whose activities Scallan regarded, as poaching on his territory. Things had apparently reached such a pitch that at lunch-time Scallan would come in to the H.C..’s office and go through his "in" basket to make sure that no matters in which he had a legitimate interest were being misdirected to  persons he considered not competent, Often it was a race between Bill and Scallan as to who got in first.

Bill was a clever fellow - his tutor at Oxford, where he had studied International Law, said he was one of the most brilliant students he had ever had - but he was almost totally lacking in tact or common sense and was no respecter of persons            Bill seemed to relish the conflict with Scallan and took a rather cavalier line, occasionally endorsing a letter as follows:

            "Secy - (the rest of the office would refer deferentially to 'Mr Scallan')

                        Interested at all?"

            This would come back immediately with a furious annotation, almost tearing a hole in the paper:

            "Mr. Douthwaite, YES.  Return with papers at ONCE!"

I did not share Bill's puckish and harebrained delight in pulling the tiger's tail and managed on the whole to avoid antagonising Mr. Scallan.

In a drawer of my desk I found a little notebook, considerately left behind by a former occupant of my chair, Brand Fourie. It contained a wealth of information about the job, carefully compiled by that most careful of men. Apart from this I found the High Commissioner's driver, Frank Gray, to be a most tactful (" If I might suggest, sir...") and helpful mentor. There was also Pauline Stubbs, a South African lass who was the H.C..’s confidential secretary/typist and also looked after the Private Office's correspondence. She was a gem.

I soon found out that with a great deal of correspondence I was on my own. Often I would pass a letter which was making a specific request, and endorse it:

 "H.C.:  Instructions, please." More often than not it would come back with a tick to show it had been read, but with no instructions. So I would have to draft replies myself, imagining what the H.C. would probably have said, and have them typed up. As I gained in confidence I would sign some myself as Private Secretary, others I would send through. It was seldom that the H.C. did not sign what I had drafted. It was excellent experience, and I was beginning to think that I had got the job taped.

Pride goes before a fall. It was borne in on me that it was not so much my skill at drafting but Egeland's haste which was responsible for my apparent success rate. On one occasion this caused a contretemps. In a letter which I had drafted and sent through and which he must have signed without reading, I had referred (ignorant Capetonian that I was) to Durban as the capital of Natal, and the letter had gone to a Natal correspondent, from the constituency that Egeland had represented! (Quel horreur! As everyone knows, the capital of Natal is Pietermaritzburg.) When his friend replied, pointing out the error and suggesting it was time he came home for a spell, the High Commissioner was not best pleased.  He told me so.

To balance this misfortune there was one occasion when I got a pat on the back from an unexpected source. At a reception in South Africa House the then British Ambassador to the Netherlands, Sir Neville Bland, a former colleague of Egeland's in The Hague whom I had met at the Residence, noticed me and came over and thanked me for "the charming letter" he had just received. I replied that the letter had been from the High Commissioner, not from me. Sir Neville smiled and said, "Ah, yes, but we both know who drafted it." Rather nice, I thought - unexpected and gratifying, as Eeyore would put it. What a kind and gracious man,

 Answering the telephone and deciding who could or should be put through to the H.C. was another matter in which judgment was required, and I remembered Smuts' dismissive "He's wasting my time". The H.C'.’s time, too, could not be wasted, and I had to learn the art of stonewalling and deflecting without giving cause for offence. Good training for a young prentice diplomat.

Sometimes I would get a surprise. The phone rings, a voice says, "Leif?" I reply " No, sir, this is the Private Secretary."  "Then put me through at once, please.... This is the Lord Chamberlain speaking."  So I put him through and hoped that it really was the Lord Chamberlain.

 People. Yes, people can be difficult. For some reason South African visitors to London seemed to regard South Africa House as a combination of Tourist Office, Ticket Agency and General Hospitality Centre, all for their convenience, and the H.C., as Egeland himself put it, as "a combination of Father Christmas and Thomas Cook." They demanded all kinds of services to which they had no possible claim, and which we were not equipped to provide. Admittedly the office had gone out of its way in the immediate post-war period to help visitors for whom no other assistance was available, but those days had long since passed. Nevertheless the tradition was by now so firmly established that it was difficult to wean people from what they confidently expected. 

The Union Castle liner would dock at Southampton on a Thursday, and on the Friday morning you could be sure that literally hundreds of visitors would arrive at South Africa House, all demanding service. The total was estimated at 1500 per year. In addition the Egelands had a host of friends and acquaintances in South Africa who thought nothing of giving their friends letters of introduction, and these people would pitch up in the Private Office quite confident that all they had to do was to present their letter in order to be ushered into the Presence. My job was to decide whom I must admit and whom to discourage - as gently as possible. If I had not, the H.C. would have had little time to himself. More good training in diplomacy.

An effective and inexpensive way to defuse this sensitive situation - for many returned to South Africa complaining bitterly of their reception - was the High Commissioner's Coffee Party. I used this way out frequently. "I'm sorry, sir, but The Commissioner is busy at the moment and I'm not sure when he will be free, and even if he were able to see you now, his next appointment is in ten minutes' time. If, however, you were free on Thursday morning at 11 o'clock I have authority to include suitable visitors on the invitation list for his Coffee Party - he holds one once a week in season. He is certain to be there and I'm sure you'll find that more congenial and you'd have a better chance of a chat with him."...... Liar.

The trouble with this was that when people got home they could not resist the temptation to boast about how the High Commissioner had invited them to a coffee party in South Africa House, and so everybody expected the same treatment and complained if they did not receive it. Some battles one cannot win.

What I resented was the apparent belief among many that they had a right to be invited - after all the Government was paying, wasn't it? This seems to be a deeply rooted idea that has persisted. Twenty-five years later in San Francisco the same remark was made to me by an indignant citizen whom I had not invited to a party. Let me assure you, the Government was not paying - except to the extent that it paid our salaries. 

Another of my duties was to keep the H.C'.’s diary and see that it contained all his engagements, and see that he kept them. This is where the chauffeur, Frank Gray, was so helpful, pointing out where necessary, that it would not be possible for the H.C. to get from point "A" to point "B" in the time available. "If I might suggest, sir....."  I was amazed to see how many engagements the H.C accumulated. At times it seemed that he seldom had a lunch-time or an evening free. These engagements were put on a list called the 'H.C'.s Go-around" and circulated to Heads of Division, so they would know where he was at any given time.

Off to the Continent.        
 

Our wedding day was nearing and a spanner was nearly thrown into the works at this stage by a decision by the High Commissioner that he wanted to visit Germany, just three weeks before we were due to walk up the aisle. Why he should have wished to do this I do not know; he had been on a quite extensive trip there the previous year. He told Smuts of his plans, saying he wished to take his Military Adviser and his Trade Commissioner with him. Smuts replied that he travelled with no-one but his Private Secretary and suggested Egeland should do the same. Hm.

 We crossed the Channel on a ferry, the HC 's temper being not improved by the fact that he had not been givens the state cabin he had confidently expected. My fault again. After spending the night at our Legation at The Hague, we set out in the car, which the Head of our Military Mission in Berlin, General Armstrong, had sent for us.

 We crossed the border at Helmstedt. It was a little intimidating to drive through Soviet-occupied Germany and to be given a kind of metal token by the British on departure, which had to be handed in on arrival in Berlin. If we had not arrived by a certain time, British armoured cars would be sent down the road to look for us. We fortunately had no trouble, although the Mongolian-looking sentry at the Russian checkpoint on the outskirts of the city took his time studying our documents before signalling us to proceed. He seemed a little puzzled, possibly because he was trying to read them upside down.

I was appalled by the devastation in Berlin, and no amount of rationalising that the Germans had brought it on themselves was of much help. Germany was at that time under military occupation, and was divided into zones Russian, American, British and French. Berlin itself was similarly divided. The Military Missions were in effect Embassies in all but name, but headed by military men. We were invited to the Belgian Mission on the occasion of their National Day. They had a pleasant house on the Wansee. There was, I recall, a jetty running out into the lake. I asked a young Belgian diplomat whether his chief allowed the staff to use it for swimming. He replied rather chillingly that swimming was not very popular because it was calculated that the lake contained about 20,000 corpses, which had still to rise. It was eerie indeed to be standing on the carefully manicured lawn, being served canapés and drinks by white-gloved servants, while outside scores of hungry Germans waited with noses pressed against the fence in the hope of scraps from our table. Vae victis. I felt distinctly ill at ease.

We spent only one day in Berlin, which was quite enough for me, before going down with General Armstrong by car to Hamburg. The city was still in a state of shock after the massive bombing which had devastated it. (In one day 35,000 Hamburg citizens perished.) The port was of course a prime target, containing inter alia the U-Boat pens harbouring the wolf packs which had nearly brought Britain to her knees in two world wars. The pens had been protected by several feet of reinforced concrete, but these massive blocks were tossed in confusion like spillikins everywhere. The harbour was filled with sunken ships, some sunk by bombs, some scuttled by the Germans.

We stayed at the famous Vierjahrezeiten Hotel, with a fine view over the Alster. Even in the aftermath of all that had happened the old hotel was clearly one of the great hostelries of the world. It had been arranged that we should see the Hamburg Opera's current production in the evening. I was looking forward to my first experience of German opera. Unfortunately for me, although sung in German, it was Benjamin Britten's "Peter Grimes". It made an appalling   impression on me. I can still hear the resounding  "Peter Grrrimes! Peter Grrrimes!" It put me off Britten for life. Of interest was the fact that both performers and audience were accommodated on what had been the stage, the rest of the building having been destroyed. The opera company itself was being subsidised by the American Consul-General, a wealthy man who loved opera and had served in South Africa before the war.

Next morning I accompanied the H.C. to call on the Mayor, an interesting character. He was an American citizen who had been born in Hamburg and had returned to help his native city. I wished that I could have been present to hear him talk, but on these occasions I was, of course, left outside to be entertained by an underling. When at the end of our journey Egeland told me to draft the outline of a report for him, I expostulated that I had been present at none of these interviews and had no idea of what had transpired. "Never mind," he said. "Just give the outline and I'll fill in the rest." Cor!)

One morning General Armstrong excused himself, saying that our programme was safely in the hands of the British for the day and that he had one or two things to do. That evening the H.C. asked if he could be told what Armstrong had been doing. Well, said the general, apart from a few liaison calls, his principal duty every time he came to Hamburg was to call on Smuts' old East African opponent from the first World War, General Von Lettow Vorbeck, by then a very old man, and to report on his condition. If there was anything the old gentleman needed it would be sent on the next shuttle flight from South Africa. A very chivalrous gesture, I thought.

While in Berlin the H.C. had called on the Head of the British Military Mission, the South African-born General Sir Brian Robertson. There remained calls on the American, General Lucius Clay, and on General Koenig, the French commander. Of the visit to Clay I remember little, but the visit to Gen. Koenig will remain engraved in my memory for all time.

We arrived in Baden-Baden, where the French had their HQ, at about 10 a.m. and were met at the outskirts by a motorcycle escort of French Foreign Legionnaires - Koenig having been a famous commander in French North Africa. We were escorted through the city with sirens blaring and much hand-waving to clear the streets for us, with German pedestrians scattering left and right. "Is it not passing brave to ride in triumph through Persepolis?" It makes you feel about ten feet tall until the absurdity of it all strikes you. And so it did as we approached the HQ., for one of the escort took the bend a little too fast, got into a speed wobble, and to what must have been jam to the Germans, skidded on his bottom right off the road. Merde alors!

We were ushered into the residence and there was a slight hiatus. After a little while Mme. Koenig, a very distinguished-looking lady, came down to apologise on her husband's behalf. He had been delayed, she said. Perhaps we would care for a cocktail while waiting. Waiters circulated with various liquids, none of which I recognised. I tried one which was chocolate-flavoured. It tasted very nice, and when I was offered a second I did not refuse. I was half way through this when Koenig appeared. I made to rise, but my legs refused to carry me. That cocktail must have been lethal. I eventually managed to struggled to my feet, and then came the only time I ever saw Egeland discomposed.

General Koenig was, of course, the hero of Bir Hacheim in the Western Desert, where his Free French forces had held out valiantly against Rommel.. Egeland made a graceful reference to this, adding what a privilege it was to meet one who epitomised the glories of France.           "Thank you", said Koenig coldly. "It is a pity your Prime Minister does not share your view." (A week earlier Smuts, for reasons one can only guess at, had spoken of France as being no longer a Great Power. Quel horreur.)

We passed into luncheon still wrapped in glacial silence, but as the meal progressed and the wine began to flow a mild thaw set in. In my case it was less of a thaw, more like a dissolution. Anything on top of those homicidal cocktails was asking for trouble, but the neighbour on my left, a French cavalry colonel, was adamant that I should at least taste the various vintage wines, both white and red which circulated freely, topped with a fine cognac to end the meal. To have refused would have been to drop another clanger. The things I have done for my country!

The rest of the day was agony. We were taken to a horse show in which the French cavalry took part. Endless horses endlessly jumping over endless hurdles. Up and over, up and over. I nearly upped myself before the day was over. My cavalry colonel was ecstatic at being able to show us how marvellous the French cavalry were. Thereafter nothing would do but a visit to the Black Forest. It was so near, and it would be such a pity to miss seeing it. How far was it? we asked. We had to catch our plane back to London from Frankfurt early next morning. Not to worry, we'll get you there, and off we set.

Of the journey I remember little. I dimly recall waking up briefly to see dark forests sliding past before relapsing into slumber, and getting out in the frosty air at some ungodly hour in the morning, and sloping off to bed, only to be woken at what seemed to be just a few hours later to drive through the dark of an early morning - I never did see the Black Forest - until eventually we reached Frankfurt and I was able to get back to sleep in the aircraft. Wow! Never again will I be entertained by the French military if I can help it.

There was in addition another cause for worry. A General Election was due to be held in South Africa at the end of May 1948. The Government was not thought to be in any danger. Inexplicably to most of us, it was. General Smuts lost not only the election but his own seat in Parliament. Shock! Horror!   Some ardent Nationalist supporters in the office asked me whether I thought it wise, in the circumstances, to marry an English girl. They were, of course, just pulling my leg.  Of course.

I was shaken by the turn of events. I had greatly admired Smuts and was saddened by his departure.  For Egeland the stress was far greater, for he had to decide whether to resign or not. There was a hurried consultation of historical precedents. In 1924 the High Commissioner of the day, a Smuts appointee, had been asked by the incoming P.M., General Hertzog, to stay on and complete his term of office. On the other hand when Smuts had come to power in 1939 the High Commissioner of the day, the Nationalist appointee Charles te Water, had tendered his resignation, in the confident expectation that it would not be accepted. He was wrong.  What should Egeland do? In the end he decided to stay put and leave it to the new Government to decide.

 He had consulted Smuts, who told him: "Hang on. I am coming." And come he did, to accept the Chancellorship of Cambridge University, where he had once been a student himself. In a magnanimous gesture the new Prime Minister, Dr Malan, allowed him to fly to England in the old official York aircraft. (Although political rivals they had a mutual regard for each other. They had been boys together, and Smuts had once taught Malan at Sunday School.) I believe Smuts' advice fortified Egeland in his decision to stay on.   

This was the climate in which I prepared for my marriage. The marriage itself I took seriously

DERBY DAY!

 Came, eventually the wedding day. For once, after raining all week, the weather relented.

The Rector in his address spoke in a sepulchral voice of the difficulties facing young people in those post-war hard times, and called on family and friends to support us. The irreverent Bill Douthwaite sidled up to us later and whispered that he had some second- hand furniture and clothing he could let us have cheaply!

There was, however, an element of truth in his jest. New clothes were on ration, and it was only with the aid of coupons supplied by the Commonwealth Relations Office that Pam was able to buy essentials. Luckily my mother had brought over some dress material and underclothes for her too.

All my diplomatic colleagues, including the High Commissioner and his wife, came to the reception at Pam’s parents’ home. It was a happy and carefree occasion. Pam looked radiantly beautiful and I was much envied.

There again the guests we thrilled at the sight of ham, tins of which I was able to import from Denmark, as well as a spot of alcohol, which had to be imported from Ireland. They were certainly not used to it!

One good tip we did miss, (and that was because we had no spare cash anyhow), was betting on the Derby that day, for "My Love" won. Some of our guests took the hint though and profited well.

Fifty pounds was all that one was allowed to take out of England at that time, which meant that few people travelled abroad. We were exempt, and with borrowed cash from my father, we took off to Switzerland. From there I decided to visit the peasants in Italy who had saved my life as an escaped POW during the war. Not the usual way to spend a honeymoon in a village with only a village fountain for water supplies and one small electric light to show modern advance!

Something new for Pam and a long interesting story!

Passing through Rome, we went along to the Legation, and entered the office, which was the basement of Barnaba Oriani 115, Parioli, the house we came to live in years later - by which time the basement had been turned into a ballroom.

 At the reception desk was any elderly Italian called Balboni, who had been in the pre-war Trade Commission in Milan before coming down to Rome when the Legation was re-opened. He had had the sad duty of translating South Africa's declaration of war against his own country in 1939.  Apparently he had somehow managed to save a lot of the office furniture from that era, which the post-war Legation inherited and could have done without when it was established. However, he was a fountain of local information as well as a translator, and so an invaluable member of the office. He let the External Affairs members know that we were there and we met for the first time Boy Viljoen, then Second Secretary, and Derick de Villiers who was Third Secretary.

                     

Back to reality

After such a romantic honeymoon it took a little while for us to adjust to more mundane affairs      
 

We had not been home long when an important occasion on the London social calendar took place. This was the annual Buckingham Palace Garden Party, to which South Africa House was entitled to a quota of invitations. As Private Secretary I was nominated to attend, with Pam.  I managed to wangle invitations for my parents, who had come over for the wedding. We duly arrived at the Palace gates by taxi and entered the hallowed grounds. Luckily the weather was fine and the King and Queen walked among their guests, the King with the Princess Elizabeth, the Queen with the Princess Margaret. To our great delight the Queen came towards us, preceded by Admiral Bromley, Chief of Protocol of the Commonwealth Relations Office, who was saying in an undertone "Any Commonwealth citizens here?" I immediately held up my hand, and to her inexpressible delight my dear mother was presented to the Queen. We discovered that they all have those blue, blue eyes, and lovely complexions.

It was at this time that the effect of my not getting on with my studies as I had intended began to manifest itself. My poor wife had to put up with a silent husband, deep in his books. I still had three examinations, and they were the most difficult to pass before I could be confirmed in the Service.  Pam, found keeping the house going, gardening, growing vegetables to help food supplies and shopping almost daily so as not to miss anything extra that was going to eat, took up most of her time. With U.S.A. ending its ‘Lend Lease’ plan,  England developed a depressing atmosphere with everything in even shorter supply, and everyone wondering who had won the war.  The basic rations per week of 100 grams fat (made up or Butter, Margarine and Lard,) 25 -50 grams Cheese (cheddar only) Bacon 1-2 rashers, Tea 50 grams, Meat 1 shilling’s worth, (one meal) Sugar 200 grams, Eggs 1 after 1942 dried egg 1 pk. per month.) Jam 400 grams per month. This called for a creative mind to produce meals! Everything else was on a points system

1948 was the year of the Olympics in London, and we were lucky in being able to obtain tickets for a few events. It is interesting to note that the Opening Ceremony was held in daytime with no money wasted as it is today. There was great formality with the officials in top hats and tails and, in true British style, for which they are masters, the pageant was presented by the Guards' Bands in full ceremonial dress, including Bearskins, marching up and down the Wembley Olympic stadium. It was actually a very hot day, as can happen in London, and they must have suffered in all that gear, but the crowds, who are described as lemonade-swigging! loved it. After this the athletes marched in and the King took the salute, and here again the journalist noted that half an hour had gone by and only the countries starting with 'M' have reached the arena. The big moment came when the sprinter arrived carrying the torch, the flame was lit, and then a large choir sang the Olympic hymn and the Halleluja chorus. - Finish. The Games were open! What a pity they don't revert to that today. There were various venues all over London for all the events, as I don't think any new facilities were built for the occasion.

Before the Opening Ceremony the H.C. had been invited by the Management of the South African Olympic Games Team to have lunch with them and meet the athletes, and I would have expected he would have accepted, but no: I was told to represent him, together with the Administrative Secretary of South Africa House, Mr. Isak Meyer.

I was looking forward to meeting our sportsmen, but first had to endure a long-drawn-out luncheon, complete with wines and brandy. It was obvious that they did themselves very well. After a while I hinted that I would have to leave shortly, as the High Commisioner would be requiring my services. Would it be possible to see the team shortly?  Don't be in such a hurry, young man. Have another brandy. Eventually we lurched somewhat uncertainly to our feet and made our way to a large marquee, where, to my horror, I found the entire team drawn up in rows as if they were an army unit on parade waiting for inspection by a senior officer. What they must have felt at having their rest period taken up by this exercise I shall never know.

My embarrassment was increased by being introduced in the following terms: "Fellows, we are honoured today by a visit from the High Commissoner's own secretary, Mr Mills, together with Mr Meyer of the secretarial staff of South Africa House. Mr Mills has taken time from his busy schedule to come to visit us, and I will now ask him to say a few words."

Cor! Apart from the enormity of classing me above Mr. Meyer, (who left South Africa House to become head of the Treasury!) I was quite unprepared for any speech whatsoever, especially to this by now no doubt rebellious group. I stumbled through a few ill-assorted phrases and ended by wishing them all good luck. Isak Meyer, however, suffered from none of my inhibitions, and launched into a rousing exhortation in Afrikaans.

 Social life at our level was very limited mainly because of the food shortages, but also because all the staff and populous lived outside London in different directions. Diplomats were given a very small petrol ration, but we did not own a car. We naturally attended any official functions at South Africa House, where dress was still very formal. Pam found hats were worn at every event – coffee parties, lunch, tea, and cocktail parties (also cocktail dresses. Difficult when she had never previously owned a hat due to the clothes ration.

One of the perks which came our way because of John being private secretary to the High Commissioner, was the odd invitation to a function to which the boss did not wish to go. One day John phoned to say he had tickets to a play in memory of the Battle of Britain. I enquired what the dress was and John thought that anything respectable would be acceptable, so I put on a short dress, and as it was wet, a mackintosh for the journey up to London. When we arrived at the theatre we wished that the floor would open and swallow us up. Everyone was in long evening dress and black-tie, with the Air Force representatives in full rig with medals and all. Amongst these were the Air Chief Marshal Sir Sholto Douglas and many high ranking dignitaries. We had to greet them and hoped we could then disappear to an unobtrusive seat, but found to our dismay that we were right in the front row, amongst the other Commonwealth High Commissioners. We were more than relieved when the lights went out   Another memorable event the High Commissioner did not wish to attend, was the première of the film "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" starring Danny Kaye, which was being held at one of the London cinemas. This we knew would be a black-tie affair with long dress, so there was no problem on that score. John took his gear up with him,        and later we both changed into our glamorous outfits at South Africa House. We finally arrived at the cinema and alighted to find a large crowd had assembled outside in spite of the weather. The police were holding them back on either side and we walked up this avenue with reporters' cameras flashing. Once in the foyer, reporters came up to us and asked our names, and when John replied, "John Mills", they said, "Oh, really, and whom are you accompanying?"  They started to take note of what I was wearing and John was tempted to lead them on. We felt they should have known that John Mills was actually half his height and somewhat older, so ‘truth would out’ and John decided to tell them that he was not the famous actor. They immediately lost interest in us, of course, especially as well-known film stars were arriving. We saw Jean Simmons, a very pretty young actress, coming along with Stewart Granger, a tall heart throb idol of the time, and there were many more dotted around us as we sat in our privileged seats amongst all the distinguished guests. There were no delays or long speeches of introduction from anyone so we thoroughly enjoyed the film, which was a good comedy with Danny Kaye who could really make everyone laugh.

 This should have been a completely happy evening, but alas there was a last chapter to the story. We did manage to get a taxi from the cinema back to Victoria station in time to catch the last train. Luck was not with us as we alighted from the train because we saw the last bus disappearing out of the station yard. We started off on our long walk. In those days the street lights went out at midnight too. Half way along I suddenly realised that we had not returned to South Africa House, and I had left the house key with all my clothes there!       
    

Fortunately we saw the funny side of the situation and finally reached our abode. At the back of the house there was a metal fire escape. So - I took off my shoes, put my dress over my head and managed to climb the stairs. To my relief the window opened upwards wide enough for me to climb in and grope my way to the light. The door to the rest of the house was locked. I pushed the key out of the lock but did not put something under the door to catch it!

  So - as there were two beds in the room we had to resign ourselves to sleep the night right there as best we may. The next morning John, still in his black-tie and somewhat dishevelled, had to descend the ladder once more, go up to town and retrieve the key while I stayed in the bedroom waiting for his return. I could hardly appear in the garden in a long white dress.  It certainly was a night to remember.

           

 The advent of family

 We gave some thought about having a family because in the Foreign Service in those days one never knew how long a posting was to last. I thought it a good idea to have at least one child on home ground.  One bonus was an extra ration book for expectant mothers, which allowed me half a ration of everything, free concentrated orange juice, codliver oil tablets, a free extra pint of milk and a banana or real orange if they were ever available, which was once in a blue moon. One had to register at all the shops to obtain rations. Fish was not rationed but in short supply and the queues for these were enormous. Often they sold out just before you were to be served!         
 

Another big event for us was the annual presentation at Buckingham Palace. In pre-World War II days this was a tremendous social occasion. Young ladies were said to have "come out" (i.e. to have entered society and now be eligible to be invited to receptions, balls, etc.) only after they had been "presented at court." They were known as debutantes - "debs", for short, and they dressed up like brides for the occasion, and attended special classes to learn how to curtsey properly. The Diplomatic Corps were also among those "presented at court'" and the ladies had to have long white dresses etc. too. (Some even wore tiaras):

This event for the debutantes was discontinued after the war and they were invited to the Garden Party instead, but there was still a special presentation party for the Corps Diplomatique, to which  Pam and I received an invitation - " The Lord Chamberlain is commanded by their Majesties to invite...". (How fortunate that formal court dress had been abandoned, with clothes' rationing as it was.)  Of course Pam had to have a special dress and outfit for the occasion and even Hugh Gordon, Social Secretary at South Africa House, was moved to congratulate her on her appearance -"tout a fait comme il faut." Coming from him that was the equivalent of an accolade.                  When we came into the Palace I could not help remembering Stanley Holloway in "Sam' s Medal":

            "Well, Sam pushed open Palace Door

                        And stood in 'oly 'ush:

He found himself inside a room

                        All marble busts and plush."

 There were plenty of rooms like that, and what seemed like endless corridors before we reached the ante-room where we were marshalled and instructed before the big event - "Don't stare at the King and Queen, keep your eyes down until you have made your bow and curtsy (which we had to practise beforehand) when a glance would be permissible, then right turn and exit, slowly." Our names were called and we approached, made our obeisances and were rewarded by an inclination of the head by the King, George VI and a kindly smile from the Queen. We were then all entertained in the ballroom to refreshments while an orchestra played up in the gallery. It was a very elegant event.

During this time the Political Secretary, Chris Naudé, was transferred to Head Office. I was sorry to see him go. He was a kindly man, and when Pam and I became engaged I was required to present her for inspection to ensure that she would be suitable as a diplomatic consort. In these days of triumphant feminism the mere idea would be hooted down, yet I must confess that though I did somewhat resent the system I conceded its necessity. So Pam and I called on Chris and his American-born wife Maude, and had supper with them. Fortunately Pam passed muster. Why not, indeed? The alternative would have been for me to seek other employment.

 Chris' successor was Anthony Hamilton, a very different personality. He was a short stocky man with an engaging sense of humour and a slight stammer. Like Egeland an Oxford graduate, he had worked for a spell on "The Times", and came into our Service from the British High Commissioner's Office in Pretoria, where he had been employed as an Information Officer. It was said that Smuts had offered him employment on the advice of a prominent Johannesburg businessman who had said that Anthony would add "a touch of class" to the Department. This story did not endear him to his colleagues. He was also, like Egeland, an admirer and follower of J.H. Hofmeyr, the great liberal Minister in Smuts' cabinet, who stood as godfather to his first child, and I believe this was to tell against him later. In fact for all his brilliance  (and he was a very clever man) he never got the appointments he deserved.

Many of his friends and acquaintances from his Oxford days were now persons of consequence in the Whitehall establishment; some were even Ministers in the Labour Government. He was certainly the right man for the job - at that time.

 He took a kind of liking to me, largely, I believe, because I had written a book.  I used to pull his leg a little. There were two subjects on which he invariably rose to a fly. "Of course," I would say, "I was forgetting, you were up at New –“

            "New C-c-college, if you please!"

And, on being asked my views on a draft he had prepared (he was really looking for some praise) I would purse my lips and say, "Yes, Anthony, I like it. It seems to sum up the situation admirably. There were just one or two passages that a purist might perhaps consider a little florid -"

            "F-f-f-florid?!  I'll have you know my prose is as ch-ch-chaste as Macaulay's!”

He once drafted a despatch for Egeland which brought the latter an accolade from Smuts himself. In his memoirs Egeland writes: "I passed (the message from Smuts) on to my Political Secretary, Anthony Hamilton... whose research and competent drafting had been largely responsible for my despatch."  Largely responsible, indeed! I doubt if he had altered it or added anything of substance to it before signing it.    

 When his wife finally arrived we invited them down for dinner at our place, which most likely would have been to a rabbit dish, which was not rationed if you were lucky enough to get one from the butcher you were registered with. Apart from the weekly 1 shillings worth of meat, there was sometimes one slice of corned- beef or liver.

  They did not arrive for hours and we thought they had forgotten, but apparently trying to find the right road out of London they had crossed and recrossed the river Thames about five times. Finally Anthony drew up at a pub, took the car keys with him so that she could not drive away, had a stiff drink and found out where to go.

 The Foreign Office had at that time the very civilised habit of running week-end courses at Oxford on topics of current interest at which Foreign Office diplomats on leave were addressed by various authorities on topics of current interest. Commonwealth Missions were also invited to be represented, so I was nominated to attend from  South Africa House.

The topic to be discussed was the economic future for the United Kingdom and it certainly was topical; the poor UK was in a state of more or less permanent crisis. The previous year South Africa had made a gift of £80 million - in gold. The gift was however tied to the purchase of South African products, inter alia canned snoek, a fish of which I was and am still very fond, but whatever they put into the tinned variety must have been of very poor quality,  for it rapidly  became a music hall joke which did the country's reputation  no good at all. A pity, because all the rest of our canned goods were excellent  - "roba genuina"  - as Gioacchino used to say

However, I wander, as usual. I thoughtfully packed a bottle of 10 year-old KWV  brandy , booked Pam in at the' Mitre' ( famous Oxford Pub) for the week-end, and caught the train for Oxford on Friday evening. I got to the station in plenty of time, settled down and opened a book I had brought to read on the journey, the memoirs of Count Ciano, Mussolini's son-in-law and Foreign Minister. The door opened and a young fellow of about my own age came in. We nodded and he buried his nose in The Times. A little while later he rose and gazed anxiously out of the window down the platform.  Whistles began to blow and the train began to move. There was the sound of running feet outside, and another young man opened the carriage door and clambered in, to be welcomed by his friend. From time to time they carried on a conversation in well-bred undertones.

 I could not help hearing snippets of their conversation, from which it soon became apparent that we were all heading for the same destination, but I had been in England long enough not to introduce myself. One does not presume. We reached Oxford and took separate taxis, only to meet half an hour later in the buttery of Jesus College.

            "I say, weren't you on the train with us?"

            "Yes, but I didn't wish to intrude."

            Well, we wondered ourselves, but you were so deep in your book that we didn't either."

  After that it was all right to talk. Formalities had been observed.    
                                                                                                            

  The next morning we started work in real earnest. I have never understood economics, being of the school that believes that if you haven't got the money you can't spend it. This is the equivalent of telling a modern scientific bridge player that you play the Culbertson convention. Among the speakers were some heavyweights: Dr. Hubert Henderson, Professor of Economics at Oxford, the Second Secretary to the Treasury, the Head of the Economic Department of the Foreign Office, the Statistician of the Midland Bank, a prominent Trade Union Secretary etc.  I was out of my depth for most of the discussions. About the only time I touched bottom was when the speaker would say "Forgive me if I seem to spell this out rather simply, but I believe it really important that you should understand ".... Oh, so that's what you meant!

I see from our scrapbook where this Oxford caper is recorded that I took some voluminous notes. In retrospect the most memorable aspect was that although the UK was within a fortnight of devaluing the £ sterling, and some at least of the participants must have been well aware of what was about to happen, there was only one glancing reference to the possibility of this happening, and it was dismissed as a last Stitch once and for all throw of the dice. Not a word to Bessie.

I see also that Australia House was represented as well, in the person of one Brian Hill, whom I remembered as a pleasant fresh-faced young man with an almost perpetual smile. I was to meet him again down the track in less happy circumstances. He was one of those whom I invited to share my bottle of KWV brandy on Friday night after dinner in the imposing panelled Hall of Jesus College. At that time alcohol was scarce and where obtainable, expensive, and there was no lack of takers. We managed to kill the bottle without any trouble whatsoever. The next morning I woke with a thick head to find the "Scout", the servant who looks after the student quarters, looking quizzically at the remnants of the party which I had not cleared away before falling into bed. I apologised for the state of the room and he replied with a smile, '"That's all right, sir. Reminds me of term time."

Among those who helped me dispose of the KWV was a pleasant fellow from the Foreign Office, just home from a posting in Warsaw, called David Aiers. His wife, like Pam, was at the Mitre, and like Pam too, was expecting her first child. We spent a pleasant afternoon together, punting on the Cherwell, and became friends - something which is not normal on such short acquaintance in England. We are friends to this day. David was short, with a dry sense of humour; Pauleen was tall, slim and dark, the product of Irish and Spanish ancestors, which made for  an explosive mixture.

With a baby on the way we had decided that we would forget my father's lecturing about cars and I gained permission to import one from the U.S.A. The reason for this was that the British would not allow the local cars to be sold without excise tax, which was shortsighted as it lost them a lot of customers. However, in August 1949 the day dawned when our Chevrolet arrived. Cars were few on the road because there was still strict petrol rationing, but we were lucky in having extra as diplomats. The only annoying result of waiting so long to buy a car was that the pound had devalued in the meantime so we paid almost twice the price that we would have paid even a few months before, as the pound sterling dropped from  $4.50 U.S. to $2.80 U.S. From that you can understand how great the value of the sterling was in our young day. Even with devaluation we paid only £350 !      

Someone at South Africa House had the brilliant idea to start a type of Social Club to bring together all the workers from the various departments. It was an escape too from the trials of post-war England. Apart from a social gathering such as the Christmas party, a cricket club had been formed and another group to put on entertainment once a year, which became known as the “Springbok Follies”.

This interested me and at the weekends I played cricket, either for the South Africa House team or for the local Beckenham Cricket Club, where I was very popular for the away fixtures with my large car, which could accommodate six cricketers and their kit with ease. 

In fact, in those days we still worked on Saturday mornings, so I was restricted to Sunday play. I found cricket in England a most exhilarating experience. Not only playing on those beautifully manicured outfields and first class turf wickets, but also finding in cricket a magic entree into those closed circles that had been so firmly closed. It seems that if a fellow plays cricket he might just possibly be acceptable. In fact it was the only means by which we made friends in the area. I was fortunate in becoming a member of the Beckenham Cricket Club, which had a magnificent ground at Foxgrove Road.              

 When it came time to bat my captain said, "John, would you like to get your pads on?"  I replied:  "By all means. Where is the kit?"

 There was a pause, then he said "Don't you have pads, then?" "No," I said,

" I'm afraid I have no kit at all. Where I come from there is a team bag which has bats, pads, gloves - everything."

" You'd better borrow my kit, then," said the skipper. I had no option but to accept. It seemed that everyone had his own kit. So on the Monday I kitted myself out - bat, pads, gloves, box - everything.  It cost me a small fortune, but I did at least buy them from Jack Hobbs, no less.                    

            I also played cricket for South Africa House, which had a team of modest capabilities. We had a number of fixtures, such as one against the Royal Household at Windsor. No, Prince Philip did not play. I saw his name, however, in the Opposition scorebook, recording a previous game that season: "HRH the Prince Philip, bowled Bloggs...   0". 

On occasion the High Commissioner played for us, once against the Union Castle Company, and once against Faygate, a team from George Malloch-Brown's area, captained by Lord Hawke.  Egeland relates how on the latter occasion he made 42 out of our total of 70. What he does not relate is that after he had been batting for half an hour I came on to the field pointing at my watch, for he had an important engagement in London for which he was in grave danger of being late and Frank Gray (chauffeur) was getting nervous, and he had responded with a rude gesture. He was enjoying himself too much, even on one occasion throwing his somewhat portly body in a full-length dive to avoid being run out. Keen type, he was. But I got a rare ticking off from Mrs. Egeland the next day for allowing her husband to be hazarded. Fat chance I had of preventing him.

Give him his due; he was a sport all right and a fine ball player. While Minister in Sweden he had distinguished himself at tennis, winning titles, and being granted the rare privilege of being invited to play singles with the aging King Gustav, a keen player himself. This took some diplomacy, I gather. He used to give me a leathering at squash, planting himself squarely and immovably in the centre of the court. (May one without impropriety barge one's H.C. aside?)  One day just after he had left the office I spotted his squash racquet and bag by his desk - he had forgotten to take them with him and I knew he would be needing them that evening. I rushed downstairs just in time to catch him before he left with Frank Gray in the Rolls. "Sir! Sir! You've forgotten your squash kit!" He exclaimed indignantly: "I've forgotten my squash kit? What do I have a private secretary for?"... Cor!   

Accommodation was difficult to find, there having been no building for six years, as well as many places being bombed out of existence. We were lucky to have found a furnished apartment, which was a third of an enormous mansion, with a garden. The owners had been sent to Germany for a period.

Our Scottish neighbours downstairs, were extremely odd and the actual owner of the entire house, who lived in the other half of it, was very old and of a passed era. By chance we met her niece who related that the family was of an aristocratic background, and that auntie had disappeared on to the Continent for some years and they never knew quite what she was up to. The signed photos of the various Royal families she possessed no doubt held a story. We felt she fitted the music hall song     

  "We never talk of Aunt Clara, her picture is turned to the wall.

 Though she lives on the French Riviera, Mother says she is dead to us all"

We were not surrounded by compatable folk, and glad of the cricket contacts.     

We now awaited the advent of the new Nationalist era. In the beginning it was as if nothing had changed. In 1949, Dr Malan himself came to London to attend a Commonwealth Prime Ministers’ conference. And I was seconded to act as liaison officer between South Africa House and the Prime Ministerial party.  Both sides had a great deal to learn about each other. There is a picture of the Prime Minster being greeted on his arrival at Heath Row airport by, among others, Brig, Willmott, the Air Attache, who had just said ”Welkom in Londen, Eerste Minister.”  The PMs response was an incredulous “Maar jy praat Afrikaans?:”- having taken the Brigadier for  an English army officer .

I duly reported to the Dorchester Hotel and sat apprehensively in an anteroom, nervously going over some phrases in Afrikaans. Suddenly the door opened and a voice said, “Jong man, wie is jy, en wat maak jy hier?” It was Mrs Malan, and once I had satisfied her about my bona fides she insisted that I should come into the room and take coffee with the group. A typical warm-hearted Afrikaner tannie.

Thus it was that I heard some debate about how Dr Malan should spend the afternoon, the only free time he would have before the Conference was due to start the following morning. He listened impassively as suggestions were canvassed. At times he seemed to be half asleep; then finally he spoke, “We shall do none of these things,” he   said. .“ We shall go to Kew.” And that was that.

I heard later (from Frank Gray) that he had thoroughly enjoyed his visit and was particularly touched by the fact that the tea kiosk, that was about to close its doors at 5pm, had remained open when it was made known that the Prime Minister of South  Africa would like a cup of tea. “Fancy that”, he had said, ”They stayed open just for me !.”-  a man who had no side whatsoever.

 The visit was of particular interest to me because one of the PM’s advisers was Dr A.L. Geyer, a man who was to become High Commissioner when Egeland was eventually replaced. Geyer was at that time editor of Die Burger, the principal Nationalist newspaper of the Cape and a close friend of the PM. whom he had succeeded as editor.

How close I was to find out when one morning, as his private secretary. I opened a letter from the P.M. to Geyer reading as  follows:

:           Amice,

Bied Tom Naudé  namens my Ministerskap van Gesondheid  aan

            (Friend,.

Offer Tom Naudé on my behalf the Ministry  of  Health.)

(Tom Naudé was an MP who was visiting London at the time.)

There was nothing on the envelope to indicate the nature of the contents and I was authorized to open all correspondence except that marked “strictly personal,” but nonetheless it was clearly something I should not have seen.  I made a clean breast of my involuntary indiscretion to the H.C. He was good enough to accept my explanation. I may say that in all my dealings with him I found him to be a perfect gentleman.

There was nothing on the envelope to indicate the nature of the contents and I was authorized to open all correspondence except that marked “strictly personal,” but nonetheless it was clearly something I should not have seen.  I made a clean breast of my involuntary indiscretion to the H.C. He was good enough to accept my explanation. I may say that in all my dealings with him I found him to be a perfect gentleman.

I often wonder what he thought about me.  I must have represented to him everything that was wrong about South Africa House, English speaking, English- oriented.

Shortly after his arrival came the death of General Smuts in 1950 and it seemed as if the entire British public went into deep mourning. I attended the memorial service in Westminster Abbey together with the H.C. and found it an emotional experience. In the car going home after the service he asked me what part of the service had impressed me the most.  I said hearing the “Last Post” played by a trumpeter of the Life Guards had particularly moved me. To the H.C, however, the most moving part of the entire service was hearing the South African national anthem “Die Stem van Suid Afrika”, played on the organ in the Abbey

The shadow of Smuts hung heavily over the first days of Geyer. As representative of the people who had defeated the great man he was as popular as Talleryrand must have appeared to the British people as representative of revolutionary France. He must frequently have gritted his teeth at the expressions of deep grief at the passing of one who was regarded as typical of the enlightened Afrikaner, as distinct from his opponents whom they saw as crude backwoods types, and found it incredible that the South Africans could possibly have voted against him—I recall one female journalist saying that surely everybody in South Africa must have loved Smuts, to which the H.C. replied that he knew of no place on earth where a politician was loved by his opponents.

He had to cope with a perception of the Afrikaner Nationalist based entirely on the portrait painted of him by the English language press in South Africa, and they let no opportunity pass to denigrate him. It was a surprise to the British public for example to learn that the H.C. could speak English!  In point of fact he could speak not only English but German as well, and was quite at home with the audiences he addressed at Oxford and other institutions of higher learning

As this was a revelation to the British, the H.C. himself had to adjust to aspects of life in the U.K. that were completely foreign to him. Such as cricket. For my sins I had become secretary of the S.A. House Sports and Social Club and it was in this capacity that I was telephoned by my opposite number in the Union Castle Company. He wanted to know whether the H.C. would be present at the annual cricket match between the Company and SA. House. Last year, ”he said,” your H.C. was sporting enough to actually take part in the game, but I  don’t suppose the present incumbent--“

“Very unlikely,” I replied, “’but I’ll ask him lf he would care to look in for a spell.

“Good oh.” he said, “Let me know if he says yes and we’ll wheel in a couple of Directors.”

When I raised the question with the HC, he gave me a level-eyed look and then said slowly, ”Mills, I think cricket is the most boring game on God’s earth.”

I said, “Very well, High Commissioner, I‘ll make your apologies.”

“Would the staff expect to see me there?“ he asked.

“No, not expect, but they would appreciate it if you were to attend, if only for a brief spell.”

I could see him considering this and was emboldened to suggest that he could possibly take tea with the teams, and then plead an appointment in the city, which would be acceptable to all. To my surprise and delight he accepted this compromise and duly pitched up at the Union Castle Company grounds, which were decked out for the occasion with flags and a marquee. He found the occasion less boring than he had anticipated and he stayed over an hour, being photographed looking at the pitch as if to say ‘I don’t think it will play well after the dew has dried out.”  All in all a useful introduction for the H.C, into a typical English environment, and his coming was welcomed by the staff as I had predicted. There was another spin-off which I had not foreseen:  at the nets at my cricket club a fellow cricketer remarked, “I saw a photograph in the local press of your High Commissioner at a cricket match the other day. I wouldn’t have thought that one of Dr. Malan’s men would have been interested in cricket.” I replied somewhat mendaciously that that opinion was quite wrong. Dr Geyer had been editor of Die Burger, a journal whose sporting columns were generally regarded as first class.

 One of the first tasks the H.C had to face was to host a reception for the visiting South African cricket team under Alan Melville. The invitation list had been drawn up by the Social Secretary before I took over as p/s, and I was horrified to see the omissions - no Neville Cardus, for example. I soon put that right. The High Commissioner was very concerned about not recognising people and insisted that I lurk around so as to inform him about the persons to be presented. There was a barker who announced the guests in a stentorian voice: “Sir Pelham and Lady Warner”- and I had barely enough time to let the H.C. know how famous a character this was, before he said, “Sir Pelham, let me introduce to you Mr Pegler, the manager of our team.” 

 “Hullo, Plum. ”

“Hullo, Syd, you old bastard.’’

‘Oh, you know each other, I see.”

Among the guests was John Arlott, who had just achieved fame as the first ”regional accent” to be heard on the B.B.C.  It was pleasant to hear his broad North Country vowels – “a luvly late cut- so late as to be almost posthumous!” I had pitchforked him onto the guest list at the last minute, and he was very grateful, having feared he had blotted his copybook because of certain comments he had made about South Africa in the course of his campaign as a Liberal candidate during the recent elections.

I told him we were aware of his political opinions but that they had nothing to do with his capacity as sports commentator, and it was in that that he had been invited. We got on well after that.

Shortly afterwards I gave up my post as private secretary, having learned a lot about diplomacy.

AND THEN WE WERE THREE

1949 was one of the hottest summers we had had for many years and the ground was cracking for lack of rain, enforcing the first water restrictions ever. We decided that it would be more peaceful as well as easier to move to a house and garden before the arrival of the baby and a pram. Luckily we found a semi-detached furnished house next to an area with trees, which became vacant due to the owners working elsewhere for six-months. This of course meant we would have to move again after that. Only a certain amount of clothing coupons were issued for a new baby, so Pam made cot covers, sheets and a few useful items, and had already knitted the entire book of baby clothes as there were no drip-dry or ready-made easy wash garments in those days. There were no automatic washing machines, dishwashers or labour saving devices either. We were considered lucky to have one of the first types of washing machines, which had a tub and a ringer through which you could squeeze the clothes into the rinsing water, and again to hang out.  Domestic life was not easy.    

            In January 1950 John was performing in the first production of the “Springbok Follies”, a variety show, at South Africa House. It had meant a lot of work to co-ordinate but there was participation from every department of the office.

Pam managed to see the show, which was held in the Cinema.  The programme was made up of singing, various sketches, dancing  and the entire company in a  play. There were many workers behind the scenes – costumes stage management etc.  An amusing spectacle occurred afterwards as our car would not start and I had to get many from the cast, complete with makeup, to push us down the Strand, which caused a stir, especially at a time when cars were a scarcity.                                           

A year later “The Springbok Follies” of 1951 was a much more professional production than the last one, and quite hilarious. Amongst the many items was a play, some ‘Gay Nineties’ with Music Hall songs, and a pantomime of Cinderella, so a lot of hard work had gone into it. A most enjoyable evening and this time the car did not break down.