Recollections

By Roisin Ni Mheara

When World War II broke out, some were trapped in Berlin, among them many foreigners, such as the author of this book. Her stay until almost the end of the war in Berlin drove her into situation and actions she would have never dreamt of. Spies, poets, radio commentators, and political intrigues were the order of the day. Somehow, she had to survive, which is what she recollects in this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Dec 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514447161

Roisin Ni Mheara

Roisin Ni Mheara, born Rosaleen James, deceased in 2013, was the adopted daughter of General Ian Hamilton and his wife, Lady Hamilton. She led a very active life, mainly dedicated to literature. Some of her books dealt about Ireland, such as Early Irish Saints in Europe, while some of her poetry were published in German. She had a very versatile personality with strong views not always shared by everyone but still respected.

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Copyright © 2015 by Roisin Ni Mheara.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015919471

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5144-4718-5

Softcover   978-1-5144-4717-8

eBook   978-1-5144-4716-1

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Rev. date: 11/23/2015

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1 The Caged Bird

Chapter 2 The Bird on the Wing

Chapter 3 World War II

Chapter 4 The Aftermath

About the Author

CHAPTER 1

The Caged Bird

One summer evening, in July 1918, a young girl, dressed in an evening gown, walked out of her father's house in London's fashionable West End. She carried in her arms a two-week-old baby. It was only a short distance around a few blocks to her destination, Number 1 Hyde Park Gardens. There she had been invited to sing for charity by General Sir Ian Hamilton (one of Britain's most illustrious and highly decorated warriors) at a party he was giving for disabled soldiers, ex-servicemen of the so-called British Legion, over which he presided. The young singer carried her baby with her, knowing not where to leave it, except for the orphanage. It was then that the general's wife's eyes fell on the baby. The Irish father had been shell-shocked in Flanders and had left its mother in great despair, alone in London and too sick to look after it.

Lady Hamilton gazed down into the bundle, struck by 'a pair of huge, sad Irish eyes' as she later stated. She decided, on the spur of the moment, that she would pay for a nurse to take charge of the baby in the country and would herself consider adopting it later -- if the mother be willing.

This is the account given to me, rather unwillingly, by my godmother Phyllis Holman-Richards at my first public appearance. It is merely one of the several tales I heard about my origin. I will not tire my readers with further versions, nor do I myself wish to tread on ashes, that, seventy years later, still burns the soles of my feet. Coming from my mother's friend, herself a woman of Irish origin and the only acquaintance of my parents ever allowed to approach me, this version would appear to be the most trustworthy one.

I was adopted at the age of two, officially registered a few years later. The home address (I never considered it 'home') Number 1 Hyde Park Gardens W2 was -- before and after World War I -- one of enormous social prestige standing. I have heard that no newcomer to London society could consider himself fully accepted until he had received an invitation to that palatial domicile, whose hostess was famed for her grace, beauty, and wit, as her celebrated husband for his valorous career. Scottish, like himself, and much richer, she threw lavish parties, gathering around her the cream of the celebrities of those times. Even before her marriage, she had made her mark in London. People would stand up on Hyde Park benches to catch a glimpse of the three lovely Perthshire sisters, driving out in their carriage -- the daughters of Sir Alexander Muir, who had earned his title and made his millions through enormous tea plantations in India. Those were the days of 'Gay Prince Eddie', Queen Victoria's son, who drew all the beauties to the court, competing in a world of glittering balls and défilés -- that of the belle époque of the turn of the century, such as never to be seen again. Soon the ugly shadows of World War I loomed, and the death knell sounded for all those frivolous, yet gracious and cultivated activities.

Even then, when the Irish baby appeared on the scene in 1918, the eldest of those Perthshire beauties, now Lady Hamilton, was still a very dazzling hostess, her receptions highlights of London society. Number 1 Hyde Park Gardens -- where portraits of her in oil hung, by the most famous artists of the period (such as Sargent, Laszlo, and Lavery) -- was her main residence, since returning from Malta, where her husband was governor after being commander-in-chief of the Mediterranean forces. This London house -- seconded by holiday resorts in Surrey, Perthshire, and the French Riviera -- represented the first station in life of that Irish toddler. Well, she remembers peering through the wire netting of the lift shaft of the London house, down into a flame of perfumed glory, and a floor lower, bending over the balustrade, her flannel nightgown clutched at the back by a nurse, down into the fairy-tale land of those social gatherings: the sweep of wide robes, the whirl of dancers in their glittering jewellery, and the sweet strain of violin strings struggling for a voice in the midst of soft laughter and the tinkling of champagne glasses. Indeed, on many a famous lap did she on such occasions sit -- as old, faded photographs go to prove: that of the Aga Khan, the Fleet Street magnate, Lord Northcliffe, artists such as Noël Coward, Edith Wharton, the poet, Laureate John Drinkwater, and -- last but not least -- William Butler Yeats. These were now the 'Roaring Twenties', and London was having its last, wild fling against a crumbling set. Number 1 Hyde Park Gardens is still striving to hold its own here, at least, with a rich Scottish woman able to keep up pretence of a world intact, providing the setting for the last act of the British imperialism.

A flight of white marble steps led the guests up from the spacious hall into even more spacious reception rooms, and above the turning point of the stairs hung the more-than-life-size oil painting -- probably now in a museum -- of that fabulous incident in the Boer War, when a pet dog saved the general's life by running back to the camp and fetching help. Hamilton was Kitchener's chief-of-staff. There the painting -- of the Boer War (1899--1902) -- showed the hero, lying in his blood, and the little dog barking beside him, on the ridge of a high precipice.

Imperialistic or not, this was Scottish household setting. The whole side of the huge entrance hall was taken up with a famous tapestry of the Battle of Langside: Mary Queen of Scots and all the contesting Scottish nobles on horseback facing each other. A Celtic spirit prevailed even here -- old ties, long refuted but not yet faded, were nursed. Sir Ian had a Scottish father and an Irish mother -- a black-haired, blue-eyed beauty, the daughter of Lord Gort. The portrait of Corinna Gort had, too, its place of honour in the house. Her son was of that trend that we like to call 'Celtic' through and through, brave and imaginative, witty and dashing -- a real lady's man. First opposed to my adoption, he came to care for me as I grew up, sharing with me what might be described as a kind of Gaelic--artistic conspiracy. Widely known as the 'Soldier Poet', he was a gifted writer and chronicled his adventures most vividly. A man of integrity, he stuck to the truth, when wielding the pen instead of the sword. The same cannot be said of his protégé Winston Churchill (who was never a man of the sword).

The lady of the house had, no doubt, certain Irish sympathies, but more of a romantic kind. Lady Hamilton was, for instance, one of the petitioners, signing the appeal to save the life of Roger Casement -- as a diplomat, once a guest in her house. Many of her closest friends were Anglo-Irish, such as the Leslies, the Gosfords, Claire Sheridan, to name a few. Well, I remember Shane Leslie, a gay and handsome boy, throwing me up in the air and catching me again on the terrace in front of the big French windows facing Hyde Park. The delicate beauty of Lady Lavery impressed me. Seeing me observe her shyly, she once put down her teacup and drew me towards her in a motion of tenderness I was not accustomed to. 'My little Irish colleen', she whispered. It was Lady Lavery herself who became the Irish cailín on the first Irish Free State money-notes to appear!

Looking back at the inner circle of friends, I get the impression that it hardly represented England. These families were not descended from those, so many of which, in Tudor times, obtained their lands, riches, and titles from the pillaging of monasteries -- a hard, cynical race, which was to cause me much untold misery in boarding schools. Superficially minded this circle of Hamilton friends may have been, but they represented culture and refinement, which is the only real nobility. The Scots and Anglo-Irish mixed with the cosmopolitans of London, their circle widened to include men of letters and artists of note. Foreign diplomats and men of military distinction from many foreign parts, where the old general had warred, were constant guests. Many a meeting of historical consequences came about in the house; many people of importance were brought together here under the crystal chandeliers in Number 1 Hyde Park Gardens.

Children, however, were very much at the mercy of their nurses.

In the great London entrance hall, shedding mystic light, in front of the beautiful stained glass windows, there was a long oak table. On the table were bowls of flowers, and between them were several enormous leather-bound scrapbooks. As soon as my nose could reach above the table, I was turning the pages, stiff with paste cuttings, marking stations of great soldiers' past achievements -- Ladysmith, Calcutta, Port Said, Gallipoli. I could spell out now the big capital letters of those exotic stations, between the pictures of people in uniform, carriages, stiff army parades . . . In between them came strange drawings -- caricatures of creatures appearing on the pages -- human beings?

'What are these now, nanny?'

'Huns! German bastards! Demons!'

'Real demons?'

'Ha! We gave them a good beating. We sure did -- just like the Irish. The Huns are no better than the Irish. Mark my word!'

With this, I was whisked away -- out into Hyde Park -- with my hoop.

The Huns? The Irish? Hadn't they always said I was Irish?

Later, having my hair dried before the nursery fire, I enquired to know about those Huns.

'Horns on them, and snouts too!'

'Did you see one?'

'I don't have to see one -- I can read papers, can't I? The like of them belong in a pig stall, together with the Irish!'

'But you said---'

'Fiends, devils, the lot of them!'

'But you said I was Irish!'

A snort was the answer to that. Nanny rubbed my head as if she would gladly knock it off my shoulders. My cheeks reddened, not from the fire alone. I would either have to tear away that fender and throw myself into the flames in despair or go up in arms at all this.

I made my choice.

The IRA could have bundled me up into a cannon and shot me off in any direction they deemed fit, from that day on.

I grew stubborn and proud.

That good woman from Kent, with only Saxon spite in her heart and fury in her voice, had achieved what those of her calling had been doing for centuries: kindling Irish patriotism into a fervent flame.

A nurse indeed!

Instinctively, I gathered the Huns with all their horns and snouts to my heart as well. And there they have stayed.

Lullenden was a great rambling manor in Surrey, originally built for one of the luckless wives of Henry VIII. It was given up when I was ten, because of the asthma it caused Lady Hamilton. My love of owls derives from the nest of fluffy balls I once discovered inside the cannon, captured from the Boers and brought back from South Africa, then left to rust in a field on the Lullenden estate, where it still well may be.

On the lawn, before the manor, stood a large weeping willow, also brought from abroad -- as a sapling from Napoleon's grave in Saint Helena!

Here we were not far away from the Churchills at Chartwell, and Sunday visits to and fro were more or less the rule. Well, I remember pushing a boy bigger than myself in his Sunday best into our artificial pond, when we were watching the goldfish. Not being of an aggressive nature, my nurse did not know what possessed me. I hope she was right in telling me, on my enquiring later, that the boy in question was Randolf Churchill. My action, alas, did not turn the course of history, but as a gesture in the right direction, I was later proud of the spanking I got for it.

On winter or Easter visits to the Riviera, as Nice was as English a colony as you could find anywhere, the house above the bay in Valescure was full of the same kind of visitors. One curious incident there has left dent in my mind. This time it was not through a spanking that I received a feeling of awe. In memory, I still see clearly the marks of the big, round paw and the claws in the smooth surface under the pine tree. Forests still backed the Riviera coast in those days, and my nurse, mistrusting both the people and the climate, preferred to walk me up into the shady forest glades. It was there we encountered the whereabouts of a bear, upon which I grabbed and rushed, screaming, downhill to safety inside the high garden walls of Lou Casteou.

Having reached the age of being less a doll than a nuisance, I was sent away at the age of six or seven to a boarding school. In such institutes I hence stayed. Arriving back in London for the Christmas holidays, I was one day confronted at the door with a new parlourmaid. Sir Ian hated butlers and demanded pretty girls to flit around him in the house, so parlourmaids, in blue uniform with cream-coloured collars and cuffs, did the butlers' job. 'Comiskey' this new subject was called, and she hailed from Ireland. I had not as yet studied the genealogies of my forefathers, and so was unaware of the noble standing of this offspring of the Cummascaigh of Dái Cuinn dynasty, but by her gentle manner sensed it. I resolved, fate had allotted to me a comrade-in-arms, a fellow sufferer wasting in foreign parts, and I lost no time acquainting the new parlourmaid with this state of affairs. Down the slippery marble flight of stairs and through the dark panelled hall I sped, across into the dining room with its French windows opening out on to the sun-terrace with gardens below and the park beyond. I knew I would find her there, putting the finishing touches to the dinner table. Like a gnome, crouching down beside the fireplace, I followed Comiskey around with my eyes, making her blush. How well our blue uniform matched her eyes, her hair, blue-black like that of Corinna Gort! At last, I cornered her, snatching her by the apron tail.

'Oh, Miss!'

'Comiskey, do you know something?'

'Yes, Miss Rosaleen?'

'I am Irish too! What do you say to that now?'

The front door pealed. The first visitors were arriving for lunch. Comiskey's business was opening that door, and here was this brat pulling her organdie apron askew and telling her that, as both of them were victims of faith, locked in enemy territory, they must look to each other for help and protection. The child was mad, sure!

'Oh, Miss, please! I have to go!'

In my ears, no doorbell rang, but the lilt of the loveliest, softest of Irish accents I was hearing for the first time. It went to my head like wine.

Comiskey must have been relieved when my holidays were over.

Nevertheless, when the next holiday came around, as school holidays are wont to do, there was Comiskey beaming at the front door. I soon had her cornered again, making her tell me all about Ireland. She was flurried, frightened of my English nurse, and now advanced as 'lady's maid' -- a powerful position.

A couple of years later, on returning from school, it became Comiskey's turn to snatch -- or rather, beckon -- me into the little side parlour beside the dining room. She was blushing worse that I had ever seen.

Comiskey was going to get married.

I was about twelve. Still in my navy blue school suit, hat, tie, black stockings, I crossed my arms and took an imperious air.

Comiskey looked quite alarmed.

'You are not going to tell me you are marrying an Englishman, because if you do, I will never speak to you again!'

Comiskey nearly wept with relief, joy, and pride. Something like 'mhaisce!' slipped from her lips. Micheál was his name, and wouldn't Micheál himself be the best Irish boy to ever set foot in London town!

I got to know Micheál -- a black Kerryman, if ever there was one. Comiskey left us when she married, and they got a caretaker's job just around the corner. The next time I came back from school, I was given permission to walk around alone and visit them. They were very happy, and soon this noble Ní Cummascaigh -- who was then around forty -- became a proud mother. However, not without receiving strict instructions from her young comrade-in-arms to give the child a proper Irish Catholic upbringing and an Irish name -- which was duly obeyed.

I was afraid that Comiskey got some blame for me stating my wish to become a Catholic, which caused a terrible stir. This was entirely unfounded. Nobody influenced me, unless it was Oliver Plunkett. It started in Tyburn.

Tyburn is, of course, the place of martyrdom of Saint Oliver Plunkett, in a place where London's ancient gallows stood. It is very neat in Hyde Park Gardens, and having found this out, I managed from time to time to slip out unheeded and run up Bayswater Road in direction of Marble Arch. Up a narrow staircase I leapt, tiptoed into the modest chapel, where perpetual devotion was held: Irish nuns always on their knees, Irish people moving in and out, saying a prayer, asking a blessing, lighting candles and so forth. It was to me also a place of consolation and grace -- above all, a place of revelation. Oliver Plunkett's fate made my anguish over Ireland's