Empire view
Growing up I was very aware of my grandfather’s fame. The Earl Mountbatten of Burma was a huge, dashing character. When we travelled with him we went to special, secret rooms in airports and had the privilege of never waiting in a line. On official duties he would be dressed in fairytale uniforms, with police escorts to whisk him through red traffic lights, and on family holidays in Ireland, bodyguards were part of our scenery.
I was also aware of my father’s fame. In the 1960s and 1970s my father, David Hicks, was never off the covers of magazines or out of the papers. His designs had set the world alight, and this, coupled with his flamboyant personality, drew attention wherever we went.
My mother, on the other hand, was simply ‘Mum’. Although she had not a clue how to boil an egg, or wash her own hair, she was quietly present. But if your great aunt was the Tsarina of Russia and your grandmother a royal princess, washing your own hair was not a task that fell to oneself. And when your childhood was spent in the company of nannies and servants, why would you need to learn to boil an egg? However, my mother not only knew the names of the schools I had been to, she had even been to them. My father, fearing them too hideous and common, could never do so himself.
India with her grandfather, the Earl Mountbatten of Burma
As a child I would often hear my mother, at a lunch party, say to a bemused guest, ‘Oh you do remember Queen Sãlote of Tonga, don’t you? Well…’ because when you were related to every European royal court, and Noël Coward and Douglas Fairbanks dropped in for tea, you assumed everyone did know everyone.
Growing up I understood that against the backdrop of my father’s dazzling, fast-paced, exotic world, and my grandfather’s public obligations, my mother had chosen a softer life, of horses and dogs and countryside. She lived vicariously through my father’s relentless social life and although she enjoyed hearing the gossip from London, Paris and New York, she was much happier to be secluded in the company of Daphne du Maurier.
As a child I heard hints that my mother had witnessed extraordinary things, and sometimes, whilst pouring tea for her dachshund, she would remark casually about meeting Martin Luther King or Haile Selassie and his pet black panthers, which so reminded her of Sabi, the lion she was brought up with. ‘A Lion?’ I would gasp. ‘Oh yes and Rastus, the honey bear, who only my grandmother could control, by prodding him sharply with her parasol.’
By all accounts my mother’s upbringing was unusual. My grandmother once left my mother and aunt in a hotel in Hungary and unfortunately lost the address. As summer turned to winter the little money the governess and nanny had been left ran out and they became increasingly anxious when still no sign of help came. Four months later my grandmother suddenly reappeared to collect them, having nally retraced her steps. ‘But didn’t you need therapy after being abandoned for such a long time?’ I asked my mother. ‘Oh darling, your generation is much too indulgent and emotional,’ was her response.
The exiled King of Spain came to live with them and no one quite dared to ask when he was leaving. During the Blitz, their home, Broadlands, was transformed into a hospital and for a desperately lonely year my mother and aunt were sent to live with Mrs Cornelius Vanderbilt in New York. Upon returning to a glum, barren boarding school in England my mother was introduced as ‘The little girl who had run away from the war’.
When my grandfather was appointed the last Viceroy of India, my mother accompanied her parents to Delhi. Often asked why I was named India I used to say because my grandfather was the last Viceroy, but actually I think it might have been more that my mother came of age in India. Amid the turmoil of political change and on the verge of civil war, she fell in love with the country.
Lady Pamela, India, Domino
I suppose having lived through that childhood, and been witness to the joy of Indian independence and its terrible aftermath and then spending months on tour with the Queen as one of only two ladies-in-waiting, you would want to retire to the quiet of the Cotswolds and hope for nothing to happen, ever again.
‘But your stories need to be captured, Mum.’ I recently insisted. ‘Who else knelt in front of Gandhi’s funeral pyre and was with the Queen at the moment she became Queen?’ Possibly because of my name, our shared sense of humour, our passion for rose and violet creams, my mother and I are kindred spirits, so I felt in a position to do a little bullying.
We have travelled often together, swum with dolphins, explored Russia, ridden on the pampas of Argentina, and seen wild game in Africa. She has flown to join me at the births of all my children and I even once, daringly, left her to babysit. When I returned, my mother was deep in her novel, the baby unattended and screaming from his pram in the garden. ‘Mum! The baby’s crying,’ I said. ‘Oh really, darling? How odd, I thought that was a partridge.’
As I write, my mother and her beloved elder sister are on a three-week cruise of West Africa. I called them as they steamed towards Cape Verde. They had just been through the lifeboat drill. As they retreated to their cabin, the pair agreed if the ship went down, they were going with it. Getting into a lifeboat was far too exhausting.
Daughter Of Empire: Life As A Mountbatten by Pamela Hicks, is published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson, priced £20.
I was also aware of my father’s fame. In the 1960s and 1970s my father, David Hicks, was never off the covers of magazines or out of the papers. His designs had set the world alight, and this, coupled with his flamboyant personality, drew attention wherever we went.
My mother, on the other hand, was simply ‘Mum’. Although she had not a clue how to boil an egg, or wash her own hair, she was quietly present. But if your great aunt was the Tsarina of Russia and your grandmother a royal princess, washing your own hair was not a task that fell to oneself. And when your childhood was spent in the company of nannies and servants, why would you need to learn to boil an egg? However, my mother not only knew the names of the schools I had been to, she had even been to them. My father, fearing them too hideous and common, could never do so himself.
India with her grandfather, the Earl Mountbatten of BurmaAs a child I would often hear my mother, at a lunch party, say to a bemused guest, ‘Oh you do remember Queen Sãlote of Tonga, don’t you? Well…’ because when you were related to every European royal court, and Noël Coward and Douglas Fairbanks dropped in for tea, you assumed everyone did know everyone.
Growing up I understood that against the backdrop of my father’s dazzling, fast-paced, exotic world, and my grandfather’s public obligations, my mother had chosen a softer life, of horses and dogs and countryside. She lived vicariously through my father’s relentless social life and although she enjoyed hearing the gossip from London, Paris and New York, she was much happier to be secluded in the company of Daphne du Maurier.
As a child I heard hints that my mother had witnessed extraordinary things, and sometimes, whilst pouring tea for her dachshund, she would remark casually about meeting Martin Luther King or Haile Selassie and his pet black panthers, which so reminded her of Sabi, the lion she was brought up with. ‘A Lion?’ I would gasp. ‘Oh yes and Rastus, the honey bear, who only my grandmother could control, by prodding him sharply with her parasol.’
By all accounts my mother’s upbringing was unusual. My grandmother once left my mother and aunt in a hotel in Hungary and unfortunately lost the address. As summer turned to winter the little money the governess and nanny had been left ran out and they became increasingly anxious when still no sign of help came. Four months later my grandmother suddenly reappeared to collect them, having nally retraced her steps. ‘But didn’t you need therapy after being abandoned for such a long time?’ I asked my mother. ‘Oh darling, your generation is much too indulgent and emotional,’ was her response.
The exiled King of Spain came to live with them and no one quite dared to ask when he was leaving. During the Blitz, their home, Broadlands, was transformed into a hospital and for a desperately lonely year my mother and aunt were sent to live with Mrs Cornelius Vanderbilt in New York. Upon returning to a glum, barren boarding school in England my mother was introduced as ‘The little girl who had run away from the war’.
When my grandfather was appointed the last Viceroy of India, my mother accompanied her parents to Delhi. Often asked why I was named India I used to say because my grandfather was the last Viceroy, but actually I think it might have been more that my mother came of age in India. Amid the turmoil of political change and on the verge of civil war, she fell in love with the country.
Lady Pamela, India, DominoI suppose having lived through that childhood, and been witness to the joy of Indian independence and its terrible aftermath and then spending months on tour with the Queen as one of only two ladies-in-waiting, you would want to retire to the quiet of the Cotswolds and hope for nothing to happen, ever again.
‘But your stories need to be captured, Mum.’ I recently insisted. ‘Who else knelt in front of Gandhi’s funeral pyre and was with the Queen at the moment she became Queen?’ Possibly because of my name, our shared sense of humour, our passion for rose and violet creams, my mother and I are kindred spirits, so I felt in a position to do a little bullying.
We have travelled often together, swum with dolphins, explored Russia, ridden on the pampas of Argentina, and seen wild game in Africa. She has flown to join me at the births of all my children and I even once, daringly, left her to babysit. When I returned, my mother was deep in her novel, the baby unattended and screaming from his pram in the garden. ‘Mum! The baby’s crying,’ I said. ‘Oh really, darling? How odd, I thought that was a partridge.’
As I write, my mother and her beloved elder sister are on a three-week cruise of West Africa. I called them as they steamed towards Cape Verde. They had just been through the lifeboat drill. As they retreated to their cabin, the pair agreed if the ship went down, they were going with it. Getting into a lifeboat was far too exhausting.
Daughter Of Empire: Life As A Mountbatten by Pamela Hicks, is published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson, priced £20.