DIARY
JENNIFER PATERSON Why is it in this age of so-called equality that the baddie in a divorce case gets rewarded with half the family's world- ly goods? The case I know of consisted of the wife, who had brought no goods into the marriage, waltzing off with another man, whom she had met at a course, being paid for by her loving husband (marriage counselling I fear), setting up an adulter- ous liaison in the man's house and even trying to persuade the children to follow her there. The children wanted no part of this sordid scheme and chose to remain in their own home with their father. She, having broken all her marriage vows, sues for divorce and winds up with half of everything the blameless husband owns; and she has the dishonesty to keep it. He (the blameless husband) has to sell many loved objects to pay for her cupidity in order to keep the roof over his children's heads and ends up a nervous wreck on Valium for a time. The adulteress, on the other hand, has more money than she has ever had in her life, does not support the children in any way and is a bad example all round. It is an iniquitous law and should be rectified. Surely the baddie should be the one to be punished whether male or female? I feel for Mike Tyson even though he is in quite a different category.
Largest gathering of cultural figures in this century expected at the Dorchester 15 October 1988,' ran the news release from Boston University's office of Public Relations. 'Early confirmations from those planning to attend the event in the Ball- room of the Dorchester Hotel include Harold Wilson, Sir John and Lady Mills, Dame Alicia Markova; writers Mary Lavin, Eric Ambler, Leslie Charteris, Hammond Innes; actresses Dulcie Gray and Glenda Jackson and opera singer Elizabeth Legge-Schwarzkopf.' All this was to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the founding of the Department of Special Collections and its 20th-century archives at Boston University. Dr Howard B. Gotlieb was the founder and his efforts have succeeded in amassing the largest and most prestigious collection in the world of archival material from influential 20th- century figures. Barbara Cartland and George Bernard Shaw to name but two, Bette Davis and our own Sitwells, and endless diverse figures. They hope these papers will be donated but I found that several of our journalists get paid for them. Hammond Innes is donating his but only after death. Quite right. Paul Jennings, that wonderfully humorous writer (Why doesn't Punch snap him up? He would be a great editor) was keen for money. But what they all seemed to appreciate most was the arrival of birthday and Christmas cards, which appear on the dot. I do not know how many of these illustrious people turned up. I was looking for Beryl Bain- bridge, who was on the list, but she was probably at an auction. I did spy the great and good Markova swanning gracefully. It was a good party, the Americans do these things very well, even Kingsley Amis would have approved the drinking arrange- ments. There were some fantastic names to conjure with, smacking of the Marx bro- thers entourage, a Ms Smoki Bacon and a Mr Quakenbush, whom I fancied a lot. Hurray for Howard Gotlieb the great Bos- tonian collector.
Iam really rather uneasy in the country. I know most people love it and would stay there all the time if they could, but as I am not one for a good bracing walk in the rain I never know what to do except feel totally dependent on someone with a car which in the country reigns supreme. Also it seems to be nigh impossible to get fresh veget- ables in the country. As for dainties of any sort, forget it. Some poor man in Taunton wrote me a pathetic letter enquiring where he could purchase mushroom ketchup. On a recent Sunday I had to beg my host (a recalcitrant Roman Catholic) to drive me to Mass, always a slightly awkward man- oeuvre, but it turned out splendidly. The Mass was being said in an Anglican church as the Catholic Nissen but was being repaired and the kind vicar had put his very nice church at our disposal. The gospel was the one about the rich man and the eye of the needle, ref: camels. Our priest was a merry fellow, comparing his golf swing which was in need of expert advice, to the rich man not accepting Jesus' advice about selling up and following. This led in some mysterious way to the need for money (due to the repairs and new windows) ending with a plea for prayers to find the funds even if everyone didn't sell all their posses- sions and give to the poor. As he stated. `We can always have a miracle, who knows?' He then reverted to deaths and jumble sales. After Mass we sang an amazing hymn about 'give me oil', which sounded suspiciously like a cowboy i-yi-
yippy type number, then off we went to lovely Sunday lunch. BUT — my host, who is by no means skint and very generous to a good cause, sent the priest a cheque for the windows. So he got his miracle.
The Russian Tea Party given at Christ- ie's the Sunday before the sale of all the artefacts was to raise money for the Rus- sian Refugees Aid Society which runs two homes in Chiswick for old people. The host was the Duchess of Abercorn, whom I had imagined to be some venerable old lady. But she turned out to be a pretty young woman, descended from the Russian Emperor Alexander III and the poet Pushkin. Very suitable. The rooms were stiff with Tolstoys, Miloslayskys, Grocholskys and Galitzines etc, etc — very War and Peace — with beautiful daughters decked out in Russian costumes and great pearly headresses. Two black soutaned Russian priests from rival churches gave a nice touch of the Rasputins. There were princes and princesses, a balalaika band twanging away and a delegation from the Soviet Ministry of Culture dressed in Marks & Spencer blazers and grey flannel trousers. They were all drinking very strong lemon vodka or lemon tea with saucers of jam, a curious custom. (I re- member that an old Bulgarian friend of the family who married into the Scottish gra- tin used to take a saucer of jam and eat it under the table in the dining room.) Zakouskis and open peasant sandwiches were consumed and some tiny toasts with a few grains of caviar perched on top. A good time was being had by all and they made £2,304 net. I found the indomitable Betty Kenward (the real Jennifer's Diary) struggling with her coat, leaving as I arrived, her poor foot all bandaged but still in an elegant pump, her hair a perfection of ecru meringue. Quite a special dame.
You would think that these reporters from the media would have to have some form of education before getting their jobs. We are used to the indescribable behaviour to weeping mothers or other grief-stricken people on live television ('And how do you feel now that your whole family has been raped and slaughtered?') but the idiocy surrounding the Turin shroud had to be heard to be believed. They asked Cardinal Hume if the discovery that the shroud was a fake would affect the faith of the Roman Catholic community; they might just as well ask Archbishop Runcie if he would withdraw his allegiance to the Queen if the Crown Jewels were found to be fake. Both the shroud and the jewels are held in awe and veneration in their different ways but are certainly not articles of faith.
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