The Final Curtsey Read Online Free PDF

initially thought she was a housemaid, feeling a shiver down her spine. I grew up with the story that there was a hidden room in the Castle, in which some sort of ‘monster’ had been
hidden – a tale told to a long ago heir on his twenty-first birthday – causing him never to smile again! The story was given emphasis when my mother’s generation, young and,
believing the story, went round placing white towels out of each window – and there always remained one towel-less window. I am reminded of Noel Coward’s anthem to the impoverished
aristocracy, ‘The Stately Homes of England’, the lyrics of which speculated about the fate of ‘an extremely rowdy nun, who was bricked up in 1491’ and meeting the Queen of
Scots ‘in a hand-embroidered shroud’. It helps, of course, to have an over-vivid imagination.

    The Elphinstone family on the steps of Glamis
    My Strathmore grandfather was an old-fashioned aristocrat in the best sense, deeply conscious of his heritage, unfailing in the discharge of his responsibilities, kind, courteous, and sporting
    too, regularly turning out for the Glamis cricket XI. Sometimes he would come down to breakfast practising bowling with a cricket ball along the castle corridors. He did not care much for a smart
    social life and was determined that his children as they grew up were not swept up into the set led by the then Prince of Wales, however alluring that might seem.
    My maternal grandmother was heavenly. She brought her children up without frills and they worshipped her. She had an unstuffy Christian faith and instilled in all her children her strong
reliance on the Almighty, together with an equally strong sense of social duty. She was a brilliant amateur pianist and had a gift for gardening and a capacity for making friends. She made life at
Glamis fun. The author of Peter Pan, Sir James Barrie, who lived nearby at Kirriemuir, would come to tea, and once on her birthday he was seated next to Princess Margaret, who was about five years
old. Listening to her child-like attempts at conversation he promised to include some of her utterances in his next play, and would pay her a penny in royalties every time it was performed. A mock
contract was drawn up, but the play The Boy David was not an overwhelming success despite containing some of Barrie’s finest writing.
    Princess Margaret, however, received her royalties, delivered in a bag to Buckingham Palace by the author’s secretary, Cynthia Asquith. In 1997, when the Princess opened the re-landscaped
site of the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens she was presented with a replica bag of pennies, which my sister, Jean, who was in attendance for the occasion took charge of, as
Ladies-in-Waiting do on these occasions. It was a blazingly hot day and the elaborate confectionery prepared for the tea party which followed the opening ceremony, due to be served in a marquee,
melted before they could be eaten.
    I seemed then to live in a very safe world. As a small child I was taught to say my prayers every evening with my mother and we all regularly attended church. On the reverse side of the coin we
were prone to cracking disgusting lavatorial jokes, but never, ever those of a sexual nature. The facts of life were a closed subject and I was entirely innocent and genuinely wondered where babies
came from. Perhaps we children were cushioned from harsh reality, although I knew poverty and disease were rampant in the slums of Edinburgh which was not so far away. But a good deal of charity
work was undertaken by those more fortunate and my mother was pivotal in this, having adopted one of the worst areas in the city, called Niddrie. My father also undertook public works: my
generation grew up to be obedient, respectful, and also tough.
    We were raised to believe that it was positively immoral to stay indoors regardless of the weather. One had to get outside and do something useful: chop wood, make a bonfire, pull out ivy, weed