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Authors: Robert Goddard
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lasted and the public suspected our patriotism. And the war lasted much longer than I had supposed it would. So far from being virtually over when I left Capetown at the end of August 1900, it had nearly two years to run. The Boers resorted to highly effective harrying tactics and Kitchener, now the C-in-C, responded with a scorched earth policy, destroying homesteads and rounding up the Boer population in camps. In my maiden speech in Parliament, in March 1901, I deplored the breakdown of negotiations between Kitchener and Botha and questioned what purpose would be served by the gradual subor-dination of a people to the extent that, finally, they felt only mute hostility towards the mother country. Lloyd George congratulated me afterwards and C-B winked a sagacious eye. There was even 46
R O B E R T G O D D A R D
a quiet word in the lobby from Winston Churchill, now a Conservative M.P. but eager to befriend any fellow-newcomer to the House.
But the war did eventually end in May 1902. When news came that a peace treaty had at last been signed, I remember thinking of Gerald Couchman , whom I had not seen since leaving South Africa.
I wondered how he had fared there in the long extension of hostilities which neither he nor I had anticipated. As it happened, I went up to Lord’s one afternoon in June to catch some play in the Test Match. Seeing Fry and Ranjitsinhji, the most stylish of England’s batsmen , both out for ducks, I beat a hasty retreat and, reflecting that Couch’s aunt lived nearby, called round to seek news of him from my one-time hostess. Sadly, I learnt only that she had died the year before and that the house was now owned by strangers, who knew nothing of her nephew.
Peace in South Africa brought peace too in the Liberal Party.
Old feuds were forgotten and, now that the government could no longer rely on patriotism to bolster it up, thoughts turned to the next election and how the party might fare at it. The Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, retired and his successor, Balfour, developed a knack helpful to us Liberals of offending members of his own party.
One such was Winston Churchill, who crossed the floor of the House and became a Liberal in May 1904.
That spring had seen some family concerns draw my attention back to Devon. My brother had announced the previous autumn his engagement to Miss Florence Hardisty, the daughter of Admiral Hardisty of Dartmouth. Arrangements were going forward for an Easter wedding when my father died, quite suddenly, at Barrowteign. His last wish, expressed to my mother, was that the wedding should go ahead as planned. Some delay was inevitable, but I supported the idea that it should be as brief as possible. Accordingly, on a sunny St. George’s Day, I officiated as best man when the elder Strafford went down the aisle.
I confess that I found my new sister-in-law a rather dull embodiment of provincial worthiness, a sure sign that London was turning my head, and cared not for the insipid watercolour painting that constituted her principal recreation. Through no fault of her own , Florence made Barrowteign seem less like home than once it
P A S T C A R I N G
47
did, but mine was a lone and perchance over-sensitive reaction.
Florence prudently deferred to my mother in matters of household management and made a good, commonsense wife for Robert.
It was with some relish that I now devoted myself to events at Westminster. An early election seemed in prospect and we were all busy with an unofficial campaign. On 13 October 1905, I appeared in a supporting role with Sir Edward Grey, everybody’s tip for the Foreign Office should we win , at a meeting to support Winston Churchill’s candidature in north-west Manchester (his first in Liberal colours). An otherwise unremarkable occasion was rendered memorable by constant interruptions from an unlikely source: two young ladies. They stridently demanded of us a promise of votes for women , which they did not extract. I
R O B E R T G O D D A R D
a quiet word in the lobby from Winston Churchill, now a Conservative M.P. but eager to befriend any fellow-newcomer to the House.
But the war did eventually end in May 1902. When news came that a peace treaty had at last been signed, I remember thinking of Gerald Couchman , whom I had not seen since leaving South Africa.
I wondered how he had fared there in the long extension of hostilities which neither he nor I had anticipated. As it happened, I went up to Lord’s one afternoon in June to catch some play in the Test Match. Seeing Fry and Ranjitsinhji, the most stylish of England’s batsmen , both out for ducks, I beat a hasty retreat and, reflecting that Couch’s aunt lived nearby, called round to seek news of him from my one-time hostess. Sadly, I learnt only that she had died the year before and that the house was now owned by strangers, who knew nothing of her nephew.
Peace in South Africa brought peace too in the Liberal Party.
Old feuds were forgotten and, now that the government could no longer rely on patriotism to bolster it up, thoughts turned to the next election and how the party might fare at it. The Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, retired and his successor, Balfour, developed a knack helpful to us Liberals of offending members of his own party.
One such was Winston Churchill, who crossed the floor of the House and became a Liberal in May 1904.
That spring had seen some family concerns draw my attention back to Devon. My brother had announced the previous autumn his engagement to Miss Florence Hardisty, the daughter of Admiral Hardisty of Dartmouth. Arrangements were going forward for an Easter wedding when my father died, quite suddenly, at Barrowteign. His last wish, expressed to my mother, was that the wedding should go ahead as planned. Some delay was inevitable, but I supported the idea that it should be as brief as possible. Accordingly, on a sunny St. George’s Day, I officiated as best man when the elder Strafford went down the aisle.
I confess that I found my new sister-in-law a rather dull embodiment of provincial worthiness, a sure sign that London was turning my head, and cared not for the insipid watercolour painting that constituted her principal recreation. Through no fault of her own , Florence made Barrowteign seem less like home than once it
P A S T C A R I N G
47
did, but mine was a lone and perchance over-sensitive reaction.
Florence prudently deferred to my mother in matters of household management and made a good, commonsense wife for Robert.
It was with some relish that I now devoted myself to events at Westminster. An early election seemed in prospect and we were all busy with an unofficial campaign. On 13 October 1905, I appeared in a supporting role with Sir Edward Grey, everybody’s tip for the Foreign Office should we win , at a meeting to support Winston Churchill’s candidature in north-west Manchester (his first in Liberal colours). An otherwise unremarkable occasion was rendered memorable by constant interruptions from an unlikely source: two young ladies. They stridently demanded of us a promise of votes for women , which they did not extract. I
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