A spiffin' gel, in my opinion

The obits in The Telegraph are usually interesting, sometimes surprising and often fascinating.  Yesterday there was one on the late Mrs. Sarah Baring (nee Norton), once described as having "an 18½in waist and reputedly the best legs in London."  She died on February 4th at the good age of 93 years.  In her way she typifies, in so far as any one individual can, a certain type of British upper-class 'gel' with character.  Born the daughter of Lord Grantley she was raised mostly in Scotland.  In 1937, aged 17, she was despatched to Munich to learn German as part of her education:

In later life she reflected on her impressions of the Nazis: “Hitler and his entourage used to take tea in the Carlton Tea Rooms in Munich, and my girlfriend and I would sit at a neighbouring table and pull faces at him. They knew us by sight and knew we were English, so they just pretended we weren’t there. We weren’t arrested, because at that stage the Germans were still being frightfully nice to us. All over the city there was a terrible feeling of fear — you could feel it, sense it, almost smell it. But by the time I left, I could speak German fluently, which was to have a profound effect on my future.”

On returning to London, natuarally she partook of 'the season' and as her godfather was Lord Louis Mountbatten she moved in high society circles.  However, her reminiscences concerning her and her friends are rather surprising in this lax age of ours:

In an interview in 2000, Sarah Baring insisted that in those days the girls in her circle who danced the night away at the 400 Club or the Café de Paris were paragons of virtue: “Nobody told us anything about the facts of life. We were all ignorant, and if we had known we’d have thought it disgusting. Certainly, I and all my close friends would have considered ourselves defiled if we hadn’t come to marriage as virgins. Even after you had become engaged, it made no difference. Virginity lasted right up until the wedding night.

“My mother had died before I got married, so my aunt, Kitty Brownlow, was supposed to tell me the facts of life. But all she said was: 'Don’t worry too much if it hurts — it gets better.’ I thought sex was just for procreation. At deb dances there were a few girls of whom we’d say 'They do it, you know!’ — though perhaps all they did was cuddle and kiss behind bushes. But even that was definitely disapproved of. I never heard of any pregnancies, and can remember no sex scandals at all. If boys tried to pounce, the word soon got around. They were described as NSIT — Not Safe In Taxis — and girls warned each other to avoid them. ”

The name Kitty Brownlow instantly made me take notice because, by yet another of those weird coincidences which seem to be dogging me around these days, only a few days previously a friend had sent a 'get well' postcard to the 'Memsahib' featuring a magnificent painting by Frederic Leighton of the Countess Brownlow (1830-96).  Presumably the Countess was Kitty Brownlow's mother-in-law.

Anyway, a year later the band played the last waltz and war began!  Despite her 'genteel' upbringing, Sarah went to work building Spitfires, as I say, in her way, typical of her class at its best.  However, her word-perfect German had not passed unnoticed and soon she was ordered to attend a labour exchange in London where her German was tested and then she was told to report to Station 'X' in Bucks.  This, of course, was Bletchley Park:

Sarah Norton had never heard of Bletchley Park, and when they arrived they were assigned to Hut 4. “Nobody explained anything,” she recalled. “You were merely told that pieces of paper in German would come through and you had to take out any salient information, put it all on to a filing card with the coordinates, and index it. The information we were dealing with was obviously
decrypted. Even then we didn’t know the whole picture. We just did what we were told.”

Sarah Norton worked on the Naval Section index, helping to provide details of the U-boats to Hut 8, run at that time by Alan Turing, of whom she once said: “[He] was immensely shy, especially of girls... I once offered him a cup of tea, [and] he shrank back as if I’d got measles or something. He was wonderful. We were all very proud of him.”

On VE day she went to a cocktail party given by her aunt, Lady Brownlow, and there she met William Waldorf Astor, the eldest son of Viscount Astor and the formidable and famous Lady Astor MP.  Five days later they were engaged but, alas for true love and despite having a son, the marriage ended in 1953.  She went on to marry a Colonel of the 11 Royal Hussars and if I tell you that their regimental history goes back to 1715 you will instantly understand how posh they are - well, you will if you're English!  Even so, that marriage, too, ended and she never married again.  She is survived by her son, now the 4th Viscount Astor who is - and here is why, despite my occasional sneers, I just love the English upper-crust - Samantha Cameron's stepfather. It's the connections, you see, I just love 'em!

A beautiful and, I guess, intelligent woman with whom I would love to have had dinner simply to look at her and listen to her.  On a suitable occasion I shall raise a glass in her memory.

 

 http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/9873999/Sarah-Baring.html

 

Comments

[Hank]

David

Judging from my parents pictures she stole the hair style from my mother. : -)

Yes, a truly great lady.

(Your link is to the first Viscont Astor here is the third
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Waldorf_Astor,_3rd_Viscount_Astor)

[rogerh]

Noblesse Oblige old boy. Yes there is something admirable about the best of that era.

[Able]

Ah yes, when 'class' meant more than simply being a bigger drunken/drugged/violent/abusive oik than the working (or nowadays non-working) class.

When ladies acted like ladies rather than either 'ladies of the night' or merely testosterone deficient versions of males (and consequently men acted like gentleman, with manners, respect and 'protectively' towards them).

I knew I visited this establishment for a reason. Explain? Why for the education of course! I have wondered for years (possibly decades) just why a certain delightful Colonels daughter, a colleague at university, described me as NSIT (whilst I now cannot dispute that limited description I am a little miffed that it both failed to mention, with that particular lady anyway, I was not to be trusted anywhere else either, and that it was said to a certain Professor (female I hasten to add) who had just performed my viva - I never even considered that as a route to better grades. Damn!). Now, of course, I am completely trustworthy having to be given six weeks notice, a doctors appointment pre and a chiropractors post just to flirt with a lady - ah dear! Why is it when I finally get my head together my body has fallen to pieces? Youth is wasted on the young - the ungrateful buggers.

[David Duff]

Thanks, Hank, the job of editor is yours for the asking!

I feel for you, Able, er, in the nicest possible way, of course!

[Andrew Duffin]

Sam Cam's stepfather?

Is he the guy busy making £millions from windfarm subsidies while ruining the Lincolnshire countryside in the process?

Or is that her actual father?

Forgive me if I don't love them quite as much as I should.

[ortega]

I wonder whose obituaries will be read in fifty years time and how will they compare to the ones like this one that we read today.

[JK]

Yeah Ortega, I'm figuring the pickling by then'll have worn off Keith Richards.

[Andra]

I recently read "Enigma" by Robert Harris, about Bletchley Park. It is a novel (oh no!) but I believed the story totally and found it very enjoyable and quite feasible.

[David Duff]

But, Andrew, if the toffs weren't making bucketfuls of dosh they wouldn't be half as interesting!

Ortega, my obituary will be read in 50 years time by those with sleeping problems!

Without knocking Robert Harris and his book, the teal-life Bletchley was much more interesting - at times, unbelievably tense and exciting - and also hilarious given the number of genuine eccentrics working there. Turing, himself, was famous for chaining his tea-mug to the radiator, and according to Sarah Baring:
"She could not help but be struck by the eccentricities of the place: “There was one cryptographer with red hair and a red beard, and he studied Japanese in the evenings as a relief from his cryptography. But in the winter he wore a blue pixie hood on his beard. A pixie hood’s the thing you put on babies’ heads. ”

[JK]

Yo David?

I'm kinda clueless what with all the "Briterishisms" you're alus tossing about. I did bookmark Malcolm's

http://www.peevish.co.uk/slang/

but the only other place I knew to search for possibilities on this:

"...the teal-life Bletchley..." was the American Crayola Crayons website where I found:

http://www.crayola.com/explore-colors/teal.aspx

which, incidentally, didn't do me much good. I'd figured if it was the usual Duff's Cock-Up DM would've translated it for D&N's American audience - so I figured it had to be An Extraordinary Duff's Cock-Up beyond even the superhuman abilities of DM.

Anyway David, I was wondering (kinda like Able mentioned in a 'some-ere's else comment) are we all elderly gentlemen summarily destined [in our's not your's] to experience our 'cock-ups' as befits the occasion - or like David Duff's each and everytime efforting a communique'?

[David Duff]

Bloody hell, JK, I need Bletchley Park ('teal' or real) to decipher the syntax of your sentences! And allow me to remind you that 'Duff's cock-ups' are an essential part of the charm of this rather quaint, old blog. It's like England, itself, the cracks and fissures are showing but add a certain , er, character!