Boston-born Hazel ascended from her Irish roots to become the quintessential Society Queen of Chicago, and later London, where she lived a delicate dance between two worlds: one with her esteemed husband, Sir John Lavery, a portrait artist to royalty, and the other with Michael Collins, the daring Irish rebel whose fiery spirit ignited her heart. Together, they formed a love triangle that echoed through the corridors of power at 10 Downing Street, London.
Hazel's wit and charm touched on the lives of the who's-who of England including Winston Churchill, George Bernard Shaw and Evelyn Waugh. The image of her memorable face graced the Irish note for close to half-a-century.
The drawing room was a flutter with politics and conversation.
Finally, I piped in. “Quite the contrary, I’m just a simple Irish girl at heart,” I repeated, like some sort of ongoing mantra. “Simple” sounded silly as I sat there in an ornate sage-colored tea party dress with intricate embroidery and delicate tailoring in tiers of gossamer finery. Of course, we knew I was anything but a simple Irish girl, though I had a dreamy romantic view of what it might be like.
None of them dared to shatter my fantasy.
Our neighbors, Winston Churchill and his wife Clementine, along with the group of politicians were dumbstruck by my Irish beliefs as we gathered in my home for afternoon tea at 5 Cromwell Place.
Nevertheless, when none of them challenged me, I carried on, speaking of the kindness of Ireland, how my Father had raised me to believe in my heritage and how we planned to someday explore Galway to meet the rest of the Martyn clan. Without him I’d have to do that on my own... “Although my beloved John did take me for my first visit to Killarney House, to see Lord and Lady Kenmare,” I said, “They seemed smitten with my love to learn about all things Ireland.” Leaning over, I patted John’s hand. “When was that, my dear?”
“1913,” said John, proud of his timeline skills.
“And we went again just a couple years back to Lord Wimborne, the Lord Lieutenant, who was serving, of course, during the time of the Easter Rising. His home was stunning. Reminiscent of our American President’s White House. I’ve profound sympathy for the Irish and their welfare.” As my lips moved verbal stories of my ancestry, I knew my auburn hair glowed that feisty flare of being Irish. My eyes blinked a delicate green that day, more than hazel brown. Yes, Ireland beckoned my soul, and my Irish eyes were finally smiling. “So,” I exhaled, “If indeed you want the Anglo-Irish war over, dearest Winston, then tell Lloyd George to give the Irish their independence.”
“Are you out of your bloody mind?!” snapped Winston.
Leaning forward, I refreshed his Earl Grey tea from the silver pot that sat between us for pause.
“No,” I said, “I’m bloody serious.” Then setting down the pot, I sat back cool as a cucumber as the men broke into an awkward chuckle. “Laugh if you like, but Winston, if you want something to turn out different then you have to do something different.” They infuriated me but I had to hold my ground, glancing over at Clementine for female support. All she could do was shrug. My eyes egged her on.
“Maybe Hazel has a point?” Clementine added.
“You too?” said Winston. “My own Mrs.?”
“Winston, really?” I said, “Do you want to control something or someone that doesn’t want to be controlled? Have you considered just sitting down and perhaps, well, speaking to them?”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” John piped in.
“Precisely,” said Winston, placing down his Earl Grey cup to grab a ginger biscuit from the tray. “Those Irish boys have committed treason, the entire lot of them! Then they disappear into the night. Like cowards!”
“But...” I interjected.
“But nothing, Hazel,” he scolded. “This is more complicated than feasting over a turkey dinner to sign some documents with the enemy. If they indeed are cut from us, it could mean the end of the British Empire!”
“Oh, dear,” said Clementine.
Winston continued. “Not to mention the large Protestant population in the north – in Belfast, well, they refuse to join the Catholics of the south for their ridiculously sought independence. What am I to do? Just abandon Northern Ireland who have been true to the Crown?” Winston dabbed the napkin to his mouth and rearranged himself in the chair. “Hazel, I cannot, I will not, go down in history as that Secretary of State, who took on the Irish plight.”
“You’re right dear,” said Clementine, dabbing the linen napkin to her lips. “That Michael Collins is behind all of this political division.”
“Oh, pish posh,” I snapped. “It’s how the press has portrayed him, is all.”
“I have to agree with my wife,” said John. “Go on and tell them, Hazel. Tell them how you met the Michael Collins years back...”
Winston stopped nibbling his biscuit. All other teacups came to a standstill. “You’ve met him?” he asked.
“Yes, at the post office, nearby in Kensington. It was quite a while back. He was young but quite charismatic. Very polite.” I swallowed hard. “And if I do dare say, an extremely handsome fellow.”
“So, I’ve heard,” said Clementine, giving me a quick wink.
“They say he’s like a movie star. Constantly surrounded by women. They’ll go to great lengths to do anything for him.”
“Well, that’s rather suggestive,” said Winston, surprised by his wife’s sexual innuendo...
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