Of bad oysters and kind lords
Lord Winterbottom saves my father--and the day
London, 1971
From their first visit, my parents were anglophiles. They became connoisseurs of high tea and experts at which hotels offered it for free to guests.
They even befriended a member of the House of Lords and his wife. My dad had eaten raw oysters a short time earlier, and his projectile vomiting caused the sidewalk around him and my mom to empty almost as fast as his gut.
The retching brought him to his knees. As my mother started to panic, a large black Rolls Royce pulled up. The chauffeur quickly opened the rear passenger door, and a distinguished gentleman practically lept from the backseat to my father’s side.
“Are you OK?,” he asked. “Can I help you.?”
Simultaneously, my father gasped, “I’ll be OK, thanks,” as my mother shouted, “We need to get him to a hospital!”
This was neither the first nor last time my parents disagreed, and the good Samaritan quickly took my mother’s side. He and his driver half-carried my father to the back seat and motioned for my mother to get in the front seat. At considerable risk to himself and his clearly expensive and well-tailored clothing, the kind gentleman sat next to my dad.
“We’re heading to the hospital,” he comforted.
“It must have been the oysters,” my mother explained.
With the sound of the word “oysters” my father let forth a loud moan. Both backseat passengers recoiled but then relaxed when they realized that the moan was the only thing emitted by my dad.
Somewhat calmed, my parents introduced themselves. Their savior did the same, making sure not to reach to shake my father’s hand.
“My name is Lord Ian Winterbottom,” he revealed.
Lord Ian and his driver stayed with my parents until my father was seen and treated at the hospital. The good Lord insisted on driving my parents to their hotel. As he helped my father into the hotel, he handed my mother his calling card. My mom offered sincere gratitude, as my dad nodded in grateful agreement.
“Please call me and let me know how he is doing,” Lord Ian said with sympathy and sincerity.
He might have suggested texting or emailing instead, but Al Gore hadn’t invented the internet yet.
Later that evening, my mother called with an upbeat update. The next morning, Lord Ian called their hotel and was put through to their room.
“Just checking in again,” he said. “If Mel is feeling better, perhaps you could come to our townhouse this evening. My wife can prepare a bland dinner. Mel needs his strength.”
Lord Ian had certainly earned the right to call my parents by their first names, and he insisted they call him Lord Ian rather than Lord Winterbottom.
Which is a good thing, since years later my father still giggled every time he said “Winterbottom.”
That evening, Lord Ian sent his limo to pick up my parents. By the time my parents were shuttled home, the two couples had become fast friends in a friendship that lasted over years and visits and even extended to me.
Beyond being a member of parliament, Lord Ian (who later became Baron Winterbottom) was active in government, politics and business. I recently read his obituary, which described, with British flair and humor, his adventures during World War 2:
“During the advance on Arras, France, in September 1944, Winterbottom proceeded on a mission in a borrowed Humber Scout Car devoid - as he discovered too late - of identifying signal flares. He was then shot up by friendly fire which destroyed both the car and his maps and wounded the driver. He continued cross-country on a lady's bicycle, ran into a German patrol, but managed to get away in the back of a horse-drawn baker's van hidden beneath the well-filled skirts of the baker's daughter.
Despite his wartime reputation for comical unorthodox exploits, Ian Winterbottom was a profoundly serious man and at that time a socialist.
My parents had told their new friends about me. Nonetheless, Lord Ian insisted I come stay with them for several days.
And so, less than a year later, I passed through Customs at Heathrow and entered the arrivals concourse. A liveried man held a sign with my name. I introduced myself, and he offered to carry my suitcase. I had not yet learned to pack light, and I’m convinced he was thinking to himself, “Why couldn’t this American have jolly well waited to visit until someone invented rolling suitcases?”
Or that’s at least how my mind’s ear heard it.
Lord and Lady Winterbottom welcomed me at their townhouse and told me not to unpack, because we’d be spending the next few days at their castle in the countryside.
While my memories of my stay have faded, I do recall walking with Lord Ian around the castle grounds and into the village. Each person we encountered bowed his head and said, “Good morning, m’lord.” Just like in the movies.
I also remember my bedroom. Whether the power was off or my room was simply off the grid, the only light in the evening came from a large candle on the dresser next to my bed.
For some foolish reason, I thought it would be a good idea to read a horror novel before going to sleep. As I read, the wind whistled through the trees making a sad and mournful sound. Although the window was closed, somehow a big puff of wind blew out the candle and plunged me into darkness. I could see nothing. I could hear only the wind and creaking floorboards overhead.
I won’t admit to being scared, but I did wait until the safety of sunrise to walk to the bathroom. Apparently, my fear of the dark was more frightening than a bladder that threatened to burst.