BOOK REVIEWS

HENRY ‘CHIPS’ CHANNON, THE DIARIES: VOLUME 1, 1918-38

Edited by Simon Heffer (Hutchinson, £35)

In the annals of the twentieth century’s greatest diarists, the same names usually appear. Harold Nicolson, naturally. James Lees-Milne, if you must. And if you’re of a military disposition, Viscount Alanbrooke’s war diaries are fairly extraordinary. But the man who has been perennially cited as the best of all of them, an Anthony Powell character made scandalous, gossipy flesh, was the Conservative MP Sir Henry ‘Chips’ Channon. American by birth, he later repudiated his home country, calling it ‘a menace to the peace and future of the world’ and saying, ‘If it triumphs, the old civilisations, which love beauty and peace and the arts and rank and privilege, will pass from the picture’.

Channon’s reputation does not lie in his political achievements; he never rose any higher than MP for Southend and failed to obtain the peerage that he assiduously schemed towards. His open support for Neville Chamberlain and appeasement may well have stymied any further advancement, but there is also the suspicion that his baroque private life may not have helped, either. Nor did he achieve any distinction during his life as a writer. He published three books, two novels and a work of non-fiction, which were received coolly and have not lasted beyond his death in 1958. Instead, he is lauded and feted for what are believed to be the most indiscreet diaries ever kept by a British public figure.

Knowing the dynamite that he was leaving behind him, Channon asked that they be kept under lock and key in the British Museum until 2018. Times change, and an expurgated selection was published in 1967, edited by Robert Rhodes James. Until this year, anyone who wanted to take stock of Channon’s life and work had to rely on this engaging but somewhat inconsequential selection, which offered some tittle-tattle but only tantalised readers as to why the well-connected would go white with fear when they learnt that Channon had kept a diary. But now, Simon Heffer has edited Channon’s diaries into three volumes, which will be released between now and next year. The first has been released to a blitzkrieg of hype, with serialisations and news stories, to say nothing of copious sales. Do they justify the build-up?

The answer is ‘sort of’. For historians of events such as the abdication (ahem), Channon offers an intimate and first-hand account of the goings-on behind closed doors that may not materially affect any of the information that we currently have, but adds interesting and relevant detail to the well-worn stories that many readers may feel that they know inside-out. He is fascinating on the events leading up to Chamberlain’s return from Munich with his worthless piece of paper in his hand; we are so used to viewing 1938 as a failure that it is salutary to be reminded that there were many who believed Chamberlain to be little less than a conquering hero. And there are countless telling portraits of the great and good (or not-sogreat and not-so-good) of the time. I especially enjoyed his description of Lady Beauchamp as ‘a sugary, well-bred demon encased in fat and privilege’, and HG Wells as ‘difficult and petulant… he betrays his servant origins’.

“Until this year, anyone who wanted to take stock of Channon’s life had to rely on an engaging but somewhat inconsequential selection, which offered some tittle-tattle but only tantalised readers as to why the well-connected would go white with fear when they learnt that Channon had kept a diary. But now, Simon Heffer has edited Channon’s diaries, released to a blitzkrieg of hype”

“Spanking and vampirology aside, the diaries are a strange mixture of the fascinating and the dull. Perhaps three volumes remains an over-indulgence, and the salient material could have been compressed into two, or even one lengthy book. And Dr Heffer’s editing is dutiful, at times extremely helpful and sometimes bewilderingly literal”

As for Channon himself, a bisexual roué who was the terror of both the ladies and gentlemen, he comes across as profoundly dislikeable and snobbish but endlessly entertaining. There is a wonderful moment when he comes across the Catholic priest, scholar and vampire aficionado Montague Summers, who pantingly begs to be allowed to spank Channon on his naked buttocks; Channon accepts, on the libertarian grounds that ‘one should really always do anything once’. Although Channon notes, ‘I began to wish I had not come, and quivered with nervousness’, ‘my sense of humour wedded to a love of adventure triumphed.’

Spanking and vampirology aside, the diaries are a strange mixture of the fascinating and the dull. Perhaps three volumes remains an over-indulgence, and the salient material could have been compressed into two, or even one lengthy book. And Dr Heffer’s editing is dutiful, at times extremely helpful and sometimes bewilderingly literal. Most people reading this book would probably be aware that Henri Matisse was an artist, or that ‘toujours’ means ‘always’, but we are informed of these salient facts in footnotes, alongside considerably more interesting titbits and details.

Yet there is one egregious error that a scholar and historian as exacting as Dr Heffer should surely have been aware of. When the book was published, there was some attention paid to the detail of the newly crowned Edward VIII springing to his feet at a dinner somewhere in Belgrave Square and announcing, ‘I want to pump shit’. Whether this was seen as a statement of intent for his future reign, or simply a desire to defecate, it is a shockingly coarse moment. And, unfortunately, it arises from an editorial misunderstanding.

To ‘pump ship’ was a relatively common expression in the 1930s, meaning to urinate, and so Channon was recording a piece of hearty toilet humour from the new King. Yet the less becoming expletive was decidedly unregal, and so its inclusion here is a mistake that will undoubtedly be addressed in future printings. It makes one hope that the other volumes – fascinating though they will undoubtedly be – contain no such howlers. Chips’ reputation – to say nothing of Dr Heffer’s – depends upon it.

REVIEW ROUND-UP

By Alexander Larman and Gustav Temple

FALL: THE MYSTERY OF ROBERT MAXWELL

By John Preston (Viking £18.99)

I’d had very high hopes for John Preston’s Fall, no pun intended. Preston is a fine novelist whose first foray into non-fiction, A Very English Scandal, about the Jeremy Thorpe affair, was an excellent, pageturning read that also led to one of the best TV dramas of the past few years.

It is therefore somewhat disappointing to report that Fall is a superficial and lightweight account of Robert Maxwell’s life and death that doesn’t manage to say very much about its gargantuan protagonist, other than that he was a horrible, corrupt man with occasional forays into either extremely courageous and brave acts or, more normally, some wild piece of misanthropy that would usually lead those around him to have nervous breakdowns. Some of the more bizarre details entertain and enthral, and Preston writes in a lively and readable style, but this is a real let-down from a hugely talented author.

MONICA JONES, PHILIP LARKIN AND ME: HER LIFE AND LONG LOVES

By John Sutherland (Weidenfeld & Nicolson, £20)

The introduction and acknowledgements to the literary critic John Sutherland’s latest book hint at a tormented genesis, something expressed by the title. Apparently, Monica Jones began as a memoir of Sutherland’s friendship with the woman best known for being Philip Larkin’s most significant love interest; she taught Sutherland at Leicester University and went out drinking with him and other favoured students. Yet somewhere along the line, the book’s emphasis shifted into being a biography of Jones, using thousands of previously unpublished letters that she sent Larkin over the course of their long, tempestuous relationship. And then it shifted once again to encompass Sutherland’s thoughts about Larkin, whose presence in the title is far from accidental. The resulting book is, of course, revelatory and hugely interesting, but it also has a strangely apologetic quality. Sutherland clearly wants to take Jones out of her history-honoured place as merely ‘Larkin’s paramour’, but unfortunately her undistinguished academic career, frequently virulent anti-semitism and racism and dedicated alcoholism all combine to leave one wondering whether her guying as Margaret Peel in Larkin’s friend Kingsley Amis’s novel Lucky Jim was really all that unfair. At a time when issues of biography are rushing headlong into questions of both authority and taste, and where subjects are being cancelled, either by their authors or by their reception, one finishes Sutherland’s obviously heartfelt book and wonders whether it was really the book that he intended to write, or if another, more provocative, one might yet emerge from another source.

THOMAS HENNELL: THE LAND AND THE MIND

By Jessica Kilburn (Pimpernel Press, £60)

In another case of an increasingly familiar literary serendipity, this book came to our attention following the story of Eric Ravilious in the previous edition. Thomas Hennell’s name pops up in all studies of Ravilious and his circle, but this is the first full biography of the artist in over 30 years. It is a heavyweight, richly illustrated tome that would sit comfortably on the coffee table, although a pot of darjeeling might be a more appropriate brew. For Thomas Hennell, raised in rural Kent, was for his whole life in love with the English countryside, which he explored continuously on a rusty old bicycle.

His first encounter with Eric Ravilious and Edward Bawden, in 1931, came in a lodging house in Essex, where Hennell was washing at the old water pump. The two artists, themselves obsessed with rural England, were immediately drawn to this eccentric vagabond, especially when they saw his tweed jacket, made for Hennell by his friend Margery Kendon, dyed ‘as near as possible to the greyness of the bark of an oak tree’.

The tale of Hennell’s life takes a tragic turn when we learn that he suffered some form of

“When we see the copious reproductions of his work in the book, there is a heavy touch of the Van Gogh about them, the lush rural idylls seeming to writhe with some unnamable and sinister force”

Book Reviews

The Guest House, Cerne Abbas, ca.1940

“Hennell survived his brushes with madness, thanks to the support of his artistic community, and went on to become an official war artist in 1943”

mental collapse in 1932, spending the next three years in and out of mental institutions. When we see the copious reproductions of his work in the book, there is a heavy touch of the Van Gogh about them, the lush rural idylls seeming to writhe with some unnamable and sinister force. Hennell survived his brushes with madness, thanks to the support of his artistic community, and went on to become an official war artist in 1943. He survived postings in war-ravaged northern Europe, but it was a posting to the Far East that did for him, when in 1945 he was caught up in the struggle for independence in Java and completely disappeared. Author Jessica Kilburn offers the first full account in this book of what may have happened to Hennell, as well as a full account of his fascinating life and work. n