Janey: The Autobiography of Janey Ironside, Professor of Fashion Design at the Royal College of Art: An Autobiography by Janey Ironside

CHAPTER ONE

I was born and lived most of my life in India until I was ten years old. In fact, until the age of six I refused to speak English. My first remembered encounter with clothes was one Christmas when I was eight. My eldest brother and I had large, exciting looking parcels from my grandmother in England. He tore his parcel open and found a tricycle; I tore my parcel open and found a dress, upon which I instantly stamped in a fury, jumping on it again and again while my brother was peep-peeping and honk-honking triumphantly all round the room.

Before I could really destroy the garment – a Liberty dress, green shantung embroidered with cream-coloured flowers, very pretty as I now know – it was removed, and I was scolded for ingratitude. I had not read Jorrocks in those days, but I might have paraphrased his comment on receiving a horse as a gift – ‘I ’ates presents wot eats’ into ‘I hate presents that you have to wear.’

I was normally dressed right out of context – in 1928, when my younger girl cousin, Joan, wore short dresses and very short, frilly knickers, I wore natural-coloured holland smocks, embroidered and smocked in red, over buttoned and embroidered knickers, both reaching to my knee – a charming fashion, but of a former generation. This was due to our elderly and reactionary nanny, Nanny Barnes, who had strong feelings on respectability. In fact, she imbued me with a puritanical attitude to clothes, which survived in the face of discouragement, even when it was leaked through to me that I had not been invited to join a party to go to the local, very primitive, cinema, then known as the Bioscope, because I was always so badly dressed. I do not remember being particularly upset by this at the time. But the fact that I remember it now shows it must have sunk in deeply.

In the hot weather there was Simla for the women and children and Government officials. Dancing classes were held in the Viceroy’s house, and the annual dancing display in the Simla theatre. I enjoyed these as the costumes were planned beforehand so there were no knee-length knickers to be worn.

I remember being a Chinese lady (two fingers up and the two middle ones held down daintily by the thumb) teetering on in somebody’s kimono dressing-gown; a Scotsman in kilt and tartan, dancing a fling to ‘Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled’; an eighteenth-century lady in a cotton-wool wig made by my mother (who was only fairly good on wigs); and a white sateen dress with paniers, made by the local Indian tailor, in which to perform a minuet with my very mutinous brother, James, who was dressed in white sateen breeches, shirt with jabot, and cotton-wool wig. Then there was the Spirit of Autumn with bronze-coloured Benares scarves flapping all over the place (and some short knickers, borrowed from my cousin, under my arty shift). I also had to borrow a sleeveless vest as I, of course, only wore knee-length, sleeved, prickly, Chilprufe combinations.

The highlight of my dancing career was when I was chosen to be the Prince in ‘The Sleeping Beauty’. I thought that this was thoroughly good news and could not quite understand my mother’s moan about ‘another costume’. However, as usual she did her best and I appeared on the night in my brother’s minuet sateen coat and breeches with a dramatic blue sash across one shoulder to the hip, fastened with a paste jewel. The wig was the same as before, with a little more cotton-wool added, and the curl which had fallen so fetchingly over one shoulder for the minuet was now captured in a blue ribbon at the back of my neck.

As this was the great performance of the season, our dancing mistress herself made her appearance as the Spirit of Winter in a white tu-tu and paste tiara, and springing across the stage she threw favours to the audience in the shape of cotton-wool snowballs – with nothing inside them – oh what a disappointment! At the end of this tedious favour-throwing to suitably romantic music, Indian servants appeared with bouquets of flowers which were handed to her. She kissed the flowers, made the deepest of curtseys, and no doubt felt as good as Pavlova at a special performance. However, by now an army of nannies and ayahs were waiting to pounce on us, bundling us all up in coats and shawls and dumping us into our waiting rickshaws – the smarter of us having lettered names, or crests, on the sides to show that our parents had private rickshaws, and that they were not hired. We were tucked in half asleep and the rickshaw men, who had been smoking and dozing, got reluctantly to their feet. Our rickshaws were dark brown, and our rickshaw men wore tunics and knee-length shorts of brown cotton.

When it rained – and during the monsoon season the rain hurtled down – they wore brown macintosh hoods and capes, but whether in sunshine or in monsoon floods their feet were always bare to grip the uneven surfaces of the roads, which were little more than paths cut out of the mountain side. Two rickshaw men pulling in front, and one pushing from behind, were needed for children – for adults, two pulled and two pushed.

There were only two cars in Simla, one belonging to the Viceroy and one to the Governor of the district.

Our rickshaw men seemed cheerful, sometimes singing, sometimes spitting red betel-nut juice to the side of the path, and otherwise gossiping and laughing. This was, of course, because they were carrying the Chota Sahib and the Miss Sahib – they would not have dared to do any of these things when they were transporting my parents.

The other great event during the Simla season was the Black Hearts fancy dress party for children. We could never quite understand why ‘The Black Hearts’ should be the name chosen by the bachelors of Simla for their entertainments. To the great relief of all parents we could wear one of the costumes left over from the dancing display, so that there were several girls in eighteenth-century white satin paniers and cotton-wool wigs, and several boys in kilts and sporrans, with a sprinkling of Chinese ladies. The costumes of the Seasons were not popular with nannies, who muttered gloomily about colds and coughs, as it meant taking off our short-sleeved vests.

The climax of the party was the pulling of an enormous cracker filled with presents, for which we fought. Ayahs and nannies joined in grabbing for all they were worth so that some children had armfuls of presents, while children like us, with an old and disapproving nanny, got nothing, or with luck, a paper Japanese parasol in a cardboard cover for me, and a wilting balloon for my brother. I was quite contented with this but my brother suffered very much. I have rarely seen such rampant greed so obviously displayed, although it was not so much for the presents themselves as a form of one-upmanship among the nannies. ‘My Desmond got six presents’ – ‘My Philippa has got seven.’

It was quite a distance from the Simla Club, where these parties took place, to our own bungalow. Our nanny and my youngest brother, Anthony, went ahead in one of the rickshaws, and my eldest brother and I shared the other.

By then it would be almost dark, with the surrounding Himalayas disappearing behind clouds. The cliffside path seemed narrow and dangerous. Monkeys, and all other animals and birds chattered and screeched as the day ended, and that constant background to hill life – the sighing of wind in the pine trees – had an ominous sound. I remembered tales of rickshaws abandoned by the men when they felt that a bear or a leopard was near, and succeeded in making myself and my brother exceedingly nervous. It was blissful to get back to our oil-lamp-lit bungalow.

When the hot weather Simla season was over, the Government, including my father, who was then Deputy Foreign Secretary, descended to Delhi. The first part of our journey was by dhooli (a primitive type of travelling chair, carried on the shoulders of four men). My eldest brother and I were allowed to take turns on our pet donkey, or on one of the mules, whilst the Indian grooms rode and led my father’s horses. It was a very steep and winding descent, with wonderful views of the Himalayas. The menu for breakfast before any early-morning start was a soft-boiled egg for each of us, washed down with an unpleasant mixture of milk and soda water.

By the time we got to the little railhead of Kalka and our car, at least one of us was feeling sick, as well as Anthony, who was always sick on journeys. I had a sneaking conviction that the egg-milk-soda ritual had something to do with it.

Delhi in the cold weather was a wonderful place, with brilliant days and cold evenings, when we sat by the fire and my father read Kenilworth by Walter Scott or Vice Versa by E. A. Anstey to those of us who could understand.

By now my aunt and uncle (also in the Indian Civil Service) and their three children would have arrived. My cousin Joanie and I have always been ‘best friends’, so we joined the same patrol in the Brownies or, as they were called in India, the Bluebirds, in order not to indicate any racial feelings, and went to lessons and to parties together. Joan and her brother and sister still had the great advantage of a kind laisser-faire ayah, while we were dragooned by our unsympathetic Nanny Barnes. She had lived in India for many years, having come out as a young assistant nursemaid, and was in her sixties when she was with us. She hated almost all Indians, who to her were ‘natives’, and on the whole was not too fond of children either. She also had absurd ideas of modesty. I was not allowed into the bathroom when my brothers, aged eight and six, were having a bath and, if by any chance she had to share a bedroom with me, she would put up her umbrella between myself and her – she in long-legged, long-sleeved combinations. Her wrath when one was discovered peeping was terrifying. On one occasion she said that if I wasn’t careful the mark of Cain would appear on my forehead. As she did not amplify this, I was left in extreme apprehension, and looked constantly in the mirror trying to make out if there was anything to be seen under my fringe. Although no outward mark appeared, she succeeded in making me feel thoroughly guilty – a trait which has pursued me into adult life and caused me and others a great deal of unnecessary unhappiness.

Delhi in the winter was a time of endless children’s parties, with camel rides, picnics by the Mogul tombs, and tea in the grounds of the Delhi Club, where our favourite regimental band – the Gurkhas – might be playing. I shall never forget the smell of the band – a mixture of bianco, brass polish, sweat and spices.

I had to have two new party dresses for my last happy childhood days in the Delhi winter; one was made in yellow moiré silk with a fitted bodice and a full skirt. Two brown velvet bands crossed to the waist, with a bunch of little artificial flowers at the end of each ribbon. With this I wore dark brown lizard-skin pumps with heels one inch high. I was so proud of them that I never confessed that they were agony to wear, especially as we normally wore sandals. My second party dress was made of pink shot taffeta. Pink was my ‘favourite’ colour, and my cousin Joan was pushed by me into declaring that green was her favourite. This being settled I said with satisfaction, ‘Now we are like the rose and the leaves.’ Joan, who was always sweet-tempered, accepted the supporting role with good grace.

The pink dress was round-necked and short-sleeved (vests again) with the bodice reaching to the hips – the skirt was made up of three flounces. When I think of it now I realize that it would have been quite pretty if it had not had to be too long to cover those dreaded knee-length knickers – even I was beginning to rebel against them. It was hopeless to complain to our nanny as she would hint, in addition to the mark of Cain, at traces of Jezebel in my make-up. As I had seen starving pariah dogs tearing the carcass of one of their number to pieces, I was not anxious to provide myself for their dinner, so for the moment the insurrection was put down.

The New Delhi of Lutyens and Baker was growing up around us, but our Lutyens-designed bungalow was still on the outskirts of the new city. When we slept on the verandah at the back of the house we could hear the jackals and the hyenas calling. Somebody had told us that the jackals cried, ‘Here’s a dead Hindu-oo-oo!’ the hyenas asked ‘Where, where, where?’ and the jackals replied, ‘Here, here, here!’

So strong was the feeling of ‘home’ that we were not frightened. When there was a dinner party, one of our servants (we employed only one family during the whole of my father’s service in India – as one retired, a new, young one appeared) would bring us delicious game crisps and nuts and almonds. We adored these treats, and I think the servants’ feelings were a mixture of pleasing the children and doing our nanny in the eye, as she was not at all popular with them.

As we were driven to our lessons we saw the round Secretariat building gradually growing, and we saw the beautiful peasant women in their small choli bodices, with very full skirts swinging from their hips, carrying bricks and building materials in baskets on their heads, working in the great building scheme. Their silver anklets clashed as they walked, laughing and exchanging badinage. For the first time I realized that buildings, however grand, were made by individual people, and not by some boring sort of magic.

One of our treats was to go shopping in the car with my mother. Quite often she would go to the old shopping centre of Delhi – the Chandni Chouk bazaar – for materials and other things not available in the smart New Delhi shopping centre, Connaught Circus. We would sit in the car, with the driver leaning against one of the doors exchanging remarks with the passers-by, and watch the world of Old Delhi milling around us. Soon all the mutilated beggars of the area would collect around the car, banging their stumps of limbs against the windows and begging for money. We saw some terrible sights but, having been brought up in India, they were unfortunately not unfamiliar to us. Soon our driver would dispel the beggars, but they would come back again and again until my mother, accompanied by shop assistants carrying packages, would return to the car and we would honk our way very slowly through the crowds, back to Europeanized New Delhi.

One day we were waiting for my mother when a young man appeared with glasses and bottles of brilliantly coloured liquid. He said they were for us but, following in the footsteps of our nanny, I refused to allow my two brothers and small sister to be cajoled into drinking anything not passed by our parents. ‘It’s probably poisoned,’ I said. A great wail went up from the others, who liked the idea of nice brightly coloured drinks, but I was very firm. The young man who had brought out the bottles was getting more and more worried and appealed to our driver, who said something with a shrug of his shoulders, and when my mother appeared he explained the situation. She said that the drinks had been sent out by kind Mr Bagai and it would be very rude if we refused them. However, I felt that I had done my duty as the oldest of the family, and when I was handed my drink I thought it was very sweet and nasty and not worth all the trouble.

In 1929 we all came back to England, apart from my father who was not due for leave at that time. I had been told that I would be going to day school, but as ‘school’ in India had been lessons shared by several families, including Richard Wood, the son of Lord Halifax, then the Viceroy of India, and conducted by four charming Anglo-Indian sisters, I had no reason to be alarmed. I had no way of knowing that I had six years of more or less unhappiness ahead of me.

My grandmother and grandfather lived in Fleet, a kind of Anglo-Indian living graveyard, near Aldershot, in a house they had named Aram, which means ‘rest’ in Persian; very unsuitable as my grandmother hardly gave my grandfather a moment’s peace. I was billeted on them while my mother, two brothers and sister lived in a flat over a cake shop. At first I accepted the situation, although slightly afraid of both my grandmother and my grandfather (an ex-Indian Army colonel), but from the moment that I was fitted out with a grey dress, a purple blazer and a St Trinian’s type panama hat with a grey and purple ribbon, and dispatched to a nearby day school, I began to cry. No one was obviously unkind to me – quite the opposite – but I had been used on the whole to good food, and to eating as much, or as little, as I wanted. At this school we had meals that were unbelievably horrible to me. A typical meal was a pork pie accompanied by lumpy mashed potatoes and butter beans, followed by suet pudding, and we were forced to eat every crumb. Lunch was truly a pastry bread sandwich. However, after crying my way through a whole summer term, it was decided to remove me and to try another school, where I was extremely happy. Here I won my first and only medal for athletics for the high jump. I am afraid that it was not because I jumped so high but because the competition was almost non-existent. However, I still have the medal.

Then I began to hear the dreaded words ‘boarding school’. It had been decided that I should go over to Belfast to join the school of which one of my father’s sisters was the headmistress. I had met the whole of my father’s Irish family and their children during the summer holiday and, although I liked them all in their different ways, I was absolutely positive that I did not want to go to school in Belfast. Once again floods of tears persuaded my parents to change their minds and I was sent to a school in Sussex, where I think the expression ‘she likes it when she’s there’ was reasonably applicable. The fact that I suffered agonies all through the holidays dreading the return to school must in all fairness, I think, be attributed to my nervous and apprehensive nature. At this school we wore navy-blue, alpaca or serge, pleated gym slips, black lisle stockings (not too fine) and strange navy-blue felt pudding-basin hats. In the summer we wore straw pudding-basins.

The gym slip, hideous over our developing, or over-developed, figures, was girdled with a woven wool braid and the rule was that the slip should measure four inches from the floor when the wearer knelt down, extraordinary when you think of the many school girls who have since been sent home for wearing that very same length. In the evening we changed into our own clothes and spent most of our time knitting jumpers very laboriously in all sorts of elaborate stitches. We also knitted, or crocheted, fashionable ‘bobby’ caps for ourselves.

We were not supposed to wear sleeveless dresses, but as it was the 1920s and an era of sleeveless dresses, obviously this rule was hard to enforce. I had a sleeveless, yellow silk crêpe dress for the school ballroom-dancing class, but it was a great embarrassment to me. No one had ever mentioned that there were such things as deodorants, or razors to shave armpits, so the more squeamish among us tried to dance with our arms clamped to our sides while the half circle of sweat under our arms became larger and smellier every week. How anyone voluntarily bore with the sweaty smell in the dancing room I do not know. Unfortunately, I was taller than most of the other girls and so nearly always had to be the man, and this habit stuck so that all my future dancing partners, however fond, would moan, ‘Don’t try to push me around – you are supposed to follow.’

It was not till then that we began to realize what it was like to have fathers working in India. We were never ill-treated as were Saki and Kipling and many other Victorian Anglo-Indian children, and my mother and her sister tried to organize matters so that one or the other of them was in England for the holidays, as our two families had now joined together. Obviously each member of our joint family preferred it when their own mother was in England, but the times we dreaded were when we were left to the mercy of our grandmother – our grandfather having previously died of a heart