David Profumo

Bringing the House Down

John Murray, 2006.

My parents did not wish a ragamuffin for a son, and, even on excursions to Regent's Park, Nanny would distract me from any activity that might involve conspicuous dirt. There were some private gardens nearby, to which we held a key, and here was garaged my red pedal-car, which I could drive sedately around the gravel paths without fear of mud appearing on my sandals. I was cosseted and spoiled, and was, I suppose, a regular little Caspar Milquetoast

Avoiding conspicuous dirt must have seemed ironic in hindsight. His father, John Profumo, was Secretary of State for War: the scandal that led to his disgrace, and its repercussions on the family, dominate this autobiography. The author, born in 1955, lived at 3 Chester Terrace until he was nine. The sensational events of 1963, the 'Profumo Affair', were still some three years in the future when he experienced the 'first indirect intimation of mortality...among the flowering cherry trees that lined the avenue leading to the park.'

I had been given a furry leopard with a zippered compartment in the lining designed, I think, for storing one's pyjamas. As we walked towards Queen Mary's Rose Garden, I scooped up as many as I could of the delicious pink blossoms and stuffed them for safekeeping into the belly of my new pet, intending back in the nursery to recreate a fragrant orchard of my own...The cuddly cat was forgotten until some days later when I opened it up and was assailed by the sour mash of the fermented petals. How could those crisp, coral-coloured flowers have betrayed me and become this mess of clenched and bruised tissue?