My mother maintained that he looked like a bit of Stonehenge

From Trying to Please by John Julius Norwich.  Page 104.  

The worst moment for my parents in all those Embassy days came in June, 1945, when Winston Churchill was defeated in the general election and the Labour party was returned to power. My father had never been a career diplomat; a Conservative politician, he had found himself Ambassador only because Churchill had thought him the right man to deal with his bête noire, de Gaulle. Now that the Conservatives were out, it seemed more than likely that the Cooper family would very soon be out too. That we were not was due entirely to the new Foreign Secretary, Ernest Bevin. Rough-hewn—my mother maintained that he looked like a bit of Stonehenge—he had left school at eleven and was the warmest and most delightful of men. My parents loved and admired him, and he loved them in return. His affection for my mother was such that, one evening when she was showing him to his room she found herself seized in a huge bear hug and asked for “one sweet hour.” Poor Ernie never had his hour; but soon afterwards, when the Foreign Ministers Conference opened in Paris and he was spending a night or two a week at the Embassy, she certainly gave him a wonderful time. There was one memorable summer evening after dinner when she packed him into her open car and drove him up to Montmartre for a drink in the Place du Tertre. He enjoyed every moment of it; the people around of course recognized him and cheered “Eh, voilà Ernie! Bravo, Ernie!” and he enjoyed that too. Could anyone imagine doing that with Gordon Brown?

Most evenings when he was staying with us ended up round the piano. My tone-deaf father was always trying to drag him away to discuss the conference; but Ernie, once settled in, would not be shifted. He knew all the old music hall songs by heart; my mother knew a good many of them; I, fortunately, was able to vamp adequate accompaniments; and away we went. Daisy, The Old Kent Road, Down at the Old Bull and Bush, My Old Man said Follow the Van—his repertoire was endless. Occasionally I would relinquish my seat at the piano to the Defense Secretary, A.V. Alexander. He too played by ear, in many respects far better than I did; but having been brought up a strict “Methodist, he played everything like a hymn, in four part harmony—often with hilarious results. One evening, I remember, when the sing-song ended, we discovered that Ernie’s detective had fallen sound asleep in the best armchair; when we woke him, he was copiously sick on the carpet. Ernie looked at him and smiled indulgently. “Poor chap,” was all he said, “he must have had a bit too much.