The Bellamy Saga

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The Bellamy Saga Page 12

by John Pearson


  Richard was worried about James. Not for his health—that soon improved. Within a fortnight all the yellowness had gone, the wrinkles disappeared, and young James Francis, improving on his weight at birth, was on the road to bonny babyhood. He still kept Nanny Webster up all night (“Good for him,” thought Richard), but he was much admired and made a fuss of, particularly by Marjorie, who adored him.

  What disturbed Richard was his own lack of feeling for his son. He who had so looked forward to him, who had been so thrilled at the idea of fatherhood, was sadly disappointed by the reality.

  Part of the trouble was that he never seemed to see him. Old Nanny Webster seemed to have taken entire charge of him, just as she had originally taken charge of Marjorie. As far as Richard was concerned, he wasn’t “James,” nor was he his son. He was a forbidding character called “Baby”; Baby was not allowed to be excited or picked up, Baby was not allowed to be disturbed. Baby was bathed, wrapped up and changed by Nanny Webster; and that, as far as Richard was concerned, was that.

  He also felt that Baby, in some obscure way, belonged to Southwold, not to him. The fact that he was born there, and not at 165, made him seem one of “them” to Richard. Also, there was all the business of the inheritance, which Richard found disturbing. He knew it was illogical, but he could not help resenting the way that whilst he was still officially dependent on his wife for everything, this son that he had fathered was already heir to all the Southwold riches. This seemed obscurely wrong and made it hard for him to treat the infant as an ordinary baby. As he told Marjorie, he really could not wait for Hugo to sort out his marriage problems, get himself an heir, and so relieve his family of its hideous responsibility.

  Hardly surprisingly, Marjorie found all this difficult to grasp. She was delighted at the idea that her son was heir to Southwold and she could still not understand (she never really had) the true extent of Richard’s resentment of her family. To her it was, as she confided now to Prudence, “really very tiresome and silly of him,” and she would never fathom quite how much Richard’s attitude to Southwold was bound up with his own self-respect, and to that strong vein of disappointment in his life.

  For her it was inconceivable that Richard could still be worried over money and the whole business of his wretched stipend. Her attitude, inherited from centuries of plenty and largesse, was that money was something one took for granted like the air one breathed. When she arranged for her whole allowance to be paid into the Coutts account in Richard’s name, she felt that the affair was settled—but it wasn’t. Richard never ceased now to be conscious of the fact that he lived, as he bitterly reflected, “almost entirely off a rich wife.”

  The bitterness was not alleviated by the pleasure that the money gave him: unlike Marjorie, he had inherited a bourgeois attitude to money. He was a puritan in this, as in much else, and he believed, deep down, that a man should earn his living and support his wife and family. The fact that Marjorie and now his own baby son were both potentially so much richer than he could ever be seemed not just wrong but curiously unnatural. He would have been hard put to it to explain his attitude on this. It was not strictly logical—as he would have been the first to admit—but just the same it troubled him. And since he never risked discussing it with Marjorie, she never even had a chance of understanding what was perhaps the deepest source of trouble in her marriage.

  Nor did she ever really grasp the differences between them over politics. These too were fundamental and very much bound up with Southwold. She was so much her father’s daughter that she took it for granted that politics, including Richard’s politics, had one essential aim: to preserve, assist, and encourage a society like Southwold. For her this was self-evident. For Richard not. And during this crucial summer of their marriage she was to find herself baffled—and quite often pained—by her husband’s behaviour.

  When young James Francis was only a few weeks old, history intruded into the new, nanny-dominated life of 165. Embattled old Mr. Gladstone’s long-lived Liberal administration finally collapsed, and both the Bellamys found themselves thrown into the rough and tumble of the hustings.

  It was a tough contest. Richard, with so much recently acquired political ambition, was determined to win. His opponent was equally determined. Since the last election the local Liberals had taken on a new man, a wine merchant called Tatham. He was bucolic, lively and energetic, a great enthusiast for lost causes, and he was popular. Unlike Richard, he possessed the common touch. His meetings were much livelier—and more crammed—than Richard’s, and whilst in theory the Conservatives should have been able to expect a landslide, Richard began to worry.

  True, he had a great deal in his favour: respectability (which his opponent lacked), a reputation as a concerned constituency man, and the name he had earned from his journalism. But the fact was that little of this cut much ice against the bounding tactics of the outrageous Tatham. Tatham kissed babies by the pram-load. (Richard insisted that this wasn’t quite his line.) Tatham imported droves of glamorous Liberal ladies for his canvassing. (“Ladies?” said Richard. “Surely not!”) Worst of all, Tatham made fun of him as “Dithering Dick” and “Bumbling Bellamy.” (“The man’s clearly a cad,” said Richard when he heard.)

  But cad or not, the Liberal was having an effect and Richard was not. After the first week of the campaign he was beginning to get worried. So was his agent, Pyecombe, a hardened old professional who knew a loser when he saw one.

  “Dodgy, extremely dodgy, Mr. Bellamy,” he said, puffing at a large cigar. “We must find something big to pull out of the bag, and no mistake. And quick’s the word, Mr. Bellamy. Quick’s the word!”

  Easier said than done. Richard knew himself and knew he couldn’t hope to rival Tatham in sheer popular appeal. He was no demagogue, no natural democrat. (To be honest, he disliked elections, and disliked the brute necessity of “meeting the people.”) But if he failed now, his whole career was finished, and with it his last shreds of self-respect. How could he ever face the Southwolds, let alone his wife and servants, if he failed? A hideous prospect, and he spent that first weekend (in those godly days there was no electioneering on the Sabbath) sunk in forboding and the deepest gloom.

  It was Marjorie’s turn to help. She had made two brief visits to the constituency: Richard insisted that it was too soon after the baby for her to do much more. But these two visits had been enough for her to see quite clearly what was happening. She said nothing at the time, but on that Sunday, when she saw Richard’s crumbling morale she spoke.

  “It’s no use pretending, is it, Richard?”

  “Pretending?” he said angrily. “Who’s pretending, Marjorie?”

  “Dearest, for heaven’s sake talk to me. I can’t bear to see you giving in like this.”

  “Marjorie, I am not giving in. It’s simply that for me this isn’t politics. It’s a bear-garden, and it isn’t me.”

  “You know,” she said softly, “there is one man who could save you.”

  “One man? Who on earth?”

  “Father. He’s in London. I think we ought to see him.”

  “For God’s sake, Marjorie, talk sense!” said Richard.

  But that night there were dinner guests at 165, Lord Southwold and his man, Matthews. They talked long and stayed extremely late.

  With the intervention of Lord Southwold into the Bellamy campaign, Tatham had met his match.

  “Everybody loves a lord”—the burgesses of Sutton did at any rate, and Southwold played the part to perfection. That Monday evening Richard had a rally of the faithful at the Constitutional Hall, and had prepared an earnest speech upon the virtues of “the New Conservatism.” His lordship changed all that.

  There was the rumble of a coach and four. A post horn sounded in the High Street, and Lord Southwold, clad in top boots, riding coat and fine silk hat, strode into the meeting. He paused to wave his whip at the crowd which his arrival had attracted in the street. They cheered. He raised his hat to them and the
fun started.

  His was an extraordinary speech—the very last thing Richard would have imagined to appeal to the working voters of this very ordinary constituency, and also the last thing that Richard would have put his name to. It was reactionary and sentimental. It poured scorn on “that common fellow the common man.” It said quite baldly that this had traditionally been a Southwold seat—and long may it continue. (At this everybody cheered.) When the chairman asked for questions someone asked, “Will Lord Southwold win the Derby this year?”

  “As long as you vote for Bellamy, I’ll do my best!” he said. To Richard’s puzzlement this brought the house down.

  And so the remainder of the campaign went on. Tatham did his best, but the presence of Lord Southwold and the blunders of Mr. Gladstone were too much. The initiative had swung decisively to the Conservatives. But somehow not to Richard. Increasingly he felt that this was no longer his campaign, but he gamely did his best to tell the voters what he believed and what he would do for them when he was elected. None of them showed much enthusiasm, but they voted for him in the end by a majority of over three thousand. Marjorie could never understand why Richard was not more excited, nor why he disliked the way the news appeared in the local paper.

  “Victory for Southwold Interest,” proclaimed the headline.

  As far as the country was concerned, the general election brought a baffling result. The Liberals were out, that much was clear. But who was in? That was anything but certain. The old party lines had broken, and there was no clear grouping now to form a government. The Tories were a motley crew, an ad hoc alliance ranging from feudal landowners like Manchester and Devonshire and Southwold to their avowed opponents, Empire-toting businessmen and radicals like Dilke and the hated Joseph Chamberlain. Richard was somewhere in between both groups, with his star hitched firmly now to Randolph Churchill. But the big question which would have to be decided was the question of the leader. Who was powerful enough and tough enough to unite the Tories and so lead the country? It was by no means clear, and Richard found himself disastrously involved in the negotiations that ensued.

  It was just two days after his re-election that Richard was invited by Lord Southwold to have dinner with him at the Carlton Club. Here in the hallowed sanctum of high toryism, his lordship cut a very different figure from the rumbustious, gallivanting Southwold of the hustings. It was another facet of this very complex man that Richard saw that night—Southwold the statesman, who, as Cartwright said, had once been tipped to step into Beaconsfield’s shoes as leader of the Party; Southwold the involved grandee who suddenly seemed ready to do battle for his class and for that threatened antique view of the England he loved.

  He was immensely dignified and Richard found himself suddenly in awe of him. He tried to thank him for his help in the election.

  “Help, Richard? Come, you flatter me. That was just slapstick comedy, but it’s what the people like. Still, I must say that the result encouraged me. A majority like yours shows what can be done. Reform has had its day. The Liberals are totally played out. The time has come for men like us to stand up clearly for the things that matter.”

  He leaned back, sipped his port, and stared at Richard with his pale grey eyes. “I have been sounding out my colleagues in the Lords. Most of them are with me.”

  “And Salisbury?” said Richard.

  “Who can trust a man like that? He tries to be all things to all men—Churchill and even Chamberlain. If he succeeds there’s not much hope for us.”

  “And so you’ll challenge him for leadership?”

  “Someone must. Whom else do you suggest?”

  Richard was shaken by the calm and the assurance with which his father-in-law told him his decision.

  “Why do you tell me this?” he asked.

  Southwold eyed him shrewdly. “Because, Richard, I must know if you are for me or against me.”

  Lord Southwold’s bid to lead the Tories was kept out of the press (the Party still possessed a knack for keeping its squabbles to itself), but during the next few days it came to be the one great point of speculation in the clubs and lobbies of Westminster. The rumours also reached Belgravia (as rumours inevitably do).

  Marjorie was thrilled. “Dearest,” she said to Richard, “it’s what we’ve longed for. With Father as Prime Minister, think of the boost that it will mean for you. Besides, it will be wonderful for him.”

  Richard agreed. What was less certain was whether a Southwold government would be so wonderful for the country—or the Party—but he judiciously kept such doubts to himself.

  Certainly the pace of Southwold’s movement was astounding: he had not underestimated the strength of feeling in the Party against the mood of change that had recently been so fashionable. Rumour had it that he could already count on a firm majority within the Lords and that a number of the old Whig families were tempted to his side. Rumour also had it that the Queen was contemplating whether to call on him to try to form a government. But there were other rumours too—more disturbing ones. In Birmingham, Chamberlain was already said to be threatening to join the left wing of the Liberals if there was any question of a Southwold government. Lord Randolph and the Tory Democrats were up in arms. Only Lord Salisbury, impenetrable as ever, was keeping what was known as “all his options open.”

  Richard did not enjoy the sudden prominence this development thrust upon him. A silence fell in his club the moment he entered. Informed journalists tried to talk to him. Elkins, the opposition whip, tried to tap him over Lord Southwold’s policy. He avoided all of them. Indeed, his inclination was to avoid all involvement in the squabble, but, unfortunately for him, this was impossible. Two days after dining with Lord Southwold, Richard received a summons he could not refuse.

  “So, my dear Bellamy,” Lord Randolph said, stroking his great moustache and speaking with that strange intensity he had, “the ties of marriage are proving stronger than the ties of principle.”

  “I’d not say that,” Richard replied uncomfortably.

  “What would you say, then?”

  “That it’s a matter for the Party to choose whom they will for leader. As a loyal member I shall accept …”

  “As a loyal member, poppycock, Bellamy! Forgive me speaking plainly, but I must. As a loyal member who is not entirely bereft of all intelligence, you must know that the choice of your father-in-law—fine man although in some ways I acknowledge that he is—would prove an unmitigated and unprecedented disaster to your party. It would split it down from top to tail. It would put everything you and I believe in back a hundred years. If, that is, it did not bring a bloody revolution to our streets.”

  Richard smiled. He was finding the Churchillian eloquence excessive.

  “Really, Lord Randolph …” he began.

  “And really, Bellamy, it’s no smiling matter. Salisbury’s the only one who can possibly unite us. You know it, just as well as I. Admit it, Bellamy.”

  “If I admit it, what then?”

  “Then, Bellamy, I think you must do something about it.”

  It was a painful interview that Richard had later that night with Southwold—and an historic one as well (although its true importance lies in the secret history of our times, which rarely finds its way into the history books).

  Southwold was cock-a-hoop at the support he was gathering, and it took Richard some time to convince him he meant business.

  “The other day you asked me if I was for you or against you. I have to tell you now that I’m against: firmly, irrevocably against.”

  Southwold look puzzled. “Richard, my dear boy—just as we’re winning …”

  “That’s just the point. You can’t win. I realise that now. If you win the leadership, you split the Party, and the country. It will be the end, not only of the Party, but of the things that you and I believe in.”

  Southwold was angry then, but Richard was implacable. Point by threatened point he spelled out what would happen if Lord Southwold took the leadership; a
nd finally his lordship listened.

  When Lord Salisbury stitched together his administration a few days later he performed one of the greatest feats of his career. As Lord Randolph had predicted, “Old Dead-Weight” had succeeded in keeping his jumble of a party somehow united. And although of course no one knew it at the time, it was to be this Salisbury administration that would rule the country for virtually the rest of the century.

  But although Salisbury kept his party together, his list of ministers had some notable omissions, Southwold among them. When he was offered the position of Home Secretary, he didn’t bother to reply. As a gesture this was totally in character, but it sealed his fate as a real contender for the power he longed for. He would continue as a symbol of an eighteenth-century England—increasingly eccentric and increasingly beloved—but his real chance was over.

  Paradoxically, Richard’s political career was badly damaged too. Lord Randolph, who was to become Salisbury’s Chancellor of the Exchequer, saw to it that Richard was rewarded by the offer of an Under-secretaryship at the Treasury. It was a key position. Given Richard’s undoubted talents at the time, plus Churchill’s patronage, it could have led him to great things. But as he wrote to Churchill in his private letter of refusal, how could he possibly accept political reward for the destruction of Lord Southwold? Perhaps a more ruthless politician could have done it, but not Richard Bellamy.

  One has no way of knowing whether Lord Salisbury ever knew how much he and his party owed to Richard; and anyhow, what great men can afford the luxury of gratitude in politics? By refusing office, Richard sealed his fate. Salisbury would not offer it again, and Richard would now be saddled with the reputation of Lord Southwold’s creature. It would take him years to live this down; yet Southwold never quite forgave him for betraying him.

  Marjorie never learned the truth of what had happened. It was probably as well, for it is hard to see how she could have forgiven Richard either. Instead, for her, those hectic early summer days always remained a mystery. She never understood quite why her father shied away from power when he appeared to have it in his grasp. Still less could she understand Richard’s refusal of Lord Salisbury’s offer.

 

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