Matriarch

by Anne Edwards

  The letter was composed to soften a mother’s heart and open the way for reconciliation, and was sent, according to Wallis Windsor (as the Duchess signed the note) without the Duke of Windsor’s knowledge. It contained a plea that Queen Mary permit an audience with the Right Reverend John Dauglish, the Bishop of Nassau, who was a close friend of the Windsors, because “I thought if you wished to hear news of David ... He can tell you if all the things David gave up are replaced to him in another way and the little details of his life, his job, etc....”

  Queen Mary did, indeed, have an audience with Bishop Dauglish, and she showed keen interest in her son’s work in the colony and had asked many questions. Above everything else, the Duke of Windsor hoped to return one day to Britain with Wallis to make a new home and to be given some worthwhile job in Government. Little by little, he had accepted the fact that he could never resume his place in the family circle. In Queen Mary’s eyes, her eldest son had altered “the natural order of monarchy ... put aside what he had been born to fulfill until he died ... he had become something different and apart ...”

  By the autumn of 1946, Queen Mary was approaching her eightieth birthday. David had never ceased writing to her and she always replied, although her letters were cool and contained no private family news or feelings. She had not seen her son when he had come to England at the start of the war. The decision then had been most difficult, for David had pressed desperately for an audience. Those close to her—Lady Airlie, Lady Colville, Osbert Sitwell—all sincerely believed that she still loved David as a son, but that her sense of rightness and duty to the Monarchy disallowed any other course but the one she had taken.

  On his part, the ex-King never gave up hoping his mother would see him. He believed such a meeting would change everything within the family, except, perhaps, his sister-in-law Queen Elizabeth’s extreme enmity toward him, her bitter feeling that his actions were responsible for the King’s illness, and her fears that her husband did not have long to live. He also knew that the Queen Consort would stand in the way of his ever returning to England to live. But he was determined “to take one more hard try at drumming up interest in the Palace and Whitehall for putting me to work somewhere in the British Diplomatic Service, in the absence of making a place for me in Britain.”

  After a long and involved correspondence with both Queen Mary and the King, arrangements were made for the Duke of Windsor to fly from Paris to London to spend a week with his mother at Marlborough House.

  He arrived in London on October 5, alone. There was no member of the King’s household to meet him. His mother had sent her car and chauffeur. The slights cut deeply. A look of tremendous pain is evident in his expression in the news photos of his arrival. As he went to step into the limousine, “A cheering throng of spectators broke through the police cordon and surged around him, with cries of ‘Good old Edward!’ and ‘You must come back, Teddy! We want you back.’ Several people were thrown to the ground and trampled on as the besieging mob milled around the automobile.”

  He met his mother for the first time since the Abdication in her sitting room at Marlborough House. Over a decade had passed. Lady Airlie was in waiting, but, though her habit was to record such events, she made no record of the meeting or of any discussion with Queen Mary about the Duke of Windsor’s visit. Neither is there any mention of her son’s stay in Queen Mary’s diary. In some ways these omissions indicate her feeling that he was now a nonperson; in others that perhaps the confrontation was so painful she could not bring herself to record any part of it or even to acknowledge that it had occurred.

  He was given the largest guest room and one of Queen Mary’s staff to serve as his valet. From the Court record, it appears they had tea but never dined together. Their meeting must have been a tremendous ordeal for both of them, but piteously humiliating for the Duke of Windsor.

  His second day in London he called on Ernest Bevin,* the Foreign Secretary in Clement Attlee’s Cabinet, with a proposal that he be created Ambassador-at-Large to the United States. He visualised himself as a public-relations “front man.” “Such a job,” he later said in an interview, “would require my bringing Americans and visiting Britons together, providing a good table and a comfortable library for informal talk, and helping along what Winston Churchill called ‘the mixing up process.’ ” Ernest Bevin was not impressed by the idea and sent a memorandum to the Prime Minister to that effect. Even had the Foreign Secretary felt more inclined toward the proposition, Clement Attlee would most probably not have agreed to back it.

  The Duke of Windsor visited bomb sites in the East End of London with Queen Mary on October 7. The following morning, a Sunday, he accompanied his mother to church. Afterwards, he went to an unsatisfactory meeting with the King. On Monday, October 9, two days before he was originally scheduled to do so, he returned to Paris, having not yet been given an answer to his request.

  The Windsors were living at the Ritz Hotel at the time. Lady Diana Cooper saw the Duke in France and later remarked, “He had such an awful life in Paris. He couldn’t speak French, he didn’t enjoy night clubs and he had very few friends he could talk with.” Another friend wrote to a mutual acquaintance:*

  “He is so pitiful ... I never saw a man so bored. He said to me, ‘How do you manage to remain so cheerful in this ghastly place? ... You know what my day was today? ... I got up late and then I went with the Duchess and watched her buy a hat, and then on the way home I had the car drop me off in the Bois to watch some of your [American] soldiers playing football and then I planned to take a walk, but it was so cold I could hardly bear it. In fact I was afraid that I would be struck with cold in the way people are struck with heat so I came straight home ... When I got home the Duchess was having her French lesson so I had no one to talk to ...’ ”

  Such a daily schedule reveals a great lack of inner drive and incentive, and is especially pitiable for a man who was once King. Paris was a cosmopolitan city of much culture even after the vicissitudes it had suffered during the war. There were, as well, a monumental amount of restoration and rehabilitation projects in which he could have been involved.

  On January 7, 1947, just three months later, he returned to London alone, staying again with Queen Mary. He dined with Winston Churchill on January 8, had an audience with the King on January 9, and on the following day with the King and Mr. Attlee. He flew back to Paris on January 12, still without a final reply. It came at last on January 27, when the Prime Minister stated in the House of Commons that there was to be no diplomatic or official position given the Duke of Windsor. The answer was a serious blow to him. After that, he was to return to England on several occasions, but he brought Wallis and they stayed with friends, and during these visits Queen Mary would not receive him.*

  At the outset of 1948, those close to the King knew he was not well. The war years had depleted the little strength he did have. He had lost nearly twenty pounds in the course of the South African tour and never regained them. In January 1947, he suffered frequent crippling cramps in both legs. They became increasingly worse. By October, deterioration was perceptible; his left foot was numb most of the time, and the pain kept him awake. Then his right foot became affected. During the entire time, the King had kept a daily record of his health but had not consulted the Royal medical advisers. On October 20, he summoned Sir Morton Smart, † who was gravely alarmed and called in two other consulting physicians,‡ and finally Professor James Learmouth, § of Edinburgh, one of the greatest authorities on vascular disease in Great Britain.

  The King’s condition was diagnosed as early arteriosclerosis; there was grave fear that his right leg might have to be amputated because of the danger of gangrene. He was confined to bed but was able to conduct most of his duties. All danger of amputation had disappeared by the beginning of December. “I am getting tired and bored with bed,” he wrote Queen Mary on December 1. On December 15, he was sufficiently improved to attend the christening of Princess Elizabeth’s first child, P
rince Charles Philip Arthur George, born on November 14.¶ Still, his life had become that of semi-invalidisim. A right lumbar sympathectomy operation was recommended. The operation was successfully performed on the morning of March 12, 1949, at Buckingham Palace, where a complete surgical theatre had been established in rooms overlooking the Mall.*

  He was able to undertake a good many official duties by May and on June 9 drove in an open carriage to watch his Brigade of Guards troop the Colour, at which ceremony Princess Elizabeth rode at the head of the parade. Lady Airlie’s dire prediction loomed as too close to reality. Chances were slim that the King would survive a long reign, and his family daily saw the signs. He had greatly aged in the last two years and was ashen-coloured, thin, and had great saucers about his eyes. More and more, Princess Elizabeth was placed “at the head of the parade,” a diversionary tactic that worked well with the public, now ardently enthusiastic about the young woman.

  That same winter, Queen Mary had a return attack of bursitis which did not relinquish its grip for a year, and she had to resign herself during that time to the intermittent use of a wheelchair. By May 1951, her old vitality had returned, and she attended the opening of the Festival of Britain held to commemorate the centenary of Queen Victoria’s Great Exhibition. The main exhibition in London was arranged on a site on the South Bank of the River Thames, and Queen Mary toured it the following day, declaring it “really extraordinary & very ugly.”

  The King, jaundiced, shockingly thin, and a bit shaky, spoke on the steps of Saint Paul’s for the opening of the Festival of Britain. A cancer had developed on his left lung, and possible liver damage was feared. He was asked to stop drinking. On September 23, he underwent surgery to remove the cancerous portion of his lung. Queen Mary saw him before the operation and found him “very thin but very plucky & reasonable.” Three weeks afterwards, she thought he looked “wonderful after his long ordeal ... we had a nice talk.” He was believed to have cirrhosis of the liver, not cancer.

  Bulletins were issued on the King’s progress and, to discount any adverse rumours, a five-month tour of Africa was planned for Princess Elizabeth and the Duke of Edinburgh. The “Edinburghs” lived “across the road” from Queen Mary at Clarence House, and they came over the night before departure to bid her goodbye. Queen Mary did not go out to London Airport to see them off, but the King—gaunt, hatless—stood in a high wind, his hair blowing across his forehead, and watched his daughter regally mount the stairs to the Royal plane as he waved to her. He then drove directly to Sandringham to go shooting. “Suicidal,” one observer called his decision.

  Lady Cynthia Colville was in waiting at Marlborough House the morning of February 7 and having her breakfast with two other members of the Household, * when Major Edward Ford was ushered in. † He informed her that the King was dead. For the third time, Lady Cynthia had to convey terrible news to Queen Mary, who was in her bedroom having her breakfast in bed. As soon as she saw Lady Cynthia, she guessed the grim news. “The King?” she asked, her hand shaking as she moved the tray aside.

  “During the night,” Lady Cynthia replied.‡

  The new Queen, Elizabeth II, reached London from Nairobi at 4:00 P.M. the day following the King’s death. At 4:30, Queen Mary drove from Marlborough House to Clarence House. “Her old Grannie and subject,” she told Lady Cynthia, “must be the first to kiss her hand.” She wore her mourning clothes and carried a black umbrella. She was thinner now than ever before, and her strong jaw, high forehead, and high-bridged nose had the look of cast stone behind her black veil. She sat rigidly in the rear seat of the Daimler and turned and waved at the crowds gathered on the street as she passed through the gates of Marlborough House. She refused assistance as she walked the few steps from the car to the residence of the new Sovereign, using her umbrella as a cane. She was still dry-eyed and would remain so.

  Her elder granddaughter, now Queen Elizabeth II, waited to receive her. For the first time in the young woman’s life (she was twenty-five), she had not been the one to make the approach. Despite her grief, the shock, the newness of it all, she reacted as Queen Regnant. She wore a slim black dress and the single row of pearls that had been given to her by her father, a brooch, and pearl-and-diamond earrings. Though small in stature and rather dwarfed by the tall, craggy Prince Philip, who stood slightly behind her, Queen Elizabeth II held herself in such a manner and with such great control that her attitude commanded the room.

  Queen Mary walked to her. Queen Elizabeth extended her hand, and her grandmother and subject took it and kissed it lightly. “God save the Queen,” she said in a strong voice that had the ring of a declaration.

  The Lying-in-State was on February 11 at Westminster Hall. Chips Channon records that “the Great Hall was cold, splendid and impressive ... a few paces behind [the King’s coffin] the Royal Family followed, walking in measured paces like figures in a Greek tragedy. First walked the young Queen, all in black but wearing flesh-coloured stockings; behind her, to the right, was the Queen Mother—unmistakable with her curious side-ways lilting walk. On her left, was Queen Mary, frail and fragile, I thought with her veil and her black umbrella and steel-coloured stockings. I was very sorry for her as she must have known and realised that she is next.”

  Queen Mary decided not to go to the interment at Windsor on February 15 and asked her old friend, Lady Airlie, to come down from her home in Scotland to be with her. The two old women—both in their eighties, both the very symbol of the grand dame—greeted each other warmly in Queen Mary’s sitting room at Marlborough House, where they were to watch the funeral procession pass directly before the huge bay window. They sat alone together at the window, looking out into the grey gloom of the cold winter day.

  “As the cortege wound slowly along,” Lady Airlie recalled vividly, “the Queen whispered in a broken voice, ‘Here he is,’ and I knew that her dry eyes were seeing beyond the coffin a little boy in a sailor suit. She was past weeping wrapped in the ineffable solitude of grief. I could not speak to comfort her. My tears choked me. The words I wanted to say would not come. We held each other’s hands in silence.”

  All of Queen Mary’s energies were directed toward the plans for the coronation. She made an expedition to Kensington Palace the first week of May to study the details of Queen Victoria’s coronation robes, which she felt should form a precedent for those of Queen Elizabeth II. Now, as in her childhood and youth, Great Britain was ruled by a Queen, and the idea thrilled her.

  Her eighty-fifth birthday was May 26, 1952. “Nice fine day, not so hot,” she wrote in her diary. “My 85th birthday! spent a hectic morning with endless presents arriving & lots of flowers—Mary kindly came at 12 & helped me, we had lunch & tea together—Between 2.30 & 4.30 a number of my family came to see me, very nice of them—hundreds of letters, cards etc. arrived—we tried to deal with them—I felt very much spoilt & had a nice day in spite of my great age.”

  The date of the coronation was set for June 2, 1953. Queen Mary was failing and she knew it. She let it be known at Buckingham Palace that if she died in the interim of the year, the coronation must not be postponed. But her spirit remained vital. “I am beginning to lose my memory,” she told Osbert Sitwell, “but I mean to get it back.” She accepted an occasional invitation to dinner and kept up her style—the toques, the jewels, the hair fringe. She drew up a new will and reorganised the catalogues of what she called “my interesting things” to ensure that all should be in proper order for the new Sovereign.

  February 1953 was “horrid and cold,” but Queen Mary still managed to take a drive through London. She was suffering high blood pressure and hardening of the arteries, and spells of dizziness began that kept her more safely indoors. She was seldom alone. Some member of the family always paid a daily visit. In the early weeks in March, the young Queen visited twice, despite the pressures of her position and the work of the coronation. Lady Airlie had been warned not to make Queen Mary talk on account of the cough that was troubling her,
so she chatted away about trivial things. The day Lady Airlie was to return to Scotland, she sat by her dear old friend’s bed, conscious of the perfection of everything around her: “... the exquisitely embroidered soft lawn night gown—the same as those she had worn in her youth—the nails delicately shaped and polished a pale pink; the immaculately arranged grey hair. Her face had still a gentle beauty of expression; no trace of hardness as so many faces have in old age, only resignation. As I kissed her hand before leaving her I noticed the extreme softness of her skin.” The parting was difficult. The two women had shared more than forty-eight years; they shared a philosophy. “I must go on ‘áfin,’ as your father would have said,” Lady Airlie wrote her daughter; and Queen Mary had said to her lifelong friend, Lady Shaftes-bury, the day following the death of King George VI, “... one must force oneself to go on until the end.”

  On March 18, Queen Mary wrote to the Duke of Baena, who had sent her a catalogue of a recent Goya Exhibition in Basel. Amongst its illustrations was a portrait of Goya’s small grandson. “I feel weary and unwell,” she admitted, “but your charming catalogue of the Goya pictures has given me great pleasure. I particularly like the portrait of Marianito Goya with the silk hat—as one sees it was painted with great love.”

  On the morning of March 24, Queen Mary slipped into a coma. Parliament was in a state of inaction all day while the men in Government waited, as Chips Channon phrases it, “for the glorious old girl to die ... the rumour flew round that she had at 4.02; there was an atmosphere of hushed excitement. Winston came into the chamber ... the dreaded announcement was expected any moment.” An hour later, Clement Attlee, leader of the opposition, came out of the Prime Minister’s room and announced that Queen Mary was unconscious, but still alive.