The Intrigues of Jennie Lee
Page 20
“Ramsay MacDonald is my father. My mum confirmed it. That’s why I went home. I had to find out.”
Frank remained silent. Then the doorbell rang. He rose from the table went to answer it, knowing full well he could say nothing to anyone about what he’d just learned. Jennie moved to the lounge and found an inconspicuous seat. Perhaps the arriving MPs wouldn’t notice she was already there, still there, had never left? They’d have the tact not to draw attention to a fact that might embarrass Frank. Nine men trouped into the room and took roughly the places they’d left the night before.
When they were settled, Frank began.
“Look everyone,” Frank said to them, “Things seem to have changed since last night.” The words secured everyone’s attention. “The King is coming back from Scotland this morning. So obviously there’s a crisis coming.”
More than once voice spoke, “How’d you know, Frank?”
The lie was immediate. “Hack called me this morning from the Evening Standard.”
This was one of Beaverbrook’s papers. It was a plausible lie.
The voices spoke again, competing against one another with questions, guesses, suggestions.
“Perhaps the PM’s going to ask for a dissolution.”
“An election, now? That’s a terrible risk.”
“Not if we’re really going to do something, the government needs a fresh mandate.”
“Has Ramsay Mac suddenly found some guts?”
Frank kept a poker face, though he knew all these responses were terribly wrong. He raised his hands.
“Friends, we’ve no idea what’s going to happen.” The others made no reply. “Let’s wait another day. Let’s meet again tomorrow morning, shall we? Then we can see where we are.”
Jennie and Frank could feel the deflation, as their friends’ excitement about action, any action, waned. Frank went to the door and the others took the signal, filing out into the square, some going left, others right.
Frank waited till they were well away from the door. He turned back toward Jennie standing at the threshold of the lounge.
He spoke quietly, “I think you should get in touch with Mosley. Tell him to come back.”
“Yes. I was going to do that, actually.”
She wouldn’t tell Frank how, but she’d already decided to go round to Ebury Street and ask to use the instrument there. Mosley’s man would know how to reach him, and besides, a trunk call from his flat would not arise suspicion.
* * *
It wasn’t difficult to get Mosley to the telephone. The connection across the Channel and down to the Mediterranean was surprisingly clear. The servant passed the instrument to Jennie.
Before she could speak the voice came, “Mosley here.”
“Look, Tom, the Duchess asked me to say that you’re to come back to England straightaway. Things are afoot politically and there may be an opportunity for you.”
“For the New Party?” Mosley sounded hopeful.
“I don’t know, maybe for your party, maybe for you to re-join Labour and—”
“Won’t do that, Jennie.”
“Listen, Tom, to re-join Labour as leader, replace MacDonald, perhaps even succeed him as prime minister.”
“What are you saying? Is there really going to be a crack-up straightaway?”
“Looks very much like it. We’ll know more in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Very well. I’ll fly tonight. Be there in the morning.”
“Fly? Didn’t know you could. Be careful.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was the very same morning that the King’s sleeper pulled into Kings Cross. He’d slept poorly, anxious about the intervention he was now committed to. In all his years as King, since the death of his father Edward VII, in 1911, George had tried to be cautious, correct and disinterested. Even at the worst of the Great War, when the politicians were at each other’s throats and ambition regularly overbore the nation’s interests, he’d kept aloof. But now he couldn’t, wouldn’t. Someone had to think of the country first, instead of his own interests. Only he could do that, George knew, just because his interests and the nation’s interests were one and the same! All night long on the journey south, he thought back to his cousin, the Tsar, how the socialist revolution had destroyed his country and taken his life in the same paroxysm. He could still remember how innocently it started, the dispatches from the legation at Petrograd, day after day, a drip that became a stream and then a torrent, culminating in the news from Yekaterinburg that Nicky and all his family had been murdered by the Reds—the socialists. He’d been right, he knew, to refuse Cousin Nicky asylum when the Reds offered to send him. They might have been brothers, but George would not allow Nicky’s contagion to endanger his crown. Now it was happening again, and to him. Make no mistake. It’s the thin edge of the same wedge. He said it over and over to himself until he was satisfied that he was convinced. It jolly well isn’t going to happen here. He was going to take matters into his own hands. Constitutional niceties be damned!
Coming down the steps from the sleeper coach he saw his private secretary, Colonel Wigram, waiting a few feet down the quay. George appreciated his sensitivity. The man just knows instinctually how much space to give his sovereign.
“Well, Wigram, any news?”
“Prime Minister’s duty, sir, and he’s coming to see you this morning. Thinks it’s the usual weekly audience. I’ve set an appointment for 10, sir.” He paused and took the silence as an invitation to continue. “I’ve had several calls from people taking soundings—Stanley Baldwin, and Dawson of The Times has rung several times. Told me to speak to deputy governor of the Bank of England for an opinion.”
“Deputy? Why not Montagu Norman himself?” This was the Governor of the Bank.
“Ah, he’s retired ill to Canada for a long rest. Said he couldn’t take the strain and left last week.”
“Well, what did…”
Wigram supplied the name, “Harvey, the deputy governor.”
“Go on man, what did he say?”
Wigram looked up and down the quay. No one was in earshot.
“Actually, he telephoned me before I could ring him. J.P. Morgan wired him from New York, asking whether the cabinet was going to accede to the May Report recommendations. That’s why he rang me.”
“Well, we may know this morning, eh?” The King almost snorted his irritation. He led the way to the Palace Daimler, ignoring the London policemen saluting as he passed.
* * *
An hour later the King was in a naval uniform waiting in a sitting room from which the dustsheets had been pulled moments before he entered. Wigram knocked and entered, followed by MacDonald, looking almost sheepish, a boy brought before the headmaster for a beating he knew was richly deserved. He bowed and brought the King’s right hand to the vicinity of his lips. This sufficed for George V.
Knowing what his Prime Minister was about to tell him, all the King said was, “Well?”
“Your majesty, I regret to report that the cabinet have not yet be able to come to a conclusion about the budget cuts the May Committee has recommended.”
“Not yet? What the blazes are you waiting for, man?” Then he calmed down. “Please take a seat, Prime Minister.”
MacDonald did so, but not before the King seated himself.
“See here, MacDonald. You’re the indispensable man. It’s your duty to make your cabinet take the hard decision.” He looked for some glint of appreciation in the man’s eye, some spark in his doleful countenance. “Only you can bring the country out of this impasse peacefully.”
There was only resignation in MacDonald’s voice. “But, sir, I can’t impose the cuts required without half my cabinet resigning. I’ll certainly loose any vote of confidence in the Commons.”
The King now responded with almost a flourish, as though he were a magician making a rabbit materialise from nothing.
“Not if the Conservative opposition support you.”
“We can’t afford an election, MacDonald, and we can’t risk losing your leadership. I think I can get Mr Baldwin and the rest of the Conservative leadership to agree to that. Perhaps even the sounder Liberals.”
“Can you?”
MacDonald was already acquiescing, the King could see. He hadn’t immediately said what the King had expected him to say—“You can’t do that.” But then the King’s constitutional breach dawned on MacDonald. “But sir, the sovereign can’t discuss government matters with the opposition.”
“I can with your knowledge and consent, Prime Minister.” The King saw he was winning MacDonald over. “Look, Prime Minister. Go back and try again with your cabinet. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to the opposition…with your agreement, of course. Come back and see me tonight.”
He rose, signalling the end of the interview.
* * *
When his secretary returned from showing MacDonald out of the private apartments, the King addressed him.
“Wigram, get the Conservative and the reliable Liberal leadership here as soon as you can, but discreetly.”
The reliable Liberal leadership of course excluded Lloyd George, the former prime minister, desperate to return to power but beyond the pale of any government with Conservatives in it.
A few hours later, matters had been agreed nicely. Baldwin, the Tory leader, and Herbert Samuel, recognised leader of the “reliable” Liberals, had concurred. If MacDonald couldn’t make his socialists see reason, the King would invite him to lead a “National Government”—there was a nice ring to it. The Prime Minister would have “support” from all the Conservative MPs, those Liberals who could be pried away from Lloyd George and such Labour MPs as might follow him. Now, all they had to do was wait for the Labour government to destroy itself. Freed from the socialists, MacDonald would certainly do the right thing!
A good morning’s work done, the King invited his son, the Duke of York, to luncheon. He would tell the Duke what had been accomplished. It would be a lesson to him in how the sovereign could make a difference in the country’s interests.
* * *
Jennie had been sitting by the telephone all that afternoon and early evening. Frank and Charlie Trevelyan had both been ringing up with developments leaked from the cabinet meetings. Each had a different source, but they were in agreement on the deadlocked discussions. There had been two cabinets already that 23rd of August, and another one expected in the evening. Now, towards 4:30, the instrument jangled again. She lifted it to her mouth.
“Museum 6428.”
Instead of Frank or Charlie, it was a woman’s voice.
“Meet me at the Kensington Church teashop, soon as you can.” The Duchess rang off almost before Jennie had recognised her voice.
Jennie dialled Frank’s number and spoke briefly. “I may have some news in a bit. I’m going out now to meet…her.”
She didn’t want to say the name, as though she feared someone at some switchboard somewhere might be listening.
Jennie heard Frank say, “Very well,” and hung up.
Immediately the instrument rang again.
She lifted the received and began to give the number, “Museum…” Before she finished, she heard Tom Mosley’s voice.
“I’m back. At Ebury Street.”
“Very well…I may have news tonight. I’ll ring.”
* * *
The Duchess’ Daimler was nowhere to be seen as Jennie walked down Kensington Church Street. She’d taken the tube to Notting Hill Gate again—faster than a cab. Entering the shop, she saw Elizabeth at a small corner table, still looking no different from the other young matrons taking tea. This time, she did not rise but beckoned with a gloved hand. Jennie drew out the chair, sat and poured a cup from the china pot at the table, added milk and looked at her friend.
“Tom Mosley is back. He just rang me.”
“Good. Look, Jennie, things are moving fast against your people. But Albert thinks there’s still a chance for Mosley.” Jennie made no reply. “The King’s confident he’s convinced MacDonald to stay on without Labour. He’s arranged matters with Baldwin.”
Jennie drew her breath. This is your father, about to betray everything he had ever stood for. Everything I stand for.
All she could mutter was, “What?”
“MacDonald’s coming back to the palace tonight. The King’s to tell him to tender his government’s resignation and immediately invite him to form a new cabinet full of Tories and tame Liberals.”
Evidently, the Palace’s plan was being carried off without a hitch. The working classes would blame the swinging cuts on a Labour prime minister, or at any rate an ex-Labour prime minister. The Tories would have their cuts and not pay a political price. Anger and despondency choked Jennie’s voice.
“What can we do about it?”
The question wasn’t addressed to Elizabeth Bowes-Lyons, but to Jennie’s whole world.
“The Duke says you’re to tell Tom Mosley.”
Jennie looked at her friend, suddenly realising she was dealing with a complete innocent.
“Is that all? Isn’t there a plan? Does anyone have an idea of how to stop this?”
Elizabeth sighed. “Perhaps Tom Mosley’ll know what to do.”
Jennie looked at her. “Your grace, Mosley commands the loyalty of six MPs, including his wife, Cimmie. What can he possibly do about this?”
Suddenly, she was the Duchess, unwilling to be cross-examined.
“I’ve no idea, dear. I’m just delivering a message from my husband.”
She squeezed Jennie’s hand, rose from the table and left.
Jennie remained, finishing her tea and thinking hard. When she tried to pay, the waitress told her it had already been taken care of. Out in the street, she found a cab immediately.
“22 Ebury Street please.”
As she sat watching the streets go past, something like a counterattack began to formulate itself in her head.
* * *
Mosley was in the front room when she arrived. He rose from a wingback chair as she entered. Hair oiled, body scented, his double-breasted suit, as ever, tight to his body, a regimental tie at his collar, three points of a kerchief emerging from the coat’s pocket. He looked exactly as she’d expected. A cologne had even made him smell attractive. Apparently, he couldn’t resist the urge to be seductive, even in a political crisis.
The room was dark but for the lamp above the chair. There was a cigarette burning in an ashtray full of them and a cloud of tobacco hovered below the ceiling. He’d evidently been sitting there for some time, waiting. Stewing? Inaction did not sit well with him.
“At last,” were first words he uttered as she entered.
Mosley reached out for her. But Jennie did not approach. She took a seat on the chesterfield opposite. He read her mood and gracefully returned to his chair.
Quickly, Jennie went over the events of the last few days—the telephone calls, the meetings, the conversations with the Duchess. Then she paused to allow him to respond. But he remained silent. Was he thinking things through, Jennie wondered? No. He was at a loss.
“Well, it looks like I’ve come on a fool’s errand. The King has scuppered us, Jennie. Don’t see what we can do about all this.”
Jennie rose, walked over to the side table and took a cigarette from the box, lit it herself before he could even rise from his chair. She was slightly triumphant, thinking I know what to do! The cab ride had been just long enough to think the matter through. It was the only way. But she couldn’t do it herself, not the smallest part of it. Mosley couldn’t do much of it alone. It would take quick work, several others, and a great deal of persuasion. She had to first persuade Mosley and then Lloyd George. And that would be the easy part.
“Tom, how well do you know Lloyd George? Can you get a meeting with
him tonight?”
“I can try.” He thought for a moment. “He’s almost certainly down in Surrey, at his place in Churt.” Lloyd George had lived there since his time as prime minister in the Great War. “I can ring him there.”
“How far is Churt?”
“About an hour and a half or so by motor. Tell me what you have in mind, will you? Otherwise I won’t know what to say.”
“Very well. There’s only way to stop this palace coup, and make no mistake, that’s what it is. We’ve got to find a majority in the House to put a stop to MacDonald’s betrayal. That means the parliamentary Labour Party and your lot—the New Party MPs— and as many Liberal MPs as Lloyd George can command.”
“I see. Yes. Of course.”
“But that won’t be the hard part. We’ll have to get the Speaker to recall parliament. And he’s a dyed-in-the-wool Tory.”
Mosley understood. “One step at a time.” He picked up the receiver. “Operator, trunk call please, to Churt, Mr Lloyd George.”
There was a wait and then he was talking again, first to a servant, then evidently to Lloyd George himself. Jennie only heard Mosley’s half, but it was obvious the call was not unwelcome. He nodded.
“About an hour and a half. Cheerio.”
Jennie wondered, Do these people really talk like that? Mosley rose.
“Come along. I’ve got a fast roadster in the mews.”
She followed him into the hall where he reached for two flat caps and handed her one.
“Try it on.” Jennie did so. “Looks fetching.”
He smiled and led the way towards the back of the flat. Jennie made no reply.
Opening the small car door for Jennie, Mosley swiftly moved round the small, bright-blue car and athletically, even theatrically, hopped into the driver’s side. Pushing the choke in and pressing the starter button, he said the wrong thing.