The FitzOsbornes in Exile

by Michelle Cooper

  But Veronica had already dumped it on the spare seat.

  “It’s wool, as you ought to know,” she said. “And before you say it, yes, I’m aware it cost more than it’d take to feed and house a family in Bethnal Green for a month. Anyway, when did you become an expert on the Duchess of Kent? Have you taken out a subscription to The Queen?”

  He snorted and told her to hurry up and order, he was starving, but as Veronica studied the menu, his gaze kept straying to her face, his expression softening. Then he caught me observing him and went a bit pink, so I quickly asked why he ought to know about coats.

  “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “unless she’s commenting on my sad lack of sartorial taste, I expect your cousin is mocking my background in trade—as your aunt would say in horrified tones. My father has a business importing furs, you see, and my mother’s family owns a dress factory.”

  “I’m not mocking you because your family makes and sells things instead of lazing about on country estates,” said Veronica. “And I’d be as badly dressed as you if it weren’t for Sophie telling me what to wear. I’m just amused that you’re using your considerable intelligence to try and bring down capitalism, when it was capitalism that bought your education, and very expensive it must have been, too. I’m going to have the cutlets.”

  “Oh, you think my intelligence is considerable, do you?” he said airily. “I am honored.” But he fought back a smile. “And what are you having, Sophie?”

  I’d never had Irish stew before, so I decided on that, although when it arrived, it was just ordinary beef and potato stew, which is often on the nursery menu at Milford. I suspect Aunt Charlotte instructed the staff not to call it “Irish.” She tolerates Catholics if they’re Spanish and aristocratic, but the Irish are “beyond the pale,” along with colonials, Jews, Americans, and people in trade—with a few rare (and very rich) exceptions.

  As we ate, Veronica and Daniel discussed the news from Europe. It turned out Daniel still had some relatives in Vienna—an elderly uncle, who’d played in the orchestra at the Vienna State Opera, and a couple of cousins.

  “Oh, Daniel, I didn’t know that!” said Veronica, letting her fork fall with a clatter. She stared at him with an expression that seemed, to me, far graver than Daniel’s information warranted. “Are they in immediate danger, do you think, now the Nazis have taken over Austria?”

  “Why?” I asked, looking from Veronica to Daniel. “Are your relatives involved in politics, too? Are they Communists?”

  “They’re Jewish, Sophie,” said Daniel gently.

  “Oh. But …” A dozen questions were twittering around inside my head, but I didn’t want to sound a complete bird-brain.

  “No, no, go on,” said Daniel in his encouraging tutor’s voice.

  “Well, I know the Nazis—all the Fascists, really—keep saying horrible things about Jews,” I said slowly. “Like in that disgusting German newspaper Unity Mitford wrote to, the one where she said she wanted everyone to know she was a Jew hater. But when you talk about danger, I’m not sure … I mean, why would the Nazis care about an elderly gentleman? Or even your cousins?”

  “Why?” Daniel said. “I’m not sure I understand it myself. Is it just the personal mania of a dictator? Combined with the political expediency of using a small and historically despised group of people as a scapegoat for all the country’s problems? As for how, that’s much easier to answer. By banning Jews from working in the civil service—not just in government departments but schools, universities, clinics, even the State Opera. By boycotting Jewish businesses, by banning Jews from parks and restaurants, by passing a law that makes it a crime for a non-Jew to marry a Jew. And when anti-Semitism is not just a normal part of everyday life but actually encouraged by the government … well, there are always young men with a tendency towards violence. So, why wouldn’t they take the opportunity to enjoy themselves, to deface the walls of a synagogue, or smash up a store owned by Jews, or attack a family walking along the street—”

  He suddenly seemed to become aware that his hand had clenched itself on the tabletop.

  “Sorry, I’ll climb back down from my soapbox now,” he said, loosening his fingers and making an effort to smile.

  “Why do the Jews stay?” I asked softly. “Why wouldn’t they all … well, go somewhere safe, somewhere they’re welcome?”

  “And where’s that?” he said. “No, of course you’re right, Sophie. That may even be the aim of the Nazis, to make all the Jews want to leave. And quite a few have moved here, or gone to America. But it takes money and contacts, and not everyone has those. And some, like my uncle, will never leave. He refuses to believe there’s any real threat to him, a gentleman of culture and education. How could a change of government be enough to make him abandon everything—his apartment and his French poodles, his friends, his daily walk in his favorite park, his evenings at the opera? So … But my mother has hopes of convincing her cousins to come here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “About your relatives—and for asking. I honestly didn’t know it was that bad. I thought it was just the Nazis saying terrible things—not that that’s all right, either,” I added hurriedly.

  “You mustn’t ever apologize for asking questions,” Daniel said firmly. “Why should you know? How else can you find out? You’ve never visited Germany, you don’t have family in Europe writing to you about it—and it’s not exactly making huge headlines in The Times.”

  The waitress brought our pot of tea, and Veronica ordered treacle pudding for Daniel, because he still looked hungry. She asked if I wanted anything, but I shook my head. My stomach was weighed down with an uncomfortable lump that was half Irish stew and half guilt. Daniel was wrong when he said I had an excuse for being ignorant. The harassment of German Jews may not have been in the center pages of all the newspapers, but I had Veronica, better than any newspaper. The fact was, I’d not wanted to hear awful things. I had enough nightmares about German soldiers as it was. I’d deliberately clapped my hands over my ears and squeezed my eyes shut …

  I brooded over this while my tea went cold, and when I next looked up, Daniel and Veronica’s discussion had moved on.

  “—Czechoslovakia?” Veronica was saying.

  “Yes, I’m afraid that’s next. With that riot in the Sudetenland last year—”

  “Well, they are actually Germans, aren’t they, most of those Sudeten people? Czechoslovakia didn’t even exist until 1918.”

  Daniel nodded. “The question is, will Hitler be satisfied taking over just the Sudeten part of Czechoslovakia?”

  “Where is the Sudetenland?” asked Veronica. “Is it that bit north of Prague?”

  “Yes, on the border of Germany and Poland. Here—” Daniel moved the mustard pot into the middle of the table. “Look, this is Germany. And the sugar bowl is Czechoslovakia, and this spoon can be the Sudetens—”

  Soon the saltcellar, sauce bottle, two empty teacups, and a milk jug were jostling for European domination on our tabletop.

  “But you’re leaving out France, aren’t you?” said the man at the next table, leaning across. “Don’t tell me that’s not in Herr Hitler’s sights! And just you wait, we’ll be going over there to rescue them French, just like before.”

  “Ooh, don’t say that,” sighed the waitress, who’d come over to see if we wanted more tea. “That were awful, that was. My mum lost her three brothers over there, and her fiancé. Hang about, where’s Belgium? I met a gentleman from there just last week—ever so nice, he was.”

  The man at the next table donated his saltcellar to stand in for Belgium.

  “But you haven’t taken into account the Maginot Line!” huffed a beefy, red-faced man who’d been on his way to the cashier. “The Huns won’t be getting past that in a hurry, let me tell you! I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Huge concrete forts and lookout posts and barbed wire—”

  “No, see, that’s my fork,” said Veronica, indicating the bit of cutlery guarding France
from Germany.

  “And great, big underground chambers—why, the French army could live down there for months!”

  “But … doesn’t that Maginot Line stop at the border with Belgium?” I asked. “I mean, couldn’t the Germans just go round the top of it if they wanted to attack France?”

  There was silence as half a dozen people stared at the fork.

  “Let’s hope there aren’t any Germans listening in right now,” remarked Daniel after a moment.

  “Course there aren’t,” said the Maginot Line expert heartily. “Besides, there’s no need for you young ladies to worry your pretty little heads about all this business, is there?” Veronica began to bristle, so Daniel hurriedly asked for our bill. The man lumbered off, and Veronica and Daniel had a brief scuffle over the bill. Veronica won.

  “I invited you to luncheon,” she said. “Anyway, I’ve got money and you haven’t. Just think of it as an equitable redistribution of wealth. Marx would approve.”

  We went outside and Daniel was surprised, and slightly worried, to discover that Parker wasn’t waiting for us, so he offered to see us home. However, as he was going east and we were going west, we declined firmly. He waited with us till our bus came, then shook hands with each of us, lingering noticeably over Veronica’s, then waving till we were out of sight.

  He is definitely in love with Veronica.

  “What a productive day!” she said, taking her notebook out of her bag as soon as we’d found a seat and examining her list of names with great satisfaction. Then she produced a pencil and began drafting a letter to Sir Julius Pemberton, without even a backwards glance through the window.

  She is definitely not in love with Daniel.

  11th April 1938

  I sit here in the drawing room, surrounded by my family, and consider what a lovely picture this would present to a stranger peeping through the window (assuming the stranger were able to hover outside the second floor of Montmaray House and had managed to clear a space in the grimy windowpane). Observe, then, stranger: the dignified aunt, presiding over the embossed silver teapot; the handsome blond nephew, down from Oxford for a few days; two genteel young ladies, one reading, the other writing in her journal; the family’s loyal retainer, a good-looking young man in his early twenties, handing round a plate of pastries; and an innocent, curly-haired child, sitting on the rug with her faithful pets.

  Of course, the stranger might be slightly surprised to observe that one of the pets is a large pink pig. If very attentive, he might also notice that the more attractive of the young ladies is reading not Tatler or Vogue but a crumpled left-wing newspaper she has just fished out of the wastepaper bin, and that the nephew is gazing glumly at the tablecloth while the aunt delivers a blistering lecture.

  “I have better things to do, Tobias,” she thunders, “than correspond with your tutor, who claims you’ve failed to attend a single meeting with him all term! Now, I don’t mind if you’re not the academic sort—your dear father wasn’t, God rest his soul—but what, may I ask, are you doing with your time? Pamela Bosworth’s nephew reports you haven’t joined any of the right clubs at Oxford, that you’re never seen at the Union, that when you appear in public, it’s with a most disreputable crowd—”

  Toby accepts a pastry from Simon and shreds it on his plate; Veronica frowns at The Manchester Guardian; and Henry scratches vigorously behind Estella’s ears. The pig’s eyes are squeezed shut with pleasure, and she leans into Henry so heavily that Henry is in danger of tumbling over backwards.

  “And now I discover you’ve exceeded your allowance yet again!” Aunt Charlotte continues with rising indignation. “What do you spend it on? Champagne, I suppose, and cigars, and extravagant dinners with unsuitable young ladies!”

  It’s a measure of how cross she is that she’s berating Toby, her favorite, in front of the rest of us. In her defense, she’s just back from a long luncheon with Lady Bosworth, who was overflowing with “helpful advice” on the subject of disobedient nephews. Toby would usually have said something placatory by this stage, but perhaps he feels it’s better that Aunt Charlotte wear herself out, and she does appear to be running out of steam …

  No, she’s merely switched topic.

  “As for you, Henrietta, I thought I told you to take those animals downstairs. How your governess didn’t notice you loading them into the luggage car is quite beyond me … Henrietta! Do not walk away while I’m speaking to you! Where are your manners? Remember, you are a FitzOsborne, not a peasant! What will they think at Buckingham Palace?”

  For Henry, improbable as it seems, has been asked to tea at Buckingham Palace on Wednesday, hence her presence in London. A dozen Girl Guide patrol leaders from across the country will gather with Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret for a stroll through the Palace grounds and a picnic tea, weather permitting.

  “If only they’d asked us a couple of months ago,” Henry sighed when the invitation arrived at Milford Park. “I could have brought the others. Carmelita would have loved to see London.”

  “You are sadly mistaken if you believe the Palace would ever invite a rabble of Communist refugees to a garden party,” said Aunt Charlotte coldly. “Simon, who else will be attending?”

  “I’m afraid the letter doesn’t specify, ma’am,” said Simon.

  “Only girls from titled families, one would hope,” said Aunt Charlotte. “Wouldn’t you agree, Simon? One can’t imagine the King and Queen would want their daughters associating with, well …”

  “Riffraff, ma’am?” suggested Simon blandly.

  “The lower classes,” said Aunt Charlotte, giving Simon a suspicious look. Then she turned on Veronica. “You, I am saddened to report, are not invited. Only Sophia is mentioned. Perhaps if you’d made yourself more agreeable last Season—or if you’d helped supervise the little girls, as Sophia charitably did—then you, too, would have been included in this gathering at the Palace.”

  “How will I endure the torment of being overlooked?” murmured Veronica, busy opening her own post, which consisted of a single official-looking envelope.

  “Then perhaps this will teach you a lesson,” said Aunt Charlotte, her mind too fixed on the dazzling prospect of Buckingham Palace to perceive Veronica’s sarcasm. “Perhaps you will learn that there are rewards for young ladies who behave in a manner—”

  “Damn,” said Veronica, staring at her letter.

  “What did you say?” cried Aunt Charlotte.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Veronica, looking up with a frown. “It’s just—”

  “Damn,” muttered Simon, peering over her shoulder—although, fortunately for him, his utterance was lost in Aunt Charlotte’s outraged exclamations.

  “Veronica FitzOsborne! Such unladylike language! And in front of your little cousin!”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Henry said earnestly. “My friend Jocko says much worse things. He says—”

  “I do not want to hear it!” said Aunt Charlotte, drawing herself up to her full and rather imposing height. “I do not want to hear whatever vulgar expressions are employed by Jocko, whoever he may be!”

  “You don’t know who Jocko is?” said Henry. “He lives in the village. His father’s the pigman.” Which prompted another explosion from Aunt Charlotte. Veronica went to Henry’s rescue, and Simon passed the letter to me. It was, at last, a response from the Foreign Office. Alas, it was not encouraging.

  “But it’s not completely awful,” I said to Simon in a low voice. “Look, it says they’re referring the matter to a review committee.”

  “That’s civil service code for ‘We are going to file this away in a cabinet in the basement and hope that you forget all about it.’ See the signature? I doubt our letters got anywhere near an official with real authority.”

  “Oh,” I said, crestfallen. “Now what?”

  “Well, I did say right from the start that I thought the Ministry for Coordination of Defence would be more helpful than the Foreign Office,” began Simon,
but then Aunt Charlotte ordered him to go off and locate Miss Bullock and find out why the governess had been permitting Henry to consort with the offspring of pigmen. Aunt Charlotte then went back to chastising Veronica for her unladylike conduct, although Veronica was so disheartened about the Foreign Office letter that she barely listened to a word, which made Aunt Charlotte even more annoyed.

  “I don’t know,” Aunt Charlotte says now. “I do not know what I am to do with you children. Unruly, undisciplined, unmannerly—”

  Her rant does appear to be winding down, though. Toby quickly pushes the plate of pastries closer (he stopped in at her favorite patisserie on his way here), and, eventually, she sighs and takes an éclair.

  “So, Veronica!” Toby says, judging it safe to speak once Aunt Charlotte’s mouth is full of pastry, cream, and chocolate. “What’s in the news? Anything interesting?”

  Veronica looks up. “Well, Unity Mitford turned up at a Labour Party rally in Hyde Park wearing her swastika badge, assaulted a couple of people, and nearly got tossed in the Serpentine.”

  “There,” says Toby cheerfully. “See, Aunt Charlotte, how much worse it might be for you? You could be poor old Lady Redesdale.”

  “Oh, yes, all those dreadful daughters of hers,” muses Aunt Charlotte, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “At least you children manage to keep out of the headlines. Unity’s the enormous blonde one, isn’t she? Most peculiar girl. I remember seeing her at a debutante dance with a white rat on her shoulder. And then, after her Court presentation, she apparently wrote to a lot of people on Buckingham Palace stationery. Stolen! As a joke!”

  “You needn’t worry Henry will do that,” Toby reassures Aunt Charlotte. “She’s quite illiterate.”

  “Imagine, purloining His Majesty’s stationery as a prank,” Aunt Charlotte says, shaking her head. “Such an act of disrespect! When one considers the King is the ultimate authority in this land—”

  Veronica’s teacup clatters in its saucer, and Aunt Charlotte frowns at her.