by Fay Weldon
‘The Dean said he was trying to fit me in – no one has tried “to fit me in” since I was a girl: it is outrageous, am I not the Queen? This coronation has gone to everyone’s heads! He said it was difficult. The stands and floral decorations were still being put in. But I am hardly going to stand in their way, one small woman. The choirs and orchestras were rehearsing round the clock, he said, as if that was our fault.’
It was true, Isobel knew, that the music their Majesties had chosen was not easy, but according to Robert, according to Balfour, most admirable; everyone of contemporary note – from Elgar and Parry to Sullivan, Saint-Saëns, and a host of others – was to be represented.
‘And then he said his choristers were more accustomed to Handel, Mozart and the polyphonic composers than this modern stuff. This modern stuff! He would not have dared say this in front of the King.’
‘How is the King?’ asked Isobel, hoping to divert her.
‘He is still not well,’ said the Queen, as if it was by-the-by. ‘In fact he is in constant pain and it makes him very bad-tempered. But I am not easily defeated. If I cannot get into the church, the church will come to me. I have sent for Kennion, who is the Bishop of Bath and Wells and is to officiate on the day because Canterbury is so old everyone thinks he will die mid ceremony. I have had to take poor Kennion away from his Sunday services, but it is his traditional duty to support me. He can hardly refuse.’
Isobel had no inclination to encounter Bishop Kennion – how the past did keep catching up with one, she reflected; her last conversations with him and his wife had hardly been pleasant, and over the matter of Rosina and Frank Overshaw – although mostly conducted by her husband, and through the post – almost rancorous. She had hoped never to have seen him again. Yet here he was, and at the door. She thought it best to make herself scarce, and went to inspect the Royal dressing rooms and admire the crowns. As it happened she passed Kennion in the Quadrangle, striding along with flunkeys on either side running to keep up. The palace flunkeys were on the whole little short squat men, she had noticed, Cockneys out of a family tradition of royal service. His face was thunderous – he clearly had better things to do – and he did not recognize Isobel – why would he? Isobel was just another annoying person to have passed briefly through his portals – and she kept herself unobtrusive until he had passed.
The Queen was in a better mood after Kennion had gone, and drew Isobel into conversation about Rosina – how word gets round, thought Isobel – and her elopement. ‘Not exactly elopement,’ said Isobel, ‘just rather sudden.’
Over lunch the Queen said her own second daughter, ‘Toria, was thirty-five and still unmarried, being such a thoughtful, serious girl. But at least she could keep her mother company into her old age, which was what one hoped for in at least one daughter, did one not? She seemed to feel rather sorry for Isobel for having ended up with so few children to spread around, and then being so careless of the one she had. Eloped! And to Australia, where there were no crowned heads, just Governors General and endless deserts. And then all of a sudden she began to cry. Her eyes welled up and her mouth went down. She sniffed and gulped and felt for Isobel’s hand.
‘It isn’t fair,’ she said. ‘I do so much for him, feel so much for him. I’ve been so worried for him for so long, and he doesn’t care for me one bit. He only likes his clever women, one of the stands he’s had put up in the Abbey is for them. The loose box, people call it. Trophies of the stud. That’s why the Dean was so difficult, he’s upset too. It’s disrespectful. The Abbey is dedicated to God, not fleshly lusts. Yesterday was the last straw. He was so horrible at Windsor I walked out. I’ve never done that before. Called a carriage and came here and I haven’t slept a wink.’
She was, Isobel realized, talking about the King. The staff stood by, no doubt listening, but to Alexandra they were invisible.
‘And he didn’t even come after me!’ the Queen wailed.
It seemed that the King had been complaining for some time of vague pains. He was off his food, and languid, which he put down to not having enough meat. He would not slow down; if he wasn’t receiving guests, he was dining out. He’d been playing host at Windsor to members of the King’s African Rifles and a troupe of Maori warriors. He wanted to see everything, welcome everybody. He was excited and flushed and every now and then he would double up with pain. He hated doctors. Boats were lining up at Tilbury and Southampton carrying visitors vital to the national interest. The Great Park had been opened up for the tented quarters of Canadian and Australian troops. He felt he had to inspect them. He would not disappoint his people. He’d stopped visiting Mrs Keppel, but he would not stop eating. Yesterday morning she’d put her hand on his forehead and it was hot. To be feverish in the evening was nothing; to be feverish in the morning was not a good sign.
‘But didn’t you call the doctors?’
‘He said I mustn’t. If I did he would tell them to go to hell. He said in his experience wherever doctors gathered, someone died. I went against his wishes, I called Sir Francis Laking. Of the three I inherited from my mother-in-law he’s the only one I can stand. Broadbent looked after Albert on his deathbed and didn’t save him and is very plain and very corpulent, worse than Bertie. Reid’s loyal but knows far too much about everyone’s private affairs, especially the late Queen’s, rest her soul. So I was left with Sir Francis: though he is rather short. For some reason the taller the doctor the more one trusts them. Don’t you think, Lady Isobel?’ She had stopped crying, but spoke wildly.
‘It is certainly the case,’ said Isobel, agreeing with royalty as she had found one was only too wont to do, though she had never given the matter much thought. Her own family kept remarkably healthy. She thought about Minnie and the coming baby, and had a sudden pang of anxiety. Perhaps she should be attending to her instead of to this weeping Queen? But Minnie was of robust stock and hated a fuss.
‘I knew it was bad when Sir Francis turned up unannounced,’ Alexandra was going on, ‘and Bertie was quite nice to him and even lay down and let himself be examined. Sir Francis didn’t seem worried and said it was probably just a rather stubborn chill to the stomach, and the best thing for the King to do was rest, even going to bed before dinner. The King lost his temper and told him he was a fool of a doctor, there was no way he could rest, he had far too much to do, and only dinner kept him going. Then I suggested perhaps he shouldn’t go to rehearsals at the Abbey but preserve his strength for the Coronation itself. I could go on my own.’
‘It might be a very sensible idea,’ said Isobel. But the Queen was in tears again, the latest Sobranie sodden and limp in a feeble hand.
‘And then Bertie turned on me. He roared and shouted and said I was a fool and an idiot and drove him mad, and I should go and look after my jewels and parade up and down as I thought fit and leave him alone for once. So that’s exactly what I did. He has no business behaving like that to me. I love him. I care for him. I worry for him. And this is how he repays me.’
‘The King is not well and in pain,’ said Isobel. ‘He will be very sorry for what he has said as soon as he is himself again. You will forgive one another soon enough. Don’t distress yourself so!’ So much she seemed to have said to innumerable wives in the past. Royal wives were apparently no different.
Alexandra seemed comforted and sniffed a little and the tears stopped flowing.
‘Sir Francis said he would move into rooms at Windsor to keep an eye on the King in my absence,’ she said. ‘Let him face the royal rages for a change.’
‘But he really wasn’t worried about the King’s health?’ asked Isobel. In Alexandra’s place she would have been – extremely.
‘Oh no,’ said Alexandra. ‘A chill to the stomach. What a fuss!’ And they went down to the dressing rooms to have a last look at the crown and the way the jewels were placed on the mannequin. Alexandra looked again and then asked Isobel to wait on her again the next day; she was such a comfort.
And that was the end
of all serenity for by noon next morning who was at Buck House door but a rather agitated Sir Francis Laking and two colleagues, introduced as Dr Thomas Barlow, who seemed a nice enough man and had a good beard, and Dr Frederick Treves, appointed surgeon general to the King. Alexandra said this was the first she’d heard of it; why, was there some question of surgery? She seemed not to care for Treves: a very military and rather bombastic man, the kind who seemed uninterested in anything women had to say, but was at least tall.
Sir Francis did not beat about the bush. He said he had come to ask permission to set up a small operating theatre in Buck House. Equipment would be brought up through the day from St George’s at Hyde Park Corner. The King was coming up that day by special train from Windsor. He was suffering from perityphlitis. A surgical operation must be performed at once to treat an inflamed and infected right iliac fossa, the source of which lay in the vermiform process of the caeca. It must be found and removed. Peritonitis had set in and they would operate at once, praying that they were not too late.
The Queen looked from face to face. Isobel could only admire her composure.
‘Is it dangerous?’ Alexandra asked.
‘Frankly, Ma’am, yes. It is at the very edge of today’s surgical expertise. We must be prepared for all eventualities. But we do know that if we do nothing the King must die.’
The Queen stood, swayed a little, shook off Isobel’s arm and then recovered her composure. She has six children, thought Isobel, she is accustomed to sudden bad news. More, she is a queen. When others panic, she must not.
‘Well, Sir Francis, you do surprise me. Does the King know?’
‘We have told him, Ma’am, but he will not listen. He will not have the Coronation cancelled.’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘He will not disappoint his subjects. We will see what he says when he arrives.’
‘Ma’am, he has no choice.’
‘Could you not have told him earlier? He will have very little time to recover before he must be at Westminster Abbey. The Coronation service is long and tiring.’
There was a short silence. The doctors did not say what was clear to Isobel; that the King had little chance of life, let alone getting to the Abbey. He would die un-anointed.
‘It is hard to diagnose. We have had our suspicions. We hoped against hope,’ said Laking.
‘How very unwise of you, Sir Francis.’ She was at her most regal.
‘Ma’am, by the Grace of God the King will survive the operation.’ Treves spoke for the first time. ‘But it is still a grave assault against the body. He will be in his bed for some time.’
‘Days, weeks?’
‘Months, Ma’am.’
‘And are you an expert in these matters, Dr Treves? I must remind you that the King is a strong and healthy man.’
‘It is my subject, your Majesty,’ said Treves, with great patience. ‘Which is why I have been brought in. I have performed more than one thousand vermiform removals in this country and in South Africa. We are talking about a pouch-like structure where the small and large intestine join. It is unnecessary to our survival as human beings – a vestigial trace of our evolution, it is believed, a mere appendix to it – but nonetheless fatal if infected and not removed. The pouch is sensitive to disturbance and may burst during the operation. That is our problem.’
‘Fatal?’
‘My own little daughter Hetty died under the knife in just such an operation. The knife was mine.’
‘That is hardly reassuring, Dr Treves. I am surprised you tell me.’
‘It is the truth, Ma’am.’
‘And you, Dr Barlow?’
‘I attended your mother-in-law on her death-bed. I know the family history well. It can be helpful in such cases.’
‘How very cheerful!’ she said. And then, ‘What does vermiform mean?’
‘The shape of a worm,’ said Dr Barlow, thus tested.
‘How very unpleasant!’ the Queen said. She made a decision, and dismissed them. ‘Very well, you must do as you see fit. You may have your room. The staff will find you anything you need. I shall wait for the King and see what he has to say. It is his body, after all. But to cancel a coronation at two days’ notice is unthinkable.’
She waited until they were gone and then said, ‘Stay with me, Isobel. The family must be called. Our son George will be too distressed to be of much use: ’Toria will look to heaven for help; May will tell me it is all my fault. How quickly life can change. I remember how it was when our son Albert died. One hopes, and then hope dies and nothing is ever the same again.’
In the evening they played backgammon as if nothing was amiss. But the Queen’s limp, which that morning had been negligible, became quite noticeable. Isobel stayed the night in a palace filled with dread. The lady’s maid who brought her night robes enquired, she noticed, not whether the King would live, but whether the Coronation would be cancelled.
The next morning Isobel looked in at the make-shift operating theatre. It was a large, pleasant room looking over the grounds at the back of the house. Nurses in their voluminous skirts and little white ribboned caps were scrubbing down the walls and furniture. Lord Lister himself was there, to make sure the required state of antisepsis was achieved. He was full of misgivings, saying to Laking it was better to let the King die in peace than subject him to so much pain and stress. He had known too many patients die on the table during the procedure for comfort.
‘But not many kings,’ was Treves’s response. ‘Courage, man, courage!’
At which Lister smiled grimly and required the surprised nurses to remove their skirts and work in their petticoats to reduce the risk of infection. If he had his way they would chop off their hair as well and burn it.
And then the King returned, in what Alexandra referred to as one of his ‘difficult moods’.
It was something of an understatement, Isobel thought. When he was not doubled up in pain, or claiming death was better than disgrace, he ranted at his doctors. He was suffering the most terrible torment man had ever known, or monarch endured. The choice the quacks presented him with was nothing short of satanic. He would rather die than cancel his Coronation.
‘Then he will die,’ mouthed Treves to Isobel.
The King raged on: the doctors were fools and charlatans. He would declare his abdication now and perhaps they would leave him alone. He threw Laking out of the room, telling him to take himself and his accursed profession with him. He told Lister he was a fool, and a germ did less damage than a surgeon ever did. The Queen was listening in silence, the doctors in mixed outrage and terror. Then she spoke.
‘You would be in a much better temper, dear, if you simply had it done. You may not be able to stand it any more but neither can I.’
The King seemed to return to his senses and looked at his wife as if for further instruction.
‘You will simply go to sleep, my dear, and you will either wake up, or you will not.’
He thought about this for a moment and then said: ‘That is not necessarily the case. A man could go to hell.’
‘Not on my account,’ she said. He regarded her with great affection.
‘Then the Coronation is postponed,’ he said. ‘You may announce it.’
He turned to his doctors, apologized, and after that behaved like a lamb, doing what he was told, lying quiet while they administered chloroform.
Isobel took a walk while the doctors worked. News had got out that the King was seriously ill, likely to die under the knife. The streets were deserted, sorrow had struck, no one smiled any more. Here was a King loved by his people, and if for his faults, not in spite of them, so it was. But how quickly joy could turn to fear. Fear spread. The worst could happen. If the King could go, everyone could go. All were vulnerable. She thought of Minnie for some reason, and prayed for her safe delivery. She prayed for the royal family, for her own; for all bishops, priests and deacons, just to be on the safe side. She included Bishop Kennion. When she returned the
operation was over.
The King is Dead – Long Live the King!
It had seemed that the King was dying. The operation had gone successfully. The offending pouch was out, and had not burst in the process, though when the forceps laid it on the receiving tray, it had exploded with an alarming energy, producing an intolerable stench. Many had all but run for the doors. But the King himself seemed to be drifting away. Those who were accustomed to death-beds knew the signs: the pallor, the sense of fading away, the arrested breathing. No breath at all, seemingly, for an unconscionable time and then a deep, slow, sad breath, more like a sigh. People had seen it too many times not to recognize it. Dr Barlow slipped from the room and used the telephone. If they had lost the King they should at least make the most of the death-bed scene. It was advantageous to have heads of state present when a monarch died. Disraeli had been present when Prince Albert passed on. Barlow tried Lord Salisbury, who was too indisposed to come to the telephone but sent a message saying he should be in touch with Balfour at Carlton Gardens. Dr Barlow did so. Balfour walked down the Prince of York Steps into the Mall and was inside Buck House within fifteen minutes. Barlow waited for him.
When Arthur Balfour arrived he came in the company of a young woman he introduced as Princess Ida, currently involved in experiments for the S.P.R. – the Society for Psychical Research. She had, he claimed, powers as a healer. She should be allowed into the King’s room.
‘It can do no harm, man, it might do some good.’
Barlow hesitated. He feared coming up against Treves’s aggressive scepticism, or Laking’s supercilious raising of eyebrows, but he was an older man than either of them, nearing seventy, and had known many strange things happen. He would like to end up a baronet. The Queen’s Indian waiter had assured him such was his ‘karma’, but the Queen was dead, and the Indian servant was dead, and the promise had not yet come true. Besides, it was hardly prudent to quarrel with Prime Ministers, though this one was not like any other he had known. And Princess Ida was a sweet, gentle girl, and titled. He let her into the death scene. No one noticed. The laboured breathing had almost stopped. The family wept. Barlow had been with the family long enough to read what was going on. The Prince of Wales, waiting for the mantle of power to descend, looked frightened. His wife May was weeping, yet conscious of relief to come: now at last her children would be out of Alexandra’s clutches; she could give them the proper disciplined upbringing they needed.