by Bella Pollen
‘What would you say was the purpose of the aristocracy?’ I pitched him the routine question.
‘To be the elite of course, to maintain the hierarchies of wealth and rank, to set an example.’
‘How to be illiberal and redundant?’ I was hoping to goad him into a full-scale rant.
Sir Montague put out a claw-like finger and tapped my knee. ‘Ah, you want to play the socialist agitator do you, pussykins? Incite the masses to riot and revolution? Well I’d like to suggest that you’re motivated by nothing more glorious than social envy.’
I was happy to ignore the pussykins. Unlike the other two shoots we’d been on since Bevan, Montague was prime material and I didn’t want to risk him drying up.
‘You’re suggesting that my motive for making this film is to, what?’ I said. ‘Exorcise my own inferiority as an American?’
‘Of course. We have culture, you have Star Trek. Tradition is the law we live by – tradition in your country is that revolting little children’s habit of begging for sweets at Halloween.’
‘Yeah, and you Brits are damn lucky we saved your butts or you’d all be singing “Deutschland Deutschland über alles” right about now,’ I shot back.
He gave a cackle of laughter. ‘I think you’ll find that some Brits are still singing “Deutschland Deutschland über alles”.’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ I sobered up quickly.
Despite my bullish optimism on the phone to Alan, I’d got no further on the Bevan story. The evening we’d returned to London, I’d sat up half the night browsing the Internet, systematically entering names and subjects; World War Two, Fascism, the royal family. I’d stumbled across a few relevant pieces; a headline in a 1948 newspaper with an accompanying picture, ‘Aristocratic sisters pose in front of marching Nazis.’ A lot of information about the British Union of Fascists; endless articles on Edward and Mrs Simpson.
The boys had been no help at all.
‘What do we actually know about the English royal family?’ I’d asked over room-service burgers.
‘Well, even I know they’re all a bunch of Germans,’ Wolf said. ‘Look, it says here that Lord Mountbatten changed his name to Mountbatten from Battenburg.’
‘Why?’ said Dwight. ‘Was he Jewish?’
‘You know,’ Wolf salted his fries, ‘I bet poor Nietzsche got a really bad rap because Goebbels admired him so much.’
The truth was Wolf had lost interest. With the Viscount dead he didn’t think there was a story to pursue and though I badly wanted to find one, I was beginning to think he was right. Even Simon Brannigan, my BBC contact, had been dubious. ‘It was well-known that members of the aristocracy saw positive virtue in fascist regimes,’ he said. ‘Hitler had acquaintances in some very influential circles. The problem is families and friends have always closed ranks … there’s tremendous class loyalty. There have never been names.’
I mean, it was frustrating. I had a name, but I couldn’t give it to anyone nor could I find any threads of a story to tie up to it.
I looked at Montague. His remark had been completely unguarded and I wondered how far he’d let himself be pushed.
‘Isn’t it true,’ I said carefully, ‘that certain members of the aristocracy were involved with—’ but that was as far as I got. His hand snaked out and grasped my wrist.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘there are several reasons why you would be particularly ill advised to follow this line of questioning further.’ I was startled. His tone was measured but there had been steel in that grip.
I couldn’t concentrate on the rest of the interview. As soon as we wrapped it up I switched on my laptop upstairs and read through every note I’d made. The morning after Bevan, I’d blown off our early start at Stately Locations and instead raced off to a historical bookshop in the Strand where I’d found books on the fascist Oswald Mosley, the BUF and the Mitford sisters. Now I took them out of my suitcase and searched through their indexes and bibliographies looking for inspiration. One of them, British Fascism, had been written by a historian, a Professor Lunn, who I now noticed from the blurb on the inside cover, lived in London. After Montague we were scheduled to shoot background footage of the House of Lords back in London so on whim I rang information and to my utter surprise Lunn’s number was listed. My luck held out because when I dialled the number a soft, cultured voice picked up on the first ring.
‘Professor Lunn?’ I asked.
* * *
‘For reasons that escape me,’ Rory said walking into the room a few minutes later, ‘Your company is required at dinner.’
I snapped my cell shut guiltily. ‘Don’t people knock on doors in your country?’
‘Been doing your homework?’
‘Just looking up the genetic factor that makes Englishmen so obnoxious.’ I shut down the computer and slid it forwards to cover the address Professor Lunn had dictated.
‘Well, tomorrow’s project is to find ten more things about the English you really dislike,’ he said grimly, ‘and don’t worry, you can be sure I’ll be working equally hard in the opposite direction.’
* * *
Professor Lunn’s house was in Bloomsbury. Oppressively dark, dusty and book-laden it seemed the typical lair of an academic. Physically speaking, Lunn the professor was straight out of central casting. Woolly, bearded, a hint of a shuffle. Opera was booming from behind the closed door when I rang the bell and once inside I nearly gagged on the air quality. He sat me down formally in front of a desk covered in overflowing ashtrays, and I expected a lot of good-natured preambling, but luckily he got straight to the point.
‘If I understood correctly you’re interested in the connection between pre-war Germany and the aristocracy,’ he said, squeezing a roll-up between his thumb and forefinger.
‘That’s right.’
‘In that case allow me give you the clipboard version,’ he lit the cigarette. ‘The prime minister of England, Chamberlain it was at the time, thought England was ill-prepared for war … there was the famous debate at the Oxford Union.’
‘This house will not fight for king and country.’ I’d actually found and read the transcript on the Internet.
‘That’s right,’ the professor nodded approvingly. ‘Word of this inevitably found its way to Hitler who therefore believed that he could take England without a fight,’ he paused to allow ash to drop into the china saucer on his desk. ‘These were the days when Edward and Mrs Simpson were an item. No doubt you’ve seen one of the many films,’ he added, faintly disdainful.
I nodded.
‘Edward was under the impression he could have a morganatic marriage, that he could be king, although she would never be queen. When it was made clear to him this was not the case, he was forced to renounce the throne. It is well documented that he met with Hitler’s people in Portugal and the assumption was quite simply that Hitler offered him a deal. Edward would help Hitler get England and in return he would be put back on the throne complete with Mrs Simpson – as a puppet king to be sure, but still…’
‘But after the First World War,’ I said, ‘how could he think of doing such a thing?’
‘Those who do not learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them,’ Lunn quoted.
‘And there were others involved?’
‘There would have to have been. People inside England, influential but “safe” people who Edward was in touch with. Help on the inside.’
* * *
‘And who is safer and more on the inside than Viscount Lytton-Jones?’ Wolf said. We were still mulling it over days later, ‘You can see how it might happen, Edward calls his favourite cousin and arranges for him to come and visit his nice new friend in Germany.’ He hoisted the camera onto the stand and screwed it down. The Bancrofts, whose house we were currently invading, sat on their couch and stared fearfully into the black depths of the lens. ‘Bring the family, nursemaid and kids, why not? All very kosher.’
‘Exactly, though kosher might not be
the tip-top choice of word to use when weekending with Nazis,’ I added.
* * *
I’d asked Lunn why nothing had ever been written about these cohorts.
‘Because it was hushed up,’ Lunn said simply. ‘In those days the aristocracy had the money and power to hush anything up. The royals knew of course, but it was a family affair. No washing of dirty linen in public etc. You must understand – the idea that a member of the royal family had collaborated was unthinkable and by the time it might have come out … well … England had already declared war on Germany.’
‘But keeping it quiet. It’s an amazing abuse of power. Dealing with Hitler, I’m sorry but these people were out-and-out traitors.’
‘Nobody ever knew exactly who was involved,’ said Lunn, ‘and besides, this all happened nearly seventy years ago, they’re probably all long since dead.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right,’ I said resigned, ‘but if they weren’t…?’
* * *
‘… Then it would be an even bigger scandal than Ted Turner having a sex change.’ Dwight uncoiled the wire of his microphone and blew a ball of fluff from its head.
‘That wasn’t exactly the way he put it, but…’
‘So what now?’ Wolf asked.
‘If all the players are dead,’ I said grudgingly, ‘nothing I guess. Without a warm body, it’s just old news.’
daniel
Poor Lord Bancroft, born on a Monday, packed off to the nursery Tuesday, prep school Wednesday, Eton, Thursday, Friday to Oxford, where he graduated with a respectable 2.1. Saturday he enrolled in the army. Sunday entered the bank, then on Monday he inherited the family home by which time, like Solomon Grundy, he was already dead.
Thank God the house was of manageable size as long as he was conservative with his money. And Lord Bancroft was nothing if not conservative. A truly sober fellow, in the non-alcoholic sense of the word, he lived a quiet life; a few friends, a spot of shooting, the odd weekend party. But he’d never ridden on a motorbike, travelled with a backpack, had outdoor sex, or sex anywhere for that matter except in bed with the lights firmly off. He’d never eaten in a Thai restaurant, stayed up all night, had a take-away, watched an American sitcom. He’d never used a mobile, worked a fax, turned on a video or taped a show. He might have enjoyed many of these activities but they belonged to a different world, a world that didn’t understand him, didn’t particularly want him, a world of which he was thoroughly scared.
He met his wife at a point-to-point. They had interests in common; gardening, country living. Their life stretched before them as cosy and predictable as a cup of Earl Grey …
Lloyds seized everything they had, bar the house and contents. Lord Bancroft took it on the chin, but his world shrank a little further. Money grew tight. Eventually he let his faithful butler go. Mr Nieve surprised him by opening up shop in a town, 30 miles away, selling antiques. He offered to work one day a fortnight for which Lord Bancroft was grateful.
It was a few months later when Lady Bancroft first noticed something.
‘Have you seen my earrings, darling? The ones your mother gave me?’
‘You wore them only the other night,’ he reassured her, ‘I remember it quite distinctly.’
But Lady Bancroft was meticulous with her belongings. She had a jewellery box lined in velvet in which she kept everything that was precious to her. She was sure she’d put them back.
One day the wicker seat on the dining-room chair wore through. The set was eighteenth-century English – six spares were kept in the cellar and only used when the table was extended for special occasions. In the cellar Lord Bancroft found only four. He rang Mr Nieve. ‘I think you’ll find there were only ever four, sir,’ Mr Nieve said smoothly. The matter was dropped.
On it went, a pair of hunting boots, a vase, surprisingly valuable, or had it been broken a while back? The awful spectre of Alzheimer’s crossed both their minds. They began keeping incidents from each other, but finally the inevitable happened. Lady Bancroft’s brother came from America to visit. Lady Bancroft’s Boston-bred sister-in-law liked nothing better than picking up antiques in English country towns. She returned, late Saturday afternoon, excited to be in possession of a pair of beautiful dining room chairs …
maggie
‘The butler had been stealing from them!’
‘He stocked his shop straight from their house,’ Rory had said.
‘And they never suspected?’
‘Did they strike you as the type that would?’
The answer to that had so far been an emphatic no. Now I looked over to where Dwight was feeding the microphone under Lord Bancroft’s sweater. Despite Rory’s build-up, I couldn’t think of a single question to ask them. After the prospect of Bevan and a real story, anything even approaching Newsline’s original brief seemed about as fresh as over-warmed takeout.
‘These people are like waxworks,’ I hissed to Wolf. ‘Look at them, are they even alive? I mean how the hell are we going to make this interesting?’
‘Ask them about their sex life,’ Wolf said.
‘Ask them about their sex life? Why, that’s just brilliant.’
‘Why not.’ Rory appeared in the doorway, ‘Go on, ask them. I dare you.’
‘You dare me?’
‘Why, can’t you handle it?’
‘This should be interesting.’ Wolf sighed.
* * *
Most people are painfully self-conscious when you film them. They make a little joke, play to the camera, poke fun at themselves and Bancroft was no anomaly. He looked as if he’d rather have a tooth pulled than answer the question I’d asked him.
‘Frightfully bad form,’ he faltered, ‘not the sort of thing one talks about at all,’ and I felt bad. He was too uptight to give up much but at least he was willing. The question had been a cheap shot for a laugh and I wish I hadn’t let myself been goaded into taking Rory’s dare. ‘You can kick me out any time, you know.’ I told him, genuinely hoping he might, ‘I really won’t be offended.’
Lord Bancroft sighed ponderously. ‘Well, my dear, you have to understand that for a certain class of Englishman, sex, as such, is not stumbled upon until much later on in life. Boarding school, the army, the bank. For Americans I’m sure it’s as commonplace as going to supermarket – “recreational” I’ve heard you young people call it, but I don’t believe I actually encountered a creature of the opposite sex before the age of twenty-five.’
‘Oh come on, Lord Bancroft, surely you had one of those nannies?’ I tried to jolly him along.
‘Ah indeed I did,’ he said.
‘Scary things your British nannies, they beat you with a wooden spoon, make you eat cod liver oil and don’t they tell you that you go blind if…’ From the doorway, Rory groaned and shook his head. I fluttered my eyelashes demurely at him.
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Lord Bancroft, and suddenly I realized that something interesting was about to happen. Self-consciousness can be exhausting and in the end it’s invariably easier to relax. The harder people find it to talk about themselves the more revealing the moment of total capitulation can be and as a reporter you learn to look out for it because get this moment on tape and you’ve hit the jackpot. As Lord Bancroft lost himself in some memory, his every muscle seemed to loosen up and when he sighed it was like the final breath going out of a dying body. Wolf saw it too and he zoomed in close on his face.
‘… it was my twelfth birthday,’ Lord Bancroft wasn’t looking at the camera any more, but straight through it, back to some forgotten picture of his childhood, ‘I was just recovering from the flu, if I remember correctly. No, no, she never beat me, dear Nanny, in fact … well, in fact … she…’
‘She … yes? She…’ I prompted.
‘She seduced me.’
There was a stunned silence. Lady Bancroft turned to her husband, aghast. Rory’s jaw dropped.
I was shocked. I hadn’t been waiting for a moment of revelation, just a m
oment of … I don’t know, intimacy maybe, or television intimacy at least. ‘That’s terrible,’ I said, praying he’d go on. There was a pregnant silence.
‘No, no, no,’ Lord Bancroft said finally, ‘Not so terrible…’ another agonizing pause. ‘In actual fact, I quite enjoyed it. You see,’ he said cautiously, as though testing whether the thin ice he was already skating on might carry a little more weight, ‘personally I’m rather partial to sex.’
‘You are?’ Lady Bancroft turned sharply.
Wolf quickly pulled back to include her in the frame.
‘Yes, my dear,’ Lord Bancroft turned to her. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I am.’
She lowered her gaze but when she raised it again, there was a flash in those pale green eyes. ‘Well’ she said crossly, ‘You really might have told me because … so am I.’
‘Cut.’ I said.
* * *
Rory and Dwight were playing tennis on the Bancrofts’ woefully unmaintained court. Rory was serving and I had to laugh. No American would be seen dead on a tennis court without the appropriate Nike shoes and Aggassi-sponsored Head racquet that Dwight was scampering around with. Rory was wearing faded shorts, a striped woolly scarf and, despite the cold, a mildewed pair of sneakers with no socks. His wooden racket was old and warped but he might have been playing with a frying pan for all the difference it made. He was a natural athlete, serving balls with absolute precision at poor hapless Dwight, who sent one after the other into orbit before Rory eventually dispatched him to poke around in a field of nettles outside the court to retrieve them.
‘Ah, Maggie Monroe,’ Rory caught sight of me, ‘the woman that brought tantric sex to the upper class—’
But somehow I just wasn’t in the mood for it.
‘You know what, I dare you to say something nice for a change.’
Rory looked at me quizzically, then stuck his finger through the wire.