by William Boyd
Monday, 8 July
Godfrey and Fleming called me and Vanderpoel in and asked if either of us knew Lisbon. I said, yes; Vanderpoel, no. ‘At least one of you does,’ Godfrey said. ‘Anyway, that’s where you’re heading.’ I inquired why. The Duke of Windsor has arrived there, Godfrey said, in flight from his house in France and the advancing German and Italian armies, and we need to keep an eye on him. Can’t the embassy do that? Vanderpoel said (I sensed he was reluctant to go). Apparently the ambassador is a bundle of nerves and the MI 6 man there is a dipsomaniac and hated by all the staff. The position of the Duke was very delicate, Godfrey went on: he can’t come back here (because of the family) and we can’t risk him falling into the hands of the Nazis. I said: ‘I met him once, in Biarritz, 1934.’ Fleming looked at Godfrey as if he’d just won a bet. ‘I told you Mountstuart was our man,’ he said mysteriously.
I went back to Freya to relay the news. I said I’d be in no danger – but, because it was Lisbon, she didn’t seem to mind so much. ‘Will you go to our restaurant?’ she said. I told her I’d drink an entire bottle of wine to us both.
Wednesday, 10 July
Lisbon. Vanderpoel and I flew out in a Coastal Command Sunderland flying boat from Poole Harbour. Smooth, trouble-free flight. Lisbon seemed crammed with well-off refugees, all the riff-raff of Europe looking for safe passage out. For the first time I felt strangely aware of Lisbon and Portugal being on the very edge of the Old World. Here at its extremities the terrified transients gathered, gazing out at the vast refulgent ocean for some sign of security.
We reported to the embassy, where we were coolly received by a man called Stopford – the so-called ‘Financial Attaché’ but actually the head of mi6 in Portugal – and were grudgingly briefed. The Duke and Duchess had fled their villa near Antibes on the 19th of June as the collapse of France gathered pace and had travelled by road with their staff and some consular officials to Madrid. There, they had spent nine days being wined and dined before coming on to Portugal. They were living in the house of a Portuguese millionaire called Ricardo Espirito Santo in Cascais, about an hour’s drive from the city. ‘I don’t know what NID think they can do that we can’t,’ Stopford said nastily. ‘We’ve got our people in the house, the grounds are hotching with Portuguese police. He can’t fart without us hearing about it.’
As we left, I said to Vanderpoel: ‘What a boozer, very comforting.’ ‘I thought he seemed very decent,’ Vanderpoel said. I don’t think our Vanderpoel’s cut out for intelligence, somehow. We went back to our seedy hotel, which was all we could find, aptly called the London Pension, and Vanderpoel took to his bed saying he thought he was coming down with flu.
Thursday, 11 July
Vanderpoel running a temperature. This evening I went to a drinks party at the embassy and met a man called Eccles4 who seems to be some kind of éminence grise out here – very much in the know; highly sceptical about the abilities of the embassy staff. He sees the Duke regularly and I gained the impression things were not going well. The Duke won’t leave until he has his future sorted out and certain guarantees have been delivered about his and the Duchess’s status. ‘All very petty,’ Eccles said, ‘given the appalling situation we’re in.’5 I repeated my old line about meeting the Duke in Biarritz and Eccles practically embraced me. He immediately invited me out to dinner at the villa tomorrow night. ‘It was a very fleeting encounter,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t matter less,’ Eccles said. ‘He’s surrounded by dubious financiers who’re all talking to the Germans. You’ll be a breath of fresh air.’
Just popped in to see Vanderpoel to tell him the latest development. He’s outraged and has forbidden me to go. I said only Godfrey had that kind of authority. Wrote to Freya and told her I was to dine with David and Wallis. That should be some story to tell.
Friday, 12 July
To reach the Duke’s villa – the Boca do Inferno – you drive almost to the furthest western point of Europe, or so it seems. He’s staying in a big pink stucco house on a rocky promontory surrounded by pine trees. Ahead stretches the whole Atlantic Ocean. We passed through Belém and Estoril and followed the coast road to Cascais. Approaching Cascais (set back on a hill above the villa) we were stopped twice by police. They are clearly well guarded. As we drove through the gates Eccles reminded me that a ‘bow from the neck’ was suitable for the Duke but the Duchess should receive nothing more than a smile and a handshake. On no account was I to refer to her as ‘Her Royal Highness’. I said I understood.
The villa itself sits behind high stone walls and is large and comfortable with a swimming pool. Ricardo Espírito Santo and his wife Mary greeted us on the terrace, where we were served drinks. There was another couple there by the name of Asseca. Then we waited. And waited. There was a lot of covert watch-glancing and Mary Espírito Santo kept disappearing to whisper to the staff until eventually the Duke and Duchess of Windsor came down from their room.
First impressions. They were both immaculately dressed. The Duke looked like a miniature American film star, slim and dapper, with his grey-blond hair swept back, a perfectly cut dinner suit, a cigarette casually poised in hand. The Duchess, who must be in her mid forties, was equally petite. A beautifully matched porcelain couple. You wanted to put them on your mantelpiece. I towered over them both. The Duchess was heavily made-up and heavily bejewelled. She has an expressionless, mask-like face and a rather protuberant mole on her chin. Eccles introduced me when my turn came and mentioned Biarritz.
‘We met on the golf course, sir.’
‘You’re a golfer, thank God.’ He turned to the Duchess. ‘Darling, Mr – um – this dear fellow – was at Biarritz in ‘34. Do you remember that holiday? Wasn’t it fun?’
‘I adore Biarritz,’ she said.
‘So do I,’ I said, ‘In fact I think – ’
‘And he’s a golfer,’ said the Duke.
‘David, don’t butt in like that. Mr… Mr?’
‘Mountstuart.’
‘Mr Mountstuart was going to tell us something fascinating about Biarritz.’
Then we were interrupted and ushered into dinner. I sat beside Senhora Asseca and Mary Espírito Santo (who was rather attractive in that cold, hard way certain rich European women have). Senhora Asseca spoke Spanish and broken French. Mary E.S. was fluent in English. Eccles and the Duchess laughed together a lot: they seemed very gay. I thought at the time: store this one away, Logan – he Duke and Duchess of Windsor, a lovely house on the sea, hot-and-cold running servants, good food and wine. The world at war.
As we were leaving the Duke came up to me and asked if I was free for golf tomorrow afternoon at the Estoril Golf Club. I said indeed I was, many thanks, etc. He lingered a bit and I said it was good to see him in such fine form after his epic drive across Europe. His face slumped, sulkily, and he lowered his voice: ‘I’m a virtual prisoner here,’ he said. ‘Nothing but blocking on all sides and mountains of red tape.’ I commiserated and we agreed to meet at the club tomorrow at 3 o’clock.
On the drive back to Lisbon, Eccles was intrigued to learn of the appointment. He thought for a while and said, ‘I’d appreciate it, Logan, if you’d let me know anything that goes back to NID.’ Of course, I said, then added: ‘You haven’t any idea where I can lay my hands on a set of golf clubs, have you?’
Saturday, 13 July
His Majesty’s Government has generously procured me a new set of golf clubs, which is very decent of it (them?) and thus equipped I set out to the Estoril Golf Club for my game. The Duke, Espirito Santo and another man called Brito e Cunha turned up half an hour late and with them were about a dozen Portuguese detectives. The Duke said he would prefer to play a two-ball with me and urged the other two to tee off first. The day was warm with a slight breeze from the sea. The course was baked hard and the grass burnt tinder-dry. My first drive leapt along the fairway as if it were bouncing on concrete for practically 300 yards. But the greens were watered and played well, if fast.
The Duke
was a twelve handicap and played a sober and risk-free game. At the third tee we stopped for a cigarette as Espírito Santo and Cunha played on. I bounced my ball on the ground and it made a crack like a marble on asphalt. ‘I’m told this is what golf’s like in the tropics,’ I said.
‘Well, I’ll get plenty of practice soon enough,’ the Duke said glumly.
‘I don’t understand, sir.’
‘They’re sending me to the Bahamas. I’m going to be governor.’
‘Bahamas? Should be wonderful.’
‘D’ you think they said that to Napoleon when they packed him off to St Helena?’
The Duke was in a bad mood but was playing good golf – and I was careful not to challenge his early two-hole lead. As his golf improved so did his demeanour and his indiscretions. I sensed his relief at talking to a fellow Englishman and golfer.
Some of the things he said.
His brother, the King, was an amiable fool completely dominated by his wife. It was the Queen who was preventing him and the Duchess returning to Britain. ‘Doesn’t want us there,’ he said. ‘Thinks we’ll steal their thunder. Very jealous of Wallis.’
He was sick to death of Portugal and longing to leave but would only go ‘on my conditions’.
Two problems appeared to preoccupy him more than anything else. One was the recovery of certain possessions left at their houses in Antibes and Paris (clothes, linen), and the second was the refusal of the British government to release his soldier servant from active service so he could become his valet in the Bahamas.
‘Do you have a valet?’
‘Alas, no,’ I said.
‘You should get one. People don’t understand that someone like me just can’t function without a valet. I want Fletcher,6 and I won’t leave till I have him.’
I said, without really thinking, ‘Perhaps I might be able to help.’
He turned to me and grabbed my arm. ‘Believe me, Mountfield, if you could do anything – ’
‘Mountstuart, sir.’
‘Mountstuart. I’d be most grateful.’
‘Why don’t I see what I can do.’
After golf (the Duke won, three and two, and I wrote him a cheque for £3) I went straight to the embassy and had a cable encrypted and sent to Godfrey at NID. I said that if Piper Alistair Fletcher could be released from active service I felt sure that the Duke would become far more amenable to all suggestions.
Vanderpoel running a temperature of 103 degrees. He still managed to dress me down for sending a cable without his permission. ‘I’m your senior officer,’ he coughed. I have a feeling Vanderpoel will soon attain CAUC status if he carries on in this way.
Sunday, 14 July
Drinks with Eccles. He’s a smooth, plumply handsome man, who apparently made a fortune from Spanish railways before the war. I told him about our day on the golf course and the Fletcher moan.
‘It seems to be bothering him more than going to the Bahamas,’ I said. ‘If we could get him Fletcher and his trunks from Antibes he’d be putty in our – in your hands.’
Eccles looked at me – not very kindly. ‘Interesting point,’ he said. ‘I’ll get on to it.’
We talked circumspectly about the Duke. It’s clear that he behaves like a spoilt child and all one’s dealings with him are conditioned by this attitude. If he’s in a good mood, all’s well. If he’s in a bad mood, then he sulks and stamps his foot and won’t come out to play.
Monday, 22 July
Invitation to dine with the Duke and Duchess on Wednesday. Vanderpoel insisted that he go in my place, protested to Eccles, who told him not to be ridiculous. So it’s non-speaks with Vanderpoel – bout as adult as the Duke. Vanderpoel seems more or less recovered and spends all day at the embassy sending cables and trying to look busy. I sit in the sun and read ancient detective novels from the pension library. Wish Freya were here. Depressed by the news that Vichy France has severed diplomatic relations with us. Was there ever a better example of the lunacy of this war? And here I am hobnobbing with an ex-king.
Wednesday, 24 July
On the way to Boca do Inferno Eccles warned me not to sign the Duke’s visitors’ book if I were asked. Also he said not to breathe a word about the NID. Apparently German agents have been putting about the rumour that the British secret service are plotting to have the Duke assassinated.7 Eccles said he was paranoid and very jumpy.
But in fact he was the soul of good humour and fun – laughing, chatting non-stop, pouring people’s drinks. I had a sense of him as he must have been as a young man and the charisma he wielded so effortlessly. And the Duchess herself was suddenly far more attentive to me – Eccles quite abandoned. When she talks to you she puts her face about two inches closer than is normal. As a result even the most banal statement has a quality of intimacy and when she speaks you feel her breath on your face. It is a fantastically effective trick. She is no beauty but somehow this special proximity makes you feel chosen – she has eyes only for you. I saw her at close range and I must say her teeth are immaculate. Impossible to get any idea of her figure under the haute couture. She’s very skinny but is she flat-chested? She called me Logan.
It was a big party full of Espírito Santo’s Portuguese friends. The Duke and Duchess feel they have been cold shouldered by the embassy, and Eccles and I were the only British there. It was a warm night and we took brandy and coffee out on the terrace. There was a great booming and crashing of surf in the darkness. The Duke, smoking a cigar, led me on to the lawn to the edge of the circle of light cast by the house. I said how enjoyable the evening had been and what a pleasure it was to see the lights of Estoril blazing along the coast after the blackout in London. I didn’t add this, but, standing there in the warm night, it seemed to me as if we were in a never-never land for rich and beautiful people where war was unknown. But the Duke wasn’t listening.
‘I had a telegram from Winston8 today,’ he said. ‘We’ve got Fletcher – he’s coming to join us.’
‘Excellent news, sir.’
‘All thanks to you, Mountstuart.’
‘No, really, I – ’
‘You’re too modest. I know you must have pulled a few strings. We’re really grateful.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Trouble is we still can’t get those trunks of clothes and linen from Antibes. We desperately need them for the Bahamas. If there was anything you could do… ’
‘I’ll try, sir.’
As we strolled back to the terrace the Duchess called me over. She put her face very close to mine and for one mad instant I thought she was going to kiss me on the lips. But she said, ‘Would you sign the visitors’ book, Logan,’ and showed me where it was on the side table in the hall. ‘Thank you for everything you did for David,’ she added in a quiet voice, and touched my arm. I picked up the pen, pretended to write my name, but she had drifted away.
Back at the London Pension. Vanderpoel has left me a note. I’m to take a flying boat back to London tomorrow while he stays on. Miserable jealous little bastard.
[The Duke and Duchess of Windsor left Lisbon on 1 August on board an American liner to take up the Duke’s appointment as Governor of the Bahamas. In London LMS wrote up his account of the Lisbon trip and his meeting with, and impressions of, the couple (in more circumspect terms than he employed in this journal). This long confidential memorandum9 (some sixty pages) was circulated in NID. It was highly regarded.
When the bombing of London and other British cities began in September of that year (the Blitz), Freya and Stella once again decamped to the Deverells in Cheshire until the summer of 1941. LMS’s mother remained in Sumner Place, now home to some eighteen paying guests, Mercedes Mountstuart and Encarnación occupying one large room on the ground floor. LMS’s work continued routinely in NID and he wrote regular bulletins for the Spanish language service of the BBC]
1941
Wednesday, 31 December
Summary of the year. Freya and Stella are asleep. I sit in m
y little study under the roof with the blackout curtains drawn, whisky bottle in front of me.
The war. The war, the war. My mind can’t take it in. Depressed by the news in the East.10 Elated by Pearl Harbor. This will finally bring the Americans in and for the first time I allow myself to think this war will end – with victory. Thank you, Hirohito.
Mrs Woolf committed suicide in March – drowned herself in the River Ouse, à la Tess. Death by water. And Joyce died this year in Zurich, a sick, blind, prematurely old man, by all accounts. Talking of which:
Health: good in the main. Two teeth removed, flu in September. Drinking too much.
Family: Freya and Stella both startlingly well. I’ve seen Lionel three times this year – shame on me.
Work: Vanderpoel a grade 1 CAUC. Many hours expended on the Spanish bulletins. Freya has taken over my reading duties at S&D for £20 a week. I pointed out that this was the same work I did for 30 per cent less money. Roderick wouldn’t budge – he’s punishing me for the non-delivery of Summer. I wrote a long article on Verlaine for Horizon (Cyril very complimentary but it has yet to run). Some reviewing for newspapers, but with £55 a month from NID, plus Freya’s salary, plus my Miró windfall we are better off than ever.
Home: solid new doors and windows on Melville Road11 – we sleep more securely. Dreams of Spain. Who drinks at the Chicote now? I try to imagine Paris full of Nazi soldiers.
A wasted year, in the end. I asked Fleming for a move to another section, but he said I was too valuable to the Iberian peninsula.