No More Dying

by David Roberts

  ‘I asked him what he wanted to be when he stopped being Ambassador and he said President of the United States but he told me I couldn’t quote him. I think he wants me to sort of imply it. He thinks we British are decadent and that it’s natural justice Germany should have its turn to rule the world.’

  ‘That’s a real scoop, V. Congratulations.’

  ‘It is and isn’t,’ she said, wrinkling her brow. ‘I’ve been struggling with it ever since I got back from the embassy. It’s difficult to get the tone right. I don’t want Kennedy to think I’ve made a fool of him. In fact, I more or less promised him I wouldn’t. On the other hand, I don’t want to sound sycophantic. Anyway, Joe Weaver wouldn’t allow me to write the whole truth.’

  ‘So David’s pleased with you?’ Edward asked snidely.

  Verity ignored him. ‘I want to tell the truth but not the whole truth – not yet, anyway. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. If I did, he’d sue for libel or buy the newspaper or something.’

  ‘But if it’s true . . . I mean about him wanting to be President . . .?’

  ‘He could always deny it. There was no one else in the room. That was flattering, by the way.’

  ‘Or else the press secretary didn’t take you seriously.’

  ‘Don’t be so mean. I did get a scoop. It’s just that at this moment in our history when we need America – isn’t that what you are always telling me Mr Churchill says? – we can’t afford to insult its representative at the Court of St James.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Sorry. I suppose I was just jealous. Shall we go out to dinner?’

  ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. I’ve got to go back to the flat and take the receiver off the hook and hammer out this article. I promised him he could read it tomorrow evening.’

  ‘I wonder who’ll be there,’ Edward mused.

  ‘He said it was just a family affair. Not Mrs Kennedy, apparently. He told me she’s in Paris buying from all the fashion houses in order to look good when she dines with the King and Queen. The boys will be there and Kathleen, of course. Everyone seems to love her.’

  ‘You’ll like Joe Jr. His father calls him Little Joe and is immensely proud of him.’

  ‘So I gather but, still, I don’t envy him. He’s hardly more than his father’s secretary at the moment. One thing Kennedy said which made me feel for his children was “I don’t want any losers around me. In this family we want winners. My children won’t be second best.” Something like that anyway. He’s very much leader of the pack. If he doesn’t become President, then he’s determined Joe Jr will.’

  ‘Hmm. I wonder what Freud would have to say,’ Edward mused. ‘How often do the children of these sort of men ever amount to much? More likely they break under the strain. I gather from what I read in the newspapers that Jack, Joe’s younger brother, is a sickly boy. I can’t see him ever becoming President. What do you think it costs the old man to support an expensive wife, nine children, several mistresses and entertain on the scale he does?’

  ‘I did some digging and discovered that officially he’s only paid a pittance – something like eighteen thousand dollars a year with another five thousand for “expenses”. Not a lot if you’re spending two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which is what I hear he spends.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the old man,’ Edward snorted. ‘He’s as rich as Croesus. Never forget he’s a gangster. He was a friend of Al Capone. And this is his apotheosis. This is where he becomes respectable. He wants to go down in history as a great man and, next to being President – which I very much doubt he ever will be – being Ambassador over here is the most important position he’s ever likely to hold. Doesn’t it make you feel queasy to think that this man who ought to be in jail is representing his country at a time when there should be someone of the highest calibre over here?’

  ‘Golly! You sound even more censorious than me. Well, we’re doing what’s been asked of us in getting to know the man. We’ll just have to see what happens. Do you think we’re hypocrites?’

  ‘They say that ambassadors are sent abroad to lie for their country. I expect if we have to lie a bit in a good cause, we’ll be forgiven. I say, what are you going to do tomorrow?’ he added hopefully.

  ‘Working,’ Verity replied virtuously. ‘What about you? Lazing about like all you decadent aristocrats, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m having a tennis lesson with Kay in the morning. Lunch at the club and then a snooze. I want to be on top form for our dinner. Shall I pick you up about seven?’

  ‘Yes, and don’t forget it’s informal – a dinner jacket, nothing more.’

  Verity was just reading over what she had typed when there was a knock on her door. She looked at her watch. It was two o’clock and she was hungry, not having broken for lunch.

  ‘Yes? Who is it?’ She thought it absurd but Edward had persuaded her not to open the door of her flat without first knowing who was on the other side. ‘You’ve made some pretty ugly enemies in your career so far,’ he told her. ‘It makes sense to take a bit of care. I don’t want to have my girl hit over the head or something before I’ve had a chance of doing it myself.’ His joke was feeble but his concern was genuine.

  ‘Miss Browne. It’s me – Tom Wintringham. Let me in, will you?’

  ‘Tom? Of course, hold on a moment.’

  Tom Wintringham had been war correspondent on the Daily Worker and had joined the International Brigade as soon as it was formed. Verity had met him first in Spain and had liked him. He was a Balliol man but Oxford hadn’t suited him and he had come down without a degree. He became a committed Communist, to the chagrin of his father who was a vicar. In his late thirties, he was slim, almost weedy-looking, with steel-framed spectacles, a high-domed head and an academic stoop.

  ‘Tom!’ Verity said, kissing him. ‘So it was you the other night. Come in. You look awful,’ she added, seeing him properly. ‘What on earth have you been up to?’

  ‘You recognized me, then?’

  ‘Outside the Kardomah? Certainly I did but I had a feeling you didn’t want me to show it.’

  ‘That’s right. Megan and I . . .’

  ‘The little girl? Is she your daughter?’

  ‘Yes, she’s mine. Just five,’ he added proudly.

  ‘I was worried in that fog that she might be cold.’

  ‘She’s a tough child but her mother was cross with me for being out so long. The thing was, I saw who you were with.’

  ‘David Griffiths-Jones?’

  ‘Yes, and O’Rourke.’

  ‘You know Danny, then?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Do you remember when we were in Spain there was that Irishman in my battalion – Liam MacDade?’

  ‘I do. He’d been in the IRA, hadn’t he? I didn’t like him and I know he didn’t like me.’

  ‘He hated you.’

  Verity blenched. ‘But he was killed on the Jarama River, wasn’t he? That was what I heard.’

  ‘He was wounded but survived. He’s here in London now. I’ve seen him with O’Rourke.’

  ‘You aren’t saying they are behind this bombing campaign, are you?’

  ‘I haven’t got any proof but I believe so. The thing is, if anything were to happen to me, I wanted someone to know . . .’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen, Tom. Even the IRA don’t go around murdering people – at least not in England,’ Verity added, suddenly doubtful. ‘When did you see them together?’

  ‘There’s an Irish pub – the Spread Eagle – in the docks. As you know, most of the dockers are Irish.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘No, but I saw O’Rourke, MacDade and that other fellow who was in Spain with us – “Bomber” Kelly.’

  ‘The one who blew up bridges?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Verity hesitated. ‘You didn’t hear what they were talking about?’

  ‘No. I didn’t want to get too close to them. I’ve got a wife and daughter.’

  ‘You co
uld go to the police.’

  ‘I told you – I have a wife and daughter. I don’t want to die quite yet.’ Tom’s smile was thin. ‘Anyway, think about it – we Communists aren’t too popular with the forces of law and order. I go into the police station and ask to see the duty sergeant. He’s probably Irish but, even if he isn’t, all I can say is that I saw three Irishmen talking together in an Irish pub. Sounds like a bad joke. He’d kick me out as soon as look at me.’

  ‘I don’t know – not with these bombs in underground stations. I believe in Irish independence. I think what the Black and Tans did in Ireland was unforgivable and we’ll go on paying for it for generations. On the other hand, killing innocent people on the Tube or anywhere else for that matter is not . . .’

  ‘Anyway, it wasn’t O’Rourke I came to talk to you about.’

  ‘No? Who was it then?’ Verity looked meaningfully at her typewriter.

  ‘Sorry, you’re busy.’

  ‘I have this article to write. But go ahead. You wanted to talk to me about . . .?’

  ‘About Griffiths-Jones.’

  ‘David?’ She was surprised.

  ‘Yes, David.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew him.’

  ‘I know him all right. In fact, I’ve been following him.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You’ve been following David? Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t trust him.’

  ‘He’s a senior figure in the Party. He’s your superior. You oughtn’t to say such things about him.’

  ‘I know but . . . well, I first watched him in Spain. I was what you might call his ADC for a few months. I got to know him pretty well. You know him well too. Surely you can see what I see?’

  Verity began to be irritated. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Tom, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’ve got something to say, please say it, otherwise I must get back to work.’

  He hesitated. ‘Another time. I can see I’m being a bore. How are you, by the way? I heard you’ve had TB.’

  ‘Yes, but I was lucky. I’m better now.’

  ‘You don’t look better,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘Well, I am,’ she replied crossly.

  ‘And you are getting married. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said abruptly.

  ‘Well, I’ll be going now. I’m glad I’ve warned you.’

  ‘About the IRA?’

  ‘And about David.’

  ‘There’s nothing about David I don’t know. He puts the Party first and people second. I’ve known that for a long time.’

  ‘Yes, well, be careful. That’s all I can say.’

  Verity felt uncomfortable. She longed for Tom to leave. For some ridiculous reason she felt guilty but about what she could not say. She knew he was right about David but she didn’t want to admit it. It seemed disloyal to allow anyone to criticize him in front of her.

  ‘Why did you tell me about Danny O’Rourke?’

  ‘Because I trust you,’ he said, and then spoilt it by adding, ‘and you know important people – people in authority. They’ll listen to you.’

  Informal dress was easy enough for Edward but it took Verity almost as long to decide what to wear as it had to write her article. She wanted to be smart and attractive but not too showy. She had an idea that she shouldn’t make Kathleen Kennedy look dowdy by comparison. In the end, she chose a simple, tight-waisted, full-skirted dress by Lucien Lelong which Edward had bought her as a birthday present when she had been ill. She hadn’t worn it before and she knew it would please him if she wore it now.

  When he came to pick her up in the Lagonda – his valet, Fenton, acting as chauffeur – Edward told her she looked beautiful. She refused to let him kiss her because, unusually for her, she had put on make-up and had no wish to arrive with her lipstick smeared.

  He pretended to be disgruntled. ‘Now you’ve recovered and I’m allowed to kiss you, you won’t let me.’ He looked at her more closely and brightened up. ‘Isn’t that the dress we bought together? You look . . . well, you look good enough to eat. I warn you that, if that nasty old man puts his hand on your knee during dinner, I may have to punch him.’

  ‘You won’t see if he puts his hand on my knee but you don’t have to worry. He wouldn’t try anything with his children present. Mind you, he can be pretty rude when he wants to be, so don’t rise. And he swears like a navvy.’

  When they arrived at the American Embassy residence in Prince’s Gate – another of J.P. Morgan’s gifts to a grateful nation – they were greeted by a cloud of flunkeys and taken up to the drawing-room. It was a beautiful room but rather stifled by ornate French Empire style furniture and heavy velvet curtains. Whether this was the taste of the previous Ambassador, Robert Worth Bingham, or Kennedy’s own, Verity never discovered but she found it oppressive.

  Far from being hostile, Kennedy could not have been more friendly. Edward thought he was about to kiss Verity but, in the end, he remembered that he hardly knew her and contented himself with shaking her hand and then forgetting to let go of it as he introduced her to his children.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘but this is just a family party. I get fed up entertaining a lot of old men my age even if they are English lords. My apologies, Lord Edward, but I find when you’ve met one English lord, you’ve met them all.’

  Edward turned away what might have been meant as a jibe with an easy shrug of his shoulders. ‘I recall Lord Halifax –’ Halifax was the Foreign Secretary – ‘saying he felt the same way about ambassadors.’

  ‘Touché!’ Joe Jr said with a laugh. ‘So, Edward, aren’t you going to introduce us properly? I gather you gave my father a hard time yesterday, Miss Browne,’ he went on, not waiting for Edward to respond.

  ‘She’s one tough lady. Have you brought that article for me to read?’ The Ambassador seemed genial enough but Edward suspected that, if Verity had not brought it with her, he would have shown his displeasure.

  ‘Yes, Ambassador,’ she said, taking it out of her handbag.

  ‘Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and read it over while you kids get to know one another. Come with me, will you, Eamon?’

  Eamon Farrell, the Ambassador’s press secretary, waved apologetically at them and followed Kennedy out of the room. Edward, rather startled at being labelled one of the kids, said to Verity in mock alarm, ‘If you’ve got something wrong, we’ll probably not be allowed to sit down to dinner.’

  Joe Jr laughed. ‘Now, Miss Browne, who amongst this grisly crew haven’t you yet met?’

  ‘Please, you must call me Verity or I’ll begin to feel left out.’

  ‘Right! Verity it is. Now, this is Kathleen, my sister, whom everyone calls Kick . . .’

  It was easy to see why Kick was so popular in London society. She wasn’t exactly pretty – her hair was mousy and her figure a little too full – but she had bright blue eyes and a delightful smile so that it was almost impossible not to smile back at her. She was just nineteen and had what Verity had seen described in the popular press as ‘sex appeal’. Bags of it. She looked – as the French say – bien dans sa peau and Verity noticed that Edward had that smile on his face she had seen before when he liked the look of a woman.

  ‘Miss Browne, I’ve been longing to meet you. Everyone’s been so kind and hospitable but I only seem to meet . . . well, you know, girls doing the “season”. They’re all young and they haven’t done anything yet. You must tell me about Spain and Austria. Joe’s been all over Europe but I’ve seen nothing.’

  She bubbled away but, behind her loquacity, Verity sensed a shy girl who did not perhaps wholly believe in the success she was enjoying. Verity did not, as a rule, read the gossip columns but she had been unable to avoid them altogether and knew that Kick was invited to all the grandest houses and had danced with everyone from Prince Leopold and the Duke of Kent to ‘Billy’ Cavendish, the Marquess of Hartington who would one day be the Duke of Devonshire. Queen had dev
oted a double-page spread to ‘America’s Most Important Debutante’. Her triumph was all the more remarkable because the English aristocracy did not normally take kindly to interlopers, especially Irish-American Catholics.

  ‘And this is my younger brother, Jack,’ Joe continued, ruffling the hair of a handsome, fresh-faced boy. ‘So now you’ve met us all, Edward, what do you think?’

  Fortunately, Edward was spared having to answer by the entry of his Cambridge friend, Casey Bishop.

  ‘Edward – great to see you! It’s been so long.’ He gripped Edward’s hand and looked him up and down with a trace of mockery in his eyes. ‘Sorry to be late. And this must be Miss Browne. I’m delighted to meet you. The Old Man seems to have taken rather a shine to you.’ The voice was slow and easy. It had served him well with the English girls who had flocked round him when Edward had first known him at Cambridge. To his chagrin, he hardly looked a day older. ‘So you’re marrying Edward? Well, well . . . He always was a lucky guy.’

  Edward smiled weakly and Verity’s grin broadened. As he watched her take in this good-looking man with his perfect teeth and thick fair hair, he felt distinctly worn about the edges.

  ‘It’s very good to see you too, Casey. It’s been too long. I’d heard you were in London and have been meaning to look you up.’

  ‘You’ve forgiven me, then?’ Casey’s smile was impish.

  ‘Forgiven you?’

  ‘That girl – what was her name? Phoebe something.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Edward was embarrassed. ‘It was all so long ago.’

  ‘You two know each other?’ Kick was surprised.

  ‘We were at Cambridge together,’ Casey replied. ‘I was up at Trinity for a year in . . . when was it?’ He looked at Edward interrogatively.

  ‘Too long ago to calculate,’ he replied hurriedly. He felt Verity seething with curiosity beside him.