by Peter Murphy
To my surprise, on Saturday the 14th, I found Anthony in residence, and we attended the Apostles debate together. He invited me to his rooms for a drink after the meeting ended, some time after midnight, and asked after my practice and after Bridget. We talked with a chuckle or two about Guy, who had somehow landed a job producing programmes with a political edge for the BBC, another career move which still surprised me, in my state of naïveté. Anthony told me that he had visited Spain in March, before the outbreak of war, with Louis MacNeice, and he talked to me at some length about finding the country so obviously on the point of conflict. He had also visited the Soviet Union with his brother Wilfrid the year before, and had been very impressed by what he saw, although he was alert enough to recognise that what they saw was being strictly controlled by the inevitable minder who accompanied tourists everywhere, to make sure they did not see too much of the reality of life under the Revolution. He was particularly positive about the Soviet attitude to art, and told me that he was developing a theory about the role of art in a socialist society, and would like to discuss with me how chess might fit into that picture, once his ideas on the subject were more concrete.
At about 1.30, as I was thinking of finding my way back to my own room, there was a knock on the door. When Anthony answered it, a black-suited college porter wearing a bowler hat offered him what looked like a letter. There was a whispered conversation, which I could not hear from my seat in front of the fireplace. The door closed again and there was a silence. I sensed that something was badly amiss. I stood, turned, and saw Anthony standing by the door, the letter in his hand, his face white, unable to speak. I took one or two faltering steps towards him. He handed me the envelope. I saw that it contained a telegram, accompanied by a hand-written letter from the Secretary of the Reform Club, who said he had found out my whereabouts from Bridget and, considering it to be a matter of urgency, had taken the liberty of forwarding it to me at Trinity by messenger.
The telegram was addressed to me, as next of kin, from a consular officer at the British Embassy in Madrid, who was regretfully obliged to inform me that my brother, the Hon Roger Digby, was reliably believed to have been killed in action in a suburb of the city on Sunday the 8th of November, while engaged in defending the city on behalf of irregular Republican forces against a Nationalist attack. The Embassy was making every effort to confirm the information, and to arrange for recovery of Mr Digby’s body, but I should understand that conditions in the city were extremely difficult, and no assurance could be given about when inquiries might be complete. The family was advised to keep in contact with the Embassy for the purpose of effecting the repatriation of the body, if desired. The officer assured me of the Ambassador’s personal condolences.
I do not remember much more until some time after I had woken up, in Anthony’s bed, late the following afternoon. Bridget was sitting on the bed, holding my hand. I felt heavily sedated and, for some time, completely disorientated. As the events of the previous morning slowly came back to me I remembered screaming hysterically, throwing myself to the floor, and rolling around out of control, colliding with the furniture; I remembered Anthony grabbing me to make sure I didn’t injure myself, and sitting beside me on the floor and holding me firmly in his arms for what seemed a very long time. He told me later that he had eventually seized an opportunity to slip me a powerful sleeping pill and put me to bed. I think, in fact, that he must have slipped me something more powerful than a sleeping pill, because I must have gone from uncontrolled hysteria to complete unconsciousness in a matter of minutes; but I have never asked him about it, and whatever he gave me I am profoundly grateful for. He spent a fitful few hours on the sofa, and as soon as it was light he contacted Bridget and asked her to come to Cambridge by train as quickly as she could. They were acts of kindness I shall never forget.
* * *
It is difficult to believe that a man could die in a modern capital city like Madrid in 1936 and that his body should disappear without a trace. But that is what happened. Our family solicitors in London were in constant contact with the Embassy, and we understood at once the conditions under which they were operating. The city was under siege. Its normal life was grinding to a halt. Supplies of food and medicines were running low. Refugees, including shepherds with their sheep and farmers with their livestock, were crowding into Madrid from every direction. The Nationalists’ Heinkel and Fiat fighters were carrying out punishing air attacks against the Republican militias, and the sound of artillery pounding the suburbs could be heard in the city centre. Madrid was a dangerous place to be, and there was no way for the Embassy to maintain anything like normal consular services. It was a miracle that they could communicate with us at all. I was the point of contact for our solicitors, and I called my parents every evening. But I never had anything more than the merest glimmer of hope to offer, and even that was far-fetched. As I called I could hear the life fading from my father’s voice day by day.
When we finally received confirmation of our worst fears it came, not from the Embassy, but from a man called George Watson, who called at the Manor unexpectedly one day in March 1937. Watson hailed from Gateshead, and he had been one of many ordinary British men who had travelled to Spain on their own initiative to fight for the Republican cause. I am ashamed to say that I had long had the impression that the Englishmen who went to Spain were almost all university graduates, left-leaning officer-class intellectuals, such as Roger and my fellow Apostle, Julian Bell, who also died there. In fact there were many men like Watson, honourable working men who had been forced into long-term unemployment by the economic disasters of the previous decade, and the Government’s apparent indifference to their plight; who believed in socialism, but no longer so much in the Labour Party; and who also saw Spain as a vital line of defence against fascism. These men enlisted as foot-soldiers in their hundreds and offered their lives on that line of defence.
Watson had been wounded in action and had lost the use of his left arm. He got himself repatriated, basically by going back the way he had come, via Marseilles and Paris. While making his way home, he came to the Manor and gave my parents Roger’s identity card. It was a difficult moment. Like any parents, until Roger’s body was accounted for, they harboured a belief, or at least a hope, that one day he would walk through the front door, alive and unharmed, the victim of nothing worse than poor war-time communications; and that life at the Manor would resume exactly as it had been before he went away. Now, that belief, or hope, was as dead as Roger himself.
Watson had been standing not far from Roger when he was killed. His account of the circumstances was lucid and detailed. On the morning of Sunday the 8th November, Varela’s Nationalist forces had launched a ferocious three-pronged attack on the western perimeter of the city. The main thrust of the attack was the Casa de Campo, a large wooded area, the site of a historic royal hunting ground running down to the Manzanares River. There were no rows of suburban streets to protect the city, or slow the invading forces down, in that sector. If the Casa de Campo fell to Varela, he would be free to advance unhindered into the very heart of the city. The Republican militias deployed almost all their available personnel to defend the Casa de Campo sector. The militias were lightly and badly armed, and many of their recruits, including Watson himself, had learned to load, fire, and clear their rifles only the night before. But they had numbers and, by some miracle, were able to hold Varela’s forces at the perimeter. That same evening, the first of the organised international brigades arrived in the city with Soviet military advisers, and evidence of further Soviet support, in the form of Ilyushin 15 biplane fighters, appeared in the skies above Madrid to counter the threat from the Heinkels. Varela’s chance to take the city quickly and without significant resistance had come and gone. The defence of Madrid on November 8th was a major success for the Republican forces.
Roger, in effect, had the rank of a First Lieutenant in a militia brigade, and Watson was a membe
r of his company. At the height of the fighting Roger was ordered to lead his company in an effort to take down three heavy artillery emplacements which were partly camouflaged by the trees on the north-western edge of the Casa de Campo, and which were causing havoc among the militias trying to defend one of the main roads into the city. Using the trees to provide cover of their own, Roger’s company successfully disabled two of the emplacements. But the officer commanding the third had placed snipers in defensive positions a short distance away and, as Roger led the company from the front, one of the snipers shot him through the heart, killing him instantly. Watson and some others tried to drag his body away, only to be driven back by remorseless fire. But Watson did manage to seize his service revolver and his identity card.
Watson said that the men of his company liked and respected Roger, and regarded him as a natural officer, even though he had received as little training as they had. He was courageous and imaginative, and led from the front, Watson said. Although he had gone some distance out of his way, Watson refused to accept anything from my parents for his visit to the Manor except a cup of tea and a sandwich – not even his train fare back to Gateshead.
* * *
We held a memorial service for Roger at the village church in April, with our old friend Norman Jarrett presiding. Friends came from far and wide; friends from the estate, from Clitheroe and the neighbouring towns and villages; local worthies from all over Lancashire; and friends from the Reform and elsewhere in London; friends from Cambridge. There was a letter from the Palace, and a wreath from Anthony. I was expected to deliver a eulogy but, as the day approached and I had already torn up several notebooks full of notes which utterly failed even to scratch the surface of the feelings I wanted to express about Roger and about his death, I finally gave up, and in place of a eulogy I read aloud the letter I would have sent him. I didn’t try to explain it, and I am sure all those present thought I must have taken leave of my senses, deranged with grief; perhaps I was. But I didn’t care. I was not speaking to them; I was speaking to Roger.
Digby Manor
21 April 1937
Sir,
Lacking the intimacy you now have with the immortal and the eternal, I cannot tell whether you are sensible of the depth of grief and despair into which your untimely death has plunged all who hold you dear. That grief and that despair grow stronger, not weaker, with time, and present no prospect of relief. Yet for all their awful reality, I cannot summon up the words to describe them. Nor, sir, do I believe that even Mr Garrick, at the height of his powers, could have demonstrated the utter devastation of them on the stage. I am unable to credit that I shall never more take tea with you in your rooms in the Temple, never more dine with you at the Mitre or the Club.
It is, sir, I am sure you will allow, entirely natural for me to be angry with you for deserting me in favour of foreign adventures, with no more than a day or two of forewarning, and no opportunity to enjoy your company before your departure. You will also allow my feelings of guilt that I permitted you to usurp a role which ought to have been mine, of which you so graciously and unselfishly relieved me, it being the duty of the younger son to become a soldier and travel to fight on foreign soil. Yet I know, and I am assured in the strongest terms by every gentleman of our acquaintance, that you did so, not in pursuit of any personal fame or glory, but in pursuit of a cause whose nobility is allowed by all. All of these gentlemen beg leave to pay their respects through me, and in particular, sir, Mr Blunt, whose praise I know you will esteem highly as you esteem the gentleman himself.
I could not stand beside you in your battles in Spain. But you will recall, sir, how often in earlier years we took up arms together against Normans, Infidels, and Roundheads, nay, sir, how often we won brilliant victories over them, and this without ever leaving these shores or suffering any loss or casualty. How innocent we were then of the realities of war, and of life. You have played your part, as you were determined to do, in stemming the tide of evil and I am confident that your sacrifice will not have been in vain. Yet I know not how I, and the many who love you, will ever be able to bear the loss of your voice, of your strength, of your infinitely benign presence.
I shall, of course, do my utmost to discharge faithfully the duties which fall upon me by virtue of your death, including the duty appurtenant to the title which I shall in due course assume. But I wish to assure you, sir, that there is no title or other thing whatsoever, which I would not immediately and joyfully abandon and renounce, if I could but receive news that the reports of your death were the product of some terrible error, understandably made in the chaos and confusion of the conflict.
Yet I fear it is not so, and I must accept that you will be an eternal loss and source of grief to all of us, and in particular, to your most humble and obedient servant and devoted brother,
Jas Boswell
I left the church feeling cold and alone, with a void in my heart which could never again be filled. Much later, after the reception, when the friends had dispersed, and my parents were resting, I walked in the garden, and said a more personal goodbye to Roger, in the far left-hand corner of the second lawn, the site of one of our greatest victories against the Roundheads. I am sure he would have enjoyed the irony.
28
Thursday, 29 April
‘I see we have company,’ Ben Schroeder said confidentially to Bernard Wesley, as they arrived in front of Mr Justice Melrose’s courtroom in the Royal Courts of Justice at 10.20.
The gothic qualities of the building, with its high vaulted ceilings, arched pillars and heavy stone floors, made many of the corridors veritable whispering galleries, and those barristers and solicitors who appeared there regularly had learned to keep their voices down outside the courtrooms. Ben had indicated the ‘company’ by a slight nod of the head. They had expected to find Miles Overton and Virginia Castle, with Julia Cathermole and Professor Hollander, and indeed they were huddled together a few yards away. They did not expect to find another member of the Bar standing outside court. But there he was, giving every appearance of readying himself to appear before Mr Justice Melrose, and accompanied by three men wearing dark grey suits and carrying soft leather briefcases bearing the Royal coat of arms. The list on the courtroom door suggested that Digby v Hollander was the only case scheduled to come before the judge before lunch. Wesley had gestured to Herbert Harper and Sir James Digby to take seats on the bench against the wall of the corridor.
‘I don’t know him,’ Ben said. ‘Do you?’
‘Evan Roberts, Civil Treasury Counsel,’ Wesley replied. ‘Unless I am very much mistaken, that means that the Government is starting to take an active interest in the case.’
‘How can they do that?’ Ben asked. ‘The Government is not a party to the action.’
‘They can ask to intervene,’ Wesley replied, ‘if they think there are matters to be discussed which will affect the national interest.’
‘But surely they can’t just show up unannounced,’ Ben protested. ‘We haven’t been given notice of an intention to intervene.’
Wesley nodded. ‘We will complain to Melrose about that for the record, but it won’t do any good. The relevant minister is always entitled to intervene if he can show that he has a legitimate interest. The only thing we can do today is listen, and gather as much information as we can. Melrose will give us time if we need to respond. He knows we have been taken by surprise. So we will have a good grumble about it and see where the land lies. It’s Miles’s application today. I have a nasty feeling that the Government may be supporting him. Let’s go and have a word with Roberts.’
They walked towards the dark-suited men with briefcases who were whispering animatedly to Evan Roberts, but before they could say anything they were interrupted by a black-gowned usher, who threw open the double doors of the court with a dramatic flourish.
‘All parties in Digby v Hollander, please make your way i
nto court,’ he announced loudly.
Ben turned towards Herbert Harper. But Harper and Digby had already jumped to their feet and were heading towards the doors of the courtroom. Ben made his way into court and took his seat behind Bernard Wesley. Harper and Digby slid quickly into the row behind Ben. To Ben’s immediate right, Evan Roberts was arranging his papers. Beyond Roberts, Ginny Castle was leaning forward, talking to Miles Overton in the Silks’ row in front of her. There was a sharp rap on the door leading on to the bench. The judge’s associate, who sat in front of the bench, stood.
‘All rise,’ he said.
As those in court stood, Mr Justice Melrose entered and took his seat on the bench. Today, he wore the bright red robes of a judge of the Queen’s Bench Division. Ben, however, had a vivid recollection of the judge looking rather different, wearing the black robe of a judge in the Court of Criminal Appeal. Mr Justice Melrose had been a member of the court which had dismissed the appeal of his client Billy Cottage, with the consequence that Cottage had been executed not long afterwards – one of the last men to suffer that fate before the abolition of the death penalty and before the decision had been made that any further outstanding death sentences would be commuted. It had been a matter of time, so little time. The hearing had been a traumatic one for Ben. The pronouncement of the death sentence at the Huntingdon Assize had been bad enough. The dismissal of the appeal had felt like a second, and final, death sentence, as it had indeed turned out to be. All three members of the court had thrown questions at him constantly as he argued the appeal, but those asked by Mr Justice Melrose had been the most pointed, and most clearly conveyed a sense of foreboding about the outcome. It was a dark cloud which had a silver lining. His romance with Jess had blossomed when she took him away to her aunt’s home in rural Sussex to recover, as soon as they had listened to the announcement of Cottage’s death on the BBC’s radio news. That had helped a great deal. But there were still nights when he woke in the small hours, with the words of the death sentence ringing in his ears. He found himself staring at the judge, and dug the nails of his right hand into the palm of his left to make himself concentrate on the case at hand.