Sweet Sorrow

by David Roberts

  ‘Better late than never,’ he added ruefully. ‘Reith backed the Prime Minister all the way. Now even he has to accept that appeasement has failed and that war is inevitable. I knew from the first that it was better to defy Hitler,’ he lied.

  Sir John Reith, the BBC’s first Director General, had recently resigned to become Chairman of Imperial Airways but his shadow still hung over the BBC.

  ‘Churchill can’t abide him,’ Edward commented.

  ‘That’s because, during the General Strike, he refused to let the government take over the BBC. Quite right too,’ Byron said. ‘He set the precedent and it’s a good one. The BBC must remain independent of government. Even in wartime, though we may have to censor the newspapers and wireless broadcasts, the government must not be allowed to take them over and dictate what they print or broadcast. If it did, the public would never again believe what they heard on the wireless or read in the newspapers.’

  Edward had to agree. ‘What are you doing tonight?’ he found himself saying. ‘Verity and I thought we might have dinner and go on to the Embassy. It’ll probably be the last time before war breaks out, but I expect that sounds rather frivolous to you.’

  ‘Not at all. As it happens, I was thinking of doing something similar. I quite often go to the Embassy when I’m in London and I thought of taking my friend, Miss Burrowes – Frieda. Did I tell you about her?’ He was all eagerness – evidently not at all hesitant about introducing them to his girlfriend.

  ‘Well, why not join us?’

  Verity wanted to kick Edward for spoiling their last romantic evening in London.

  ‘Oh, no – I’m sure you want to be on your own,’ she said rather too quickly. ‘We wouldn’t want to butt in on a romantic evening . . .’ She smiled and wondered if Byron would be indignant with her for making it clear that she knew Frieda was his mistress. He gave no sign of it and said he particularly wanted her to meet Frieda. Edward, instead of taking the hint she had dropped about not wanting to ruin their romantic evening, insisted that they would be welcome if he and Frieda would like to join them.

  In a black mood, Verity sank back in her seat and attempted to read her book – Arthur Koestler’s Spanish Testament. To do Byron justice, he did not continue to make conversation but took out The Times and The Listener in which he buried himself until they reached London.

  It was odd, Verity thought, but in Sussex where there was no visible sign of the approaching war Edward had seemed restless and on edge. In London, with trenches in the parks and sandbags outside public buildings, he seemed more relaxed. His long nose seemed to sniff the air like a hunting dog catching the scent of a fox or badger. Most of the men under forty wore uniforms of one sort or another and, from the taxi, they saw a barrage balloon being hoisted up by a winch. In the sunshine it looked strangely beautiful, even innocent, like a child’s toy, but it sent a shiver down Verity’s spine.

  Edward paid off the taxi at the Foreign Office. Verity said that, as it was such a lovely day, she would walk to Fleet Street. They agreed to meet in his rooms in Albany at about six.

  ‘The porters will let you in if you get there before me, V.’

  ‘No need to be furtive now we’re married?’ she teased him. ‘Rather spoils the fun. It’ll be odd being there without Fenton, “yes, my lording” all over the place. How long are you going to manage without a valet?’

  ‘Mrs Brendel seems to fit the bill. To be honest, I got the feeling that Fenton decided to give notice as soon as we announced we were going to be married. Much as he liked you, V, he was used to living with a bachelor so it was perhaps a relief to both of us when he got his call-up papers.’

  As he entered the Foreign Office, Edward could not help but think of the many times he had walked up that imposing staircase. Always there had been some sort of ‘flap’ on, to use a phrase his nephew had taught him. Frank was a junior lieutenant aboard the destroyer HMS Kelly commanded by Lord Louis Mountbatten and was constantly in his uncle’s thoughts. Would there be a great naval battle like Jutland in 1915 or would it be a war of attrition, ship against ship? Edward could only guess but he knew, whatever kind of war it turned out to be, that Frank would be in great danger.

  Oddly enough, Kelly came up in the conversation when, having kicked his heels for half an hour, he was shown into the office of Sir Alexander Cadogan who had taken over from Sir Robert Vansittart as Permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office. Edward had only met him once before but had been impressed by his no-nonsense approach. He might be brusque, even rude, but Edward understood and forgave. He did not envy Cadogan the immense burden he carried and was only grateful if, in some humble way, he could be useful.

  ‘Corinth – good to see you. How’s marriage treating you?’ Without waiting for a response, Cadogan went on, ‘You know the Duke of Windsor, do you not?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since the Abdication,’ Edward replied in surprise.

  ‘Well, the fact is the Duke has appealed to us for help.’

  ‘He’s still at his villa in the south of France?’

  ‘He is,’ Cadogan confirmed, ‘but as soon as war breaks out we must bring him home. I think you also know Lord Louis Mountbatten?’

  ‘Yes, my nephew is serving on the Kelly.’

  ‘Very good! When I give the word, you will go aboard the Kelly, sail to the south of France and pick up the Duke and Duchess and escort them back to England. You are not to leave the Duke’s side until I tell you. The fact is, we don’t yet know what we are going to do with him. He can’t stay in England so he’ll have to go to Canada or Australia – somewhere conveniently far away, you understand me? You’ll get your orders but Van says you can be trusted to keep him out of trouble.’

  Edward was aghast. The Duke was going to be an embarrassment for his brother, the King, and for the British government wherever he went. He was patriotic in his own way but, as a fervent admirer of Hitler and bitter at the way he had been treated by the Royal Family, he was never going to sit tight and obey orders.

  Edward gulped. ‘I’ll do my best,’ was all he could say.

  ‘Good man! Well, that’s all for now. Expect to receive your orders sometime in the next month – maybe sooner. Now I must be off. I’ve got a meeting with the PM and Winston. You’re a friend of his too, I hear. Amazing man but untrustworthy and he doesn’t like the FO – thinks we’re all defeatists. You may be useful as a go-between. We’ll have to see.’

  They shook hands and Edward found himself back in Whitehall hardly knowing how he got there. Pulling himself together, he went off to see Guy Liddell, the head of MI5. Whatever job he might have for him, it could hardly be more demanding than nursemaiding the Duke of Windsor.

  Verity took a deep breath as she entered the modern glass building on Fleet Street that housed the New Gazette. She greeted Fred on the door who touched his cap and hoped she was quite recovered. She felt as though it was her first day at a new school. Everyone else was rushing about, busy with their daily routine – only she had no particular purpose. She had not worked since she had caught TB over a year ago. There was a new editor whom she did not know and she had no idea whether or not she would be welcomed back into the fold. She was well aware how quickly one could be forgotten.

  She had always been the special pet of the newspaper’s proprietor, Lord Weaver, which hadn’t made her popular. It had annoyed the editor at the time to find that he had no control over her and could not even sack her. It also annoyed her colleagues, who thought she got special treatment and probably a higher salary than they did. It hadn’t mattered so much when she was in Spain covering the Spanish Civil War but, if she were to be in London for any length of time, she knew she would get into trouble and end up having a row with the editor, even if he proved to be much more tolerant than the previous incumbent.

  Verity knew herself to be a first-class foreign correspondent despite, or even because of, her sex and she longed to be at the centre of things once more. This was one of those mom
ents in history when the fate of England and her Empire hung in the balance, and she wanted above all else to be a privileged witness to the momentous events of the next few weeks and months and record what she saw in the newspaper she loved.

  Jutting out her chin, she asked Fred if Lord Weaver was in the building and was told he was. She decided to risk going straight up to his floor – there was a private lift that only went to Lord Weaver’s suite at the top of the building – and see if she could wangle an interview with her boss. His secretary was a friend of hers and she knew it could be managed if he wasn’t rushing out to some high-powered meeting. There was a rumour that, when war broke out and if Churchill became Prime Minister, Lord Weaver would join the government. He had been a great friend and supporter of Churchill’s while always taking care to keep channels of communication open with the Chamberlain government. He knew Churchill valued his ‘get-up-and-go’ approach and fancied he could serve his adopted country – he was Canadian by birth – at the head of a department tasked with producing war materials. He hated ‘red tape’ and would breathe fresh air into a moribund ministry. Like Churchill, he had complained time and time again at Britain’s failure to rearm in the face of the Nazi threat.

  Miss Landon was delighted to see Verity and asked if she were fully recovered and whether she was coming back to work. Verity said she was, in answer to both questions, and reminded her that Lord Weaver had promised her a posting. As they were talking, the door burst open and the great man himself appeared. He was a bear-like figure at the best of times and Verity thought he had put on weight since she had last seen him. His colour was bad, too, but his energy seemed undiminished.

  ‘I thought I heard a familiar squawk. What are you doing here, Verity? I thought I had made it plain that you were to take a month off to get used to marriage and all that sort of thing before I sent you anywhere. Don’t say you are already bored with the domestic life. By the way, how is Benedick, the married man?’

  ‘Benedick . . .? Oh, you mean Edward. He’s not too bad – a bit restless perhaps but that’s only to be expected. We all are. Everyone’s on tenterhooks waiting to be told we are at war at last.’

  ‘And I suppose that pleases you?’

  ‘Not at all, Joe. I’ve seen enough of it to last a lifetime but there are times when one has to . . .’ She suddenly remembered a favourite quotation of Edward’s, ‘“stiffen the sinews and summon up the blood”.’

  Weaver harrumphed. ‘I haven’t forgotten you, if that was what you were worried about. It’s either Paris or Madrid. I haven’t quite decided.’

  ‘Gosh! Thank you, Joe. I won’t let you down.’

  Weaver looked at his watch. ‘Look, I’m having lunch with Jock Reith. To be honest, I find him hard work. It might annoy him but amuse me if you came along.’

  ‘Oh, I say, I don’t want to gatecrash . . .’

  ‘It could do you some good. The Prime Minister has asked him to head a new Ministry of Information. Top secret at the moment, you understand.’

  Weaver smiled. He loved gossip and delighted to be ‘in the know’. He found Reith’s earnest morality irritating and he knew Reith considered him a rascal but they needed each other. Both men lived for the powerful institutions they had created – the New Gazette and the BBC.

  Reith had created the British Broadcasting Corporation in his image. It was principled, independent and directed according to strong public service principles. A Scot, and the son of a United Free Church minister, Reith carried with him into adult life the strict religious principles of the Kirk. During the General Strike, the Labour Party had criticized the BBC for taking the government side while the government accused it of being unpatriotic and threatened to take it over if it did not broadcast the official line. It was Reith’s finest hour. He resisted the pressure from both sides and succeeded in retaining the BBC’s independence.

  Reith hated Communists, disliked the idea of women taking jobs which, in his view, were unsuited to their femininity, and believed they should play no part in public life. It amused Weaver to think that, if he took Verity with him to lunch, she would tell Reith that his views were outdated and insulting to women and he would be indignant and either sulk or lecture her. In either eventuality, he would sit back and enjoy the fireworks.

  ‘Joe, I thought we were going to . . . you did not tell me . . .’ Reith struggled to his feet, letting his napkin drop to the floor.

  ‘Waiter, bring another chair, will you? Jock, I wanted you to meet one of my most talented correspondents – Verity Browne, now Lady Edward Corinth.’

  Verity smiled her sweetest smile and watched Reith struggle to control himself. He was immensely tall with a high-domed forehead and shaggy eyebrows. She remembered Edward telling her that Churchill, who did not like him, called him Wuthering Height.

  ‘Very nice to meet you, Miss Browne . . . Lady Edward. I met your husband when I was at the BBC. I have admired your work though I can’t approve . . . you are a Communist, I believe?’

  ‘Not any more, Sir John. The Party I joined has long gone. I’m afraid it is now a tool of the Soviet Union. I saw it happen in Spain. Good men betrayed by unscrupulous apparatchiks.’

  Reith’s face cleared. ‘I’m glad to hear you say that. The Prime Minister would have us ally ourselves with Stalin against Hitler but I have tried to persuade him that we can’t be in league with the devil.’

  ‘Mr Churchill says that our enemy’s enemy is our friend,’ Verity remarked meekly.

  ‘That is cynicism at its worst. But please sit. Waiter . . . what will you have to drink?’

  ‘Just water, thank you. I never drink at lunch,’ Verity replied primly but truthfully.

  Reith smiled broadly and said to Weaver, ‘You were right, Joe. You have done very well to secure Miss Browne’s services. I think I shall call you “Miss Browne” if that is all right with you?’

  Verity nodded and smiled and Weaver sighed. He had been done out of his fireworks – though not entirely. Verity did not hesitate to launch an attack on the BBC for employing women only to read stories on Children’s Hour or talk about cooking or clothes. Reith defended himself vigorously but without rancour, pointing out that women read the news as early as 1926 during the General Strike.

  ‘I’d say another thing,’ he went on with a seriousness that impressed Verity. ‘No one can deny we have lived in a Britain of two nations, rich and poor. The BBC has begun to bring the two together. Three-quarters of British homes now have a wireless set. You can buy one for as little as two pounds. Now, the Durham coal miner, after a day down the pit, can listen to a top dance band playing in a smart London hotel – Lew Stone on Tuesday, Roy Fox on Wednesday, Harry Roy on Friday . . . And when war comes, the BBC will bring the nation even more closely together to forge a patriotic alliance of rich and poor.’

  ‘There’s something in what you say, Sir John,’ Verity admitted, ‘but if you were a miner working in a dangerous pit, coming home dirty because the pit owner failed to provide showers at the pithead, squatting in a tin tub in front of the fire with water from a primitive boiler, no cooker, just a gas ring, the house verminous, the children ill-fed and diseased – you could not afford the five shillings to call out the doctor, remember – would it not make you bitter to hear the clink of champagne glasses and the smooth sounds of a dance band playing in some swanky hotel? It would me.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I agree that the conditions in which many people live are intolerable but things are already changing for the better. In the past year, we have built thirty thousand new houses, many in the suburbs of our cities – healthy, new homes – and after the war the government will use the powers it has taken to build a better society.’

  ‘The first thing will be to nationalize the coal mines,’ Verity grumbled, feeling quite uncomfortable as Reith propounded a vision of a just society to which any Communist would have to subscribe.

  ‘And as for class envy,’ he went on, disregarding her interjection, ‘I d
o not believe that working people enjoying dance-band music on the wireless want to be in one of those – as you put it – swanky hotels dancing and drinking champagne. It is like the cinema. Twenty million people go the pictures every week usually to watch worthless rubbish but they don’t believe they could dance like Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers or live the life they see on the screen. It is pure escapism and we all need that. I won’t deny that I would rather they wanted less trivial entertainment and more instruction to help them live better and more useful lives, but at least we can make ordinary people aware of what there is out there and appreciate the England for which they are going to be asked to fight.’

  As she watched Reith’s eyebrows waggle with excitement, Verity realized what an extraordinary man he was. He had a vision, and if it wasn’t one she shared in its entirety, it certainly had its appeal.

  ‘Well, Sir John, I am impressed but when I am next in 6 Stanhope Gate,’ this was Gunter’s restaurant in which debutantes gathered in the season to drink champagne and spend a working man’s wage on a single meal, ‘and see the noses of the unemployed pressed against the plate-glass window, I will think of you and not be embarrassed.’

  Reith smiled, knowing he had won.

  ‘This is all too worthy for me,’ Weaver grumbled, though he was secretly intrigued to find that these two, who on the surface had so little in common, shared similar views on the state of the nation. ‘Jock, did you know, Lord Edward has recently bought a house in Sussex, near Virginia and Leonard Woolf?’

  Weaver knew this seemingly innocent remark would precipitate another lecture from Reith on the loose morals of the ‘artistic’ set and so it did. He did not hesitate to label them immoral, free thinkers – unpatriotic and corrupters of the young. It was apparent that the morality he had learnt as a child brooked no challenge from the modern, post-war materialistic world.