‘So who got you into this?’ said Bundy.
‘Mountbatten. He’s a friend of Lady Astor’s.’
‘Kirk fingered me,’ said Bundy, adding in a lower tone, with a glance at the driver, ‘His actual order was, “Go and humour the old bat.”’
They exchanged details of their postings. Bundy confessed he owed his staff job to family connections.
‘I wanted a combat posting. My mother had other ideas.’
His father, Harvey Bundy, was currently a senior adviser in the US War Department under Henry Stimson.
‘So this princess,’ he said. ‘I hear she’s all there.’
‘All there?’ said Rupert.
Bundy curved one hand before his chest.
‘Oh, right,’ said Rupert. ‘I wouldn’t know.’
He had never thought of the seventeen-year-old Princess Elizabeth as a sexual being.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Bundy. ‘I’m not going to wolfwhistle.’
Rupert looked at the passing shopfronts and was silent. Wartime was supposed to change things, break down the barriers. But even when the barriers were down, you had to do it yourself. No one was going to do it for you. There was no one you could talk to about these things. No one in all the world. About feeling ashamed. About wanting it so much.
The car emerged onto the Bayswater Road.
‘I asked round for tips on meeting royalty,’ said Bundy. ‘Apparently you call her ma’am, and you don’t sit until she sits.’
‘Ma’am? The poor girl’s only seventeen.’
‘So what are you going to call her? Liz?’
‘In the family she’s called Lilibet.’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘Mountbatten told me.’
‘Okay. Lilibet it is. Have another slice of pie, Lilibet. Want to take a walk in the shrubbery, Lilibet?’
Rupert glanced nervously at the back of the chauffeur’s head, but he showed no signs that he was listening.
‘Is that what you do with girls?’ said Rupert. ‘Take them into the shrubbery?’
‘I’ll be honest with you,’ said Bundy. ‘I’m no expert.’ He leaned closer and spoke low. ‘When I was twelve years old we went to Paris, and my mother took me to the Folies- Bergère. The way she tells it, I got bored by the naked girls and went outside to read a book.’
‘And did you?’
‘That’s her story.’
The car was now turning into Kensington Palace Gardens. There on the pavement outside the Soviet embassy was a young Russian officer, standing stiffly, almost at attention.
‘Our noble ally,’ said Bundy.
The Russian had a square, serious face and heavy eyebrows. He gazed inscrutably on the open-backed car as it pulled up beside him.
‘You are the party for Lady Astor?’
He sounded exactly like an American.
‘That’s us,’ said Bundy. ‘Jump in.’
He squeezed onto the seat beside them, and the car set off down Notting Hill Gate to Holland Park. His name was Oleg Troyanovsky. His father had been the Soviet Ambassador in Washington before the war, and he had been sent to school at Sidwell Friends. Within minutes he and Bundy had discovered mutual acquaintances.
‘Of course I know the Hayes boys,’ said the Russian. ‘I was on the tennis team with Oliver Hayes.’
‘So what are you doing in London?’
‘Joint committee on psych warfare.’ The wrinkles between his eyebrows deepened as he spoke. ‘My father arranged it, to keep me away from the eastern front.’
‘Check,’ said Bundy. ‘Privilege knows no boundaries.’
‘And here we are, going to tea with a princess.’
They grinned at each other, bound together by a shared awareness of the absurdity of their situation. The car picked up speed coming out of Hammersmith and onto the Great West Road. The wind blew away their words, and conversation languished. They looked out at the endless line of suburban villas rolling by, and thought their own thoughts.
The war had gone on too long. It was no longer a crisis, with the excitement that crisis brings with it, and the promise of change. It had become an intermission. The phrase most often heard was ‘for the duration’. Shops were closed ‘for the duration’. Trains ran a restricted service ‘for the duration’. Life had paused, for the duration.
Meanwhile, thought Rupert, my youth is slipping away.
Last month Mountbatten had accepted a new appointment, as Commander-in-Chief, South East Asia.
‘You’ll come with me, won’t you, Rupert? I must have my old team round me.’
Rupert was more than willing to go. A brighter sun, a bluer sky. Maybe even a new dawn.
The landaulette turned off the main road at last and made its way up a wooded hill, through the pretty red-brick village of Taplow, and so to the great gates of Cliveden. A long drive wound through a wilderness of untended woodland, until quite suddenly there appeared before them a fountain, in which winged and naked figures sported round a giant shell. No water flowed, and the angels, or goddesses, wore an embarrassed air, as if sensing that their nakedness was no longer appropriate. The car made a sharp left turn. Ahead lay a broad beech-lined avenue, at the end of which stood a cream-coloured palace.
‘Ah!’ sighed Troyanovsky. ‘What it is to be rich!’
‘Not rich,’ said Bundy. ‘Very rich. They don’t come richer than the Astors.’
The house grew as they approached it, revealing on either side of the central block two curving wings, reaching out as if to embrace the awed visitor. To the right there rose an ornate water tower, faced with a clock that had perhaps once been gold, but was now a tarnished brown. The grass of the flanking lawns grew long round ancient mulberry trees.
The chauffeur drew the car to a stop before the porte cochère, and a butler emerged from the house to greet them. ‘Her ladyship and her Royal Highness will join you shortly, gentlemen.’
They followed the butler into an immense oak-panelled hall, hung with faded tapestries. At one end, before a carved stone fireplace, tea had been laid out on two small tables. To the left of the fireplace hung a full-size portrait of a young woman in a gauzy pale-blue dress, her hands clasped behind her back, her head turned coquettishly to the viewer.
‘That is Nancy Astor,’ said Bundy with crisp authority.
‘But she’s beautiful!’ exclaimed Troyanovsky. He stood back to appreciate her, evidently as a woman rather than as a work of art.
‘She was younger then, of course.’
Rupert was puzzled by the painting. The pose was unusual: a slight forward tilt from the waist, as if she was on the point of running away.
Bundy examined the waiting tea. There was fruitcake topped with marzipan. A silver dish with a lid stood warming on a spirit lamp. He lifted the lid to discover a nest of small scones.
‘What do we have to do to deserve this?’
‘We could link arms and perform a dance,’ said Troyanovsky gravely. It took the others a moment to realise he was making fun. ‘Or perhaps we could sing together, to represent the harmony of the Alliance.’
They grinned at that.
‘And youth,’ said Rupert. ‘We’re here to represent youth.’
‘I’m not young,’ said Bundy. ‘Who wants to be young? I want to be a grown man, in charge of my own destiny.’
‘Only an American could say that,’ said Troyanovsky. ‘We who come from older civilisations know that we will never be in charge of our own destinies.’
He looked to Rupert as he spoke, his heavy brow wrinkling.
Rupert nodded to be friendly, unsure whether or not he agreed.
‘But you know what?’ said Bundy. ‘I’m all for this idea of us singing together.’
He started to croon the current hit by the Andrews Sisters, making small hand movements before him in the air.
‘There were three little sisters
Three little sisters
And each one only in her teens—’
/> A door opened, and he fell silent. In swept a small tornado of a woman, followed a few paces behind by a young girl.
Oh my God! They’re here already! Make yourselves at home, boys! Which one of you is Bundy?’
Mac Bundy presented himself.
‘I knew your father, I knew your mother, I warned them not to marry, and if they had to marry, not to produce any children. Bound to be morons. Are you a moron?’
‘No, Lady Astor,’ said Bundy, smoothly unperturbed. ‘I don’t believe I am.’
‘Humph. We’ll see about that.’
She was in her mid-sixties, her face now bony, but her bright blue eyes as brilliant as in the portrait. She held her head high, and moved in hops and starts, as if unable to contain the energy within her. Her voice was thin and crackly, half American, half English.
‘This is just an informal get-together. No need to stand on ceremony.’
The three young officers were introduced to the young girl, who turned out to be Princess Elizabeth. She was even smaller than Lady Astor, and had wavy dark-brown hair, and very white skin. Her modest knee-length white dress, patterned with pink flowers, could not disguise the fact that she was, as Bundy had put it, ‘all there’.
‘Come along, Lilibet,’ said Lady Astor. ‘You sit here. You know no one can sit down until you’ve sat down. God, what a country! How I’ve stood it all these years I’ll never know.’
They sat down. Their hostess poured out tea, talking as she did so.
‘I’ve told Lilibet that family of hers keeps her far too shut away, she never meets anyone at all, so I promised her some young men, and here you are. You must help yourselves to the scones. It was Lilibet’s idea to invite our allies, and a very good idea if I may say so. You three’ – teapot in mid-air, piercing blue eyes fixed on the young men – ‘you are the future of the world. You must make a better job of it than we have.’
‘With Her Royal Highness’s help,’ said Bundy, leaning his upper body forward as if attempting a bow while sitting down.
‘Oh, the royals can’t do a thing,’ said Lady Astor. ‘No one pays the slightest attention to a word they say. Of course, everyone loves them, but only in the way you love a family pet.’ She reached out one hand to pat the shy young princess. ‘Do you mind me going on like this, darling? Are you shocked?’
‘Not at all,’ said the princess in a small clear voice. ‘But I’d like to hear what the gentlemen have to say.’
So she wasn’t such a little girl after all.
‘That’s telling me,’ said Lady Astor. ‘What have you got to say, boys?’
There followed a brief silence.
‘Well, ma’am,’ said Bundy. ‘I think we all agree that this war will be over sometime next year.’
‘Oh, I do hope so,’ said the princess. ‘That’s what the officers at Windsor tell me too.’
Rupert was looking at the princess’s hands. Her hands were so delicate, the nails varnished a very pale pink. She was interlacing her fingers in her lap, nervously squeezing them.
‘I’m so bored by the war,’ said Lady Astor. ‘Can’t we talk about something else?’
‘I’m not sure I would say I was bored exactly,’ said the princess.
Her enunciation was so clear that everything she said sounded carefully considered. Her earnest gaze fell on Rupert, as if inviting him to complete her thought.
‘It’s a hard feeling to describe,’ said Rupert. ‘One feels bored and frightened at the same time. And then beneath it all there’s this feeling that one’s real life is waiting to begin.’
The princess looked at him in surprise.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Then she smiled. Rupert realised for the first time that she was pretty.
‘It’s all right for you young people,’ said Lady Astor with a grunt. ‘Some of us are waiting for our life to end.’
‘Not for many years yet, I hope,’ said Bundy.
‘Look at that!’ She pointed at the portrait hanging by the fireplace. ‘I have that staring at me every day, reminding me how old I am.’
‘But it’s a wonderful portrait,’ said Troyanovsky. ‘I have been admiring it.’
‘Don’t you think I’m standing in an odd way? It’s because Sargent had this idea of painting me with my little boy on my back.’ She stood up and assumed the same pose as in the painting, hands clasped behind her back. ‘But Bill was only one year old at the time, and he just wouldn’t keep still, so Sargent painted him out.’
‘It is a very fine portrait,’ said the princess, gazing at it.
‘I can’t look at it any more,’ said Lady Astor. ‘Don’t grow old, my dear. It’s too tiresome.’
‘I would like to be a little older,’ said the princess.
As she spoke she glanced at Rupert. This gave him an odd feeling. It was as if some secret understanding had sprung up between the two of them.
The princess turned to Troyanovsky.
‘Tell me about Russia,’ she said. ‘I know so little about your country.’
‘Well, ma’am,’ said Troyanovsky, ‘if I’m to tell you about my country I must speak about the war. We have been fighting a life and death battle.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said the princess. ‘We all so admire Mr Stalin.’
‘Humph!’ said Lady Astor. ‘I met Joe Stalin.’
‘Did you?’ said Troyanovsky, much surprised. ‘When was that?’
‘1931. I went to Russia with George Bernard Shaw. We were both introduced to Uncle Joe. Shaw was all over him, of course. When it came to my turn, I said, “Mr Stalin, why have you slaughtered so many of your own people?”’
The Russian’s teacup froze halfway to his lips.
‘What did he reply?’
‘Some nonsense about defending the revolution. What could he say? The man’s a mass murderer.’
Troyanovsky was silent. The groove deepened between his eyebrows.
‘The Russians are fighting like lions,’ said Bundy. ‘We owe them a great debt.’
‘The revolution is still young,’ Troyanovsky said.
‘I hope,’ said the princess, speaking earnestly, ‘that after the war we can all go on being friends.’
‘I believe our nations can and must be friends, ma’am,’ said Bundy. ‘I think we’ve all had our fill of hatred. We may not always see things the same way, but I believe we can agree to disagree.’
‘I expect you’ll think I’m very naive,’ said the princess, ‘but I do so much want this to be the last war we ever have to fight.’
‘There will always be war,’ declared Troyanovsky.
‘But why?’
‘Human nature, ma’am.’
‘I disagree,’ said Bundy. ‘I believe we have the power to control our impulses.’ Quite suddenly he became vehement. ‘There’s evil in all of us, no doubt about that, but we must grow up, and accept it, and manage it. We have to live with our imperfections. You people’ – this was to the Russian – ‘you’re perfectionists. You believe you’re creating the perfect society. I think that’s dangerous. It permits your leaders to take extreme measures.’
‘War is an extreme measure, I think.’ The Russian nodded his big head, frowning. ‘In the West, you are pragmatists. We are idealists. But you know, in spite of this, we want much the same as you. To eat. To sleep safe in our beds. To go dancing. To talk late into the night about the wrongs of the world.’
‘So after the war,’ said the princess, ‘when we who are young now are old enough to influence the affairs of the world, let’s agree that we’ll have no more wars.’
‘Hear, hear!’ said the young officers, raising their teacups.
Rupert was touched by the young princess’s gentle diplomacy. He sensed that it was more than good manners, that she was genuinely distressed by conflict. What a curious mixture she was, he thought. Scrupulous in the performance of her duty; her face so serious, but still lit by the lingering innocence of childhood.
Lady Astor now rose. T
his was the cue for the gentlemen to rise.
‘I must show our guests the view from the terrace,’ she said.
The princess rose, smoothing her dress down as she did so. Lady Astor led the way across the adjoining library and out through French windows.
Rupert found the princess was by his side.
‘So you feel your real life is waiting to begin,’ she said to him, speaking softly.
‘I do, ma’am,’ he said.
‘And what will it be, this real life?’
‘I wish I could tell you it’ll be a life of honourable service to my country,’ said Rupert. ‘But I’m afraid all I mean is love.’
‘Ah, love.’
They came out onto the terrace.
‘There it is,’ said Lady Astor with a sweep of one arm. ‘England. The land we’re fighting for.’
The view was indeed spectacular. Below the terrace stretched a long formal lawn, laid out in two parterres. To the east rose a wooded hill. The river flowed round the foot of this hill, concealed by trees, here and there glinting into view. Beyond the river the land stretched for miles to the south, to Maidenhead and beyond. Above it all rose a peaceful late-afternoon sky.
‘Did you know,’ said Lady Astor, ‘that the first ever performance of “Rule Britannia” took place right here? Two hundred years ago, at a big party down there, given by the Prince of Wales.’
She pointed at the long lawn below them.
‘So beautiful, so untouched by war,’ said Troyanovsky. ‘Hitler could have marched his armies up this valley. Instead he turned them on my homeland.’
They strolled slowly down the length of the terrace. Once again Rupert found himself by the princess’s side.
‘So you’re not married, Captain Blundell?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘That is a happiness still to come.’
A conventional enough remark, but there was a wistfulness to her tone.
‘I hope so, ma’am.’
She then turned to make conversation with Bundy, and Rupert was left with his thoughts.
‘There’s someone for everyone, Rupert,’ his mother used to tell him. But all you had to do was look around you to know this was not true. Add together the solitary young, the unmarried, the divorced, the widowed and the solitary old, and it was hard not to conclude that loneliness was the natural condition of humanity.
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