Abdication: A Novel

by Juliet Nicolson

  “Florence. Speak to me,” May said as she sat down on the bed beside the child. Her red-gold plaits hung down the back of her checked shirt. But as May tried to turn her over, Florence stood up without looking at her and ran from the room. Julian and May looked at one another. Julian came over to the other side of the bed. Putting both arms round May’s waist he kissed her so hard that she had to lean right into him to still her sudden dizziness.

  “That felt like a good-bye rather than a hallo kiss,” she said eventually. “It felt like a final and never-to-be forgotten kiss. Will you do it again? Just so I can be certain it isn’t the last one?”

  “I would like to kiss you all day, darling May. A thousand times a day,” Julian said, sounding a little wistful. “But Philip knows I am here so I better go and say hallo.”

  Julian found Philip in the drawing room. The older man was pleased to see Julian and was half-surprised that he was alone. He was aware of the attraction between the two young people and if Joan had been there they would have discussed the implications, good and not so good, of a potential romance between a member of his staff and a friend of their son. On the face of it the situation was most unorthodox. And yet Philip could not help thinking that Joan would approve. Her regard for Julian—his loyalty, his intelligence, his efforts to do the right thing, and all this despite his complicated and in some ways tragic background—had developed in her a real affection for the young man. On his part, Philip found May, despite her inexperience of life and her very young age, to be a woman of admirable, even remarkable, substance.

  Philip was not in a good frame of mind. He had been irritated to learn on his arrival at Cuckmere that Mrs. Cage had taken to her bed. According to Cooky she had “come over all queer” when she had returned from London about three weeks ago and the rest of the staff had barely seen her since. Meals had been taken over to her house in the village and housekeeping instructions had been delivered from her bedroom. Apparently Florence had been rather down in the dumps as well and according to Hooch had been most withdrawn on journeys to and from school. Hooch had read her any number of Kipling stories whenever he had had a free moment, but the words had been lost on her and even the suggestion of ice cream in October had failed to do the trick.

  Joan would certainly have taken the trouble to discover why the child was suffering. But at the moment Philip could not afford the time to look after the personal problems between Mrs. Cage and her daughter when there was so much else to preoccupy him.

  The romance between the king and Mrs. Simpson was no longer simply a matter for speculation in the smart dining rooms of Belgravia and the Home Counties. Things had moved far beyond the boundaries of high society and the situation was changing by the day. The day after the decree nisi had been awarded in the Ipswich court in October, America’s most prestigious broadsheet the New York Times had begun its leader with the words, “From Mayfair’s most exclusive drawing rooms to Whitechapel’s most plebeian pubs one question was on everybody’s lips.” Several paragraphs had been devoted to speculating on “the question,” stopping just short of stating what was becoming increasingly obvious.

  Philip gestured for Julian to sit down. “How good to see you, Julian. Help yourself to a drink,” he said, gesturing towards the whisky decanter. “How did you find Joan today?” Philip asked.

  “Forgive me, sir, but I arrived too late to get to the hospital. I have had rather a strange day. The hunger march from Jarrow reached London and the sight of it has turned me upside down a bit.”

  “I know what you mean,” Philip replied with a sigh. “The whole world seems upside-down to me at the moment too.”

  “Are you able to tell me about your side of things at all?” Julian asked tentatively. He was anxious not to pry too deeply.

  “Yes. Matter of fact, I trust you enough to tell you, on the proviso that all I say is kept within the confines of these walls.”

  Philip knew he was taking a risk in speaking, but sooner or later the whole story was going to be out in the open. He had wondered on several occasions how much speculation there had been among his own staff after the unfortunate visit from Sir Oswald. The prime minister himself had originally suggested that it might be a good idea to invite him for a private talk, as Mosley seemed genuinely concerned about the catastrophe into which the besotted king was heading. Philip had agreed with the utmost reluctance to welcoming such a man to his house for a discussion about the best way forward and it had taken all his powers of persuasion to make Joan relent.

  But after that meeting and many subsequent meetings of a similar nature in various private rooms around London, neither Philip nor Mosley nor innumerable other powerful men had been able to convince the king to change his mind. And now the king’s intransigence over his intention to marry Mrs. Simpson had reached a crisis point. Indeed, Philip himself had an air of resignation about him.

  “I will try and put you in the picture. Perhaps I should begin by saying that there are some things the British public will never accept and Queen Wallis, a twice-divorced American (with two former husbands still living!) is one of them. I fear it is already too late to make the king see reason, even if there had once been a time for that, which I doubt. He is obsessed with the woman and I suspect his mind was made up to marry her as much as a year ago. I doubt even Mrs. Simpson herself was aware of his decision at that stage. People think it is all her fault but I feel the opposite. In fact, she has not only told the king’s legal friend, and latterly my colleague, Walter Monckton, but also the prime minister, that she has been trying to call the whole thing off for several weeks. However the king is as stubborn about listening even to her as he is weak in what the American papers are calling ‘matters of the heart.’ And I am afraid Alex Hardinge’s plain speaking has cost him the king’s confidence. By advising the king that the newspapers will not hold their silence for much longer, a devoted private secretary has been sent into some sort of purdah.”

  Philip paused. He wondered if he was saying too much.

  “Some people can see the funny side of it all,” Philip continued in a lighter voice. “For example, the Duchess of Devonshire suggested at dinner the other night that a new post of ‘master of the mistress’ might be created for Mr. Simpson. More worryingly, Lady Colefax says she has it on firsthand authority that the king has threatened to slit his throat if Mrs. Simpson leaves him. Anyway, we have reached a stage where there are four options. Firstly the king gives Mrs. Simpson up, which does not look at all likely. Secondly, the king marries Mrs. Simpson and she becomes queen, an option ruled out by the Church on account of her two divorces. Then there is the suggestion that the Church and Parliament, and not forgetting the dominions, might accept Mrs. Simpson as the sovereign’s wife, but not as his crowned queen, as has been tried at various times throughout our history. Baldwin and the majority of the House, barring the old maverick Churchill of course; Oswald Mosley; and the king’s holiday companion, Duff Cooper, have already indicated they would not give their support to such a plan, although I fear the king continues to think this may indeed be a solution. And of course the final and most drastic choice would be for the king to renounce the throne.”

  “Abdicate?” Julian asked, the word zipping into the air like a firework.

  “Yes. It is true. There is the option of an abdication. But that would be a last resort,” Philip added hastily. “I don’t think it will come to that. There are so many arguments against it and the king is not unaware of them. For a start he knows the country loves him and would never forgive him if he abandoned them. And for another thing, it is uncertain where he would go. The king is not a man who would take easily to permanent exile.”

  Philip was suddenly furious at the king’s wilful selfishness. “The whole thing is the most hell of a mess,” he snapped. “The man is behaving as if no one in the world matters except him.” Clearly exasperated, Philip went over to the whisky decanter and refilled his glass.

  “Do me a favour and dine with
me tonight?” he asked Julian. “I can find my own company both exhausting and lonely.”

  May had remained in her bedroom, writing in her blue notebook. After half an hour Florence returned looking pale and very serious.

  “Do you want to talk to me about the photograph?” May asked her.

  Florence nodded.

  “And do you want to talk to me about the paint?”

  A second nod. As Florence sat down on the bed beside May a few feathers escaped from the silky quilt and floated up into the air.

  “It’s a secret though,” Florence began, sounding anxious and looking at May in the face for the first time that day.

  “Of course,” May replied. “I promise.”

  “You really promise not to say anything?”

  May nodded.

  “Well,” Florence began, her eyes now looking down onto the bed. “That person. The one in the picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he isn’t my brother. Not properly anyway, just half properly.” And gathering confidence, she continued. “Actually, I’ve never even met him. He’s called Carl and Mum says he belongs to her other life when she was married to a German. She says that was a long time ago and I don’t need to know about it. It was when she was living in Germany. And that husband died ages before I was born. Carl’s uncle and aunt agreed that Carl could live with them when Mum came back to England.”

  For a moment Florence’s voice shook. A storm of tears that had evaporated earlier had left behind an intermittent shudder. Florence moved further up the bed and May could smell the sweetness of her breath, like a meadow in early summer.

  “Is your father in Germany too?” May asked gently.

  “No, he met Mum when she came back to England. My dad was in the army and Mum was an army wife, she says, but Dad died of pneumonia when I was only one. And after Dad died Mum came to work here.”

  “So both your mum’s husbands have died? That is so sad for her.”

  Florence looked up at May, grateful for her sympathy. “Yes. Sometimes Mum is very sad but she always says at least she has me with her, even if the others aren’t here anymore. That’s why I try and do the things she wants, like the painting.”

  A small hand crept across the eiderdown and put itself quietly into May’s own hand. For a few moments they sat there silently, side by side, hands joined, as Florence wavered between loyalty to her mother and a wish to confide long-held secrets.

  “Promise you won’t say anything when I tell you that Carl told Mum how to do the letter painting?”

  Once more May gave her word.

  “Well, he said I should do it too. He said Mum should teach me about the Jews taking over everything and ruining people’s businesses. And he wrote her a letter about doing the painting. They do that over there in Germany.”

  “Is that why you didn’t want to go on holiday to Pagham?” May asked.

  “Yes. We had to go last year and afterwards all of us children said we didn’t want to paint on the doors anymore. I don’t think Mum would have made me do it on my own but Carl and the other women in the camp at Pagham encouraged her. They said it was easier for children to do it as they could run away more quickly than the grown-ups. I told Mum I didn’t want to but she said it was for England, not for Germany, and that I was English, wasn’t I?”

  A second shudder rippled through Florence and May felt the effect of it through their joined hands.

  “I didn’t mean to do it to Nat and Sarah and you. I didn’t even know I was on your street till you came out and found us. We were only in that part of London because lots of Jewish people live there. I was trying to tell all the others that we should stop doing it, I knew it was wrong,” Florence spoke calmly now, as if what she was saying was an unarguable fact.

  May drew Florence closer. An image of Sarah with Joshua in her arms flashed into May’s mind.

  “Florence, what you did was very, very wrong. If I ask you, and you agree never to paint on doors again, will your mother be angry with you?”

  “I expect so, but I don’t care. I am going to tell Mum that I don’t want to do it again. If she makes me I will tell her that I will never speak to her again. Ever.”

  And Florence got up from the bed and just as she had on their first-ever meeting, kissed May on the cheek.

  “I never told Mum about Vera and Lady Myrtle, you know.”

  May smiled at her. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

  “Will you keep Mum’s secret?” Florence asked. “For me?”

  “Yes. I promise,” May said as she watched Florence skip out of the room.

  The following morning Mr. Hooch came to find May having breakfast in the kitchen and handed her an envelope.

  “Mr. Julian must have left this in the garage before the taxi came to get him.”

  Inside the envelope was one sheet of Cuckmere Park–headed writing paper.

  Saturday 31 October 1936

  Darling May,

  I am sorry to leave without saying goodbye but if I had delayed my departure this morning by speaking to you, I might have changed my mind and not gone at all.

  I am catching the boat to France today and then taking the train to Paris to meet Peter. From there we will probably travel on to Spain and meet up with his friend Eric. I am going to Spain because I think, well, I hope it is the right thing to do.

  I don’t know how long I will be away, perhaps a good while, but I will get a message to you to tell you I have arrived safely.

  Look after Joan, won’t you? You know I think of her as a mother. And give Florence a kiss from me.

  I am going to miss you more than you know.

  With love from

  Julian

  May read the letter twice and the final two sentences three times. After a moment or two she realised Mr. Hooch was still standing in the corner of the kitchen.

  “I am going back to Polegate now to collect Miss Nettlefold from the ten o’clock from Victoria. Would you like to come with me? I would welcome the company,” he said.

  Mr. Hooch did not have to explain an invitation that May knew was kindness of the best sort. But she declined the offer and went to her desk intending to immerse herself in her work, the certainties of life unravelling around her. She remembered how as a child at home in Barbados she would sometimes wake in a panic in the middle of the night, fearful that she had built her sandcastle too close to the shoreline, and that in the morning she would find it had melted clean away in the waves. Just as the foundation stones of the pavements around Oak Street had been forcibly uprooted in the East End only a month ago, so the way of life and the friendships that she had begun to trust in over the last ten months no longer seemed so secure.

  Sir Philip was waiting for her in the study.

  “I have got to go to London tomorrow for a meeting at Downing Street with the prime minister, Sunday or no Sunday. Things are truly coming to a head. Can you get Lord Beaverbrook on the telephone for me right away?”

  Half an hour later the sound of the dogs barking in the big hall confirmed that Miss Nettlefold had arrived but May did not actually see her until she spotted the fur-clad figure, outside on the lawn with Loafer. May watched the pair of them through the window. Loafer was limping along behind his temporary mistress with the gait of an animal dragging itself through life. May turned back to her desk where the telephone was ringing for what seemed like the dozenth time in as many minutes.

  At teatime Miss Nettelfold came looking for May. The small study felt dreadfully cramped as the large woman eased her abundant form past the desk and sat down, her overtight skirt revealing fleshy knees that merged together as one.

  “Have you left Loafer outside?” May asked. “Because I know Sir Philip wouldn’t mind if she came in here for a moment.”

  But Loafer was having a snooze on the bed upstairs, Miss Nettlefold explained, and did not wish to be disturbed. In fact, Miss Nettlefold had been asked to return the dog to the Fort in a couple of days’ time and
May was to drive them both there. And she and May were to spend the day together tomorrow as well, Miss Nettlefold announced with a theatrical clap of her hands. The day of the wireless recording with Sir John Reith, about which Miss Nettlefold had confided to May some weeks ago, had almost arrived. Miss Nettlefold had some appointments in the morning in Mayfair and was expected at the recording studio in Crystal Palace in the south of London by noon. May nodded, trying not to think about Julian’s letter and to share in Miss Nettlefold’s excitement. Miss Nettlefold was certainly in a very ebullient mood.

  “Things have been going well for me, May, I am delighted to report. Some people choose to reject one in life, but I have found that another door always opens, especially when you are least expecting it!” And off she went, praising the British and especially the Scottish, whom she had recently discovered to be among the most loyal of friends. “Loyalty, May, that’s the quality I put at the top of the tree. That’s why I like you, May.” And with a generous smile she wanted to hear how May was doing. “How is that nice young brother of yours? Going to go far that Sam, I know it. Trust me. Oh, and by the way Hooch tells me Julian Richardson has gone off to Spain.”

  “Yes,” May replied. “He left rather suddenly this morning.”

  “Well. Forgive me May if I use an English phrase when I say ‘a jolly good riddance’ to him. Now, don’t think I hadn’t noticed you developing a certain, shall we say ‘interest’ in him, although personally I can’t think what anyone could ever see in glasses and albino hair. And there’s more to life than swimming, believe me. Interested in everything and nothing he is. Never could make his mind up, dithering about all over the place, in politics and in friends. Poor Lottie. No wonder she decided she would be better off with Rupert. Anyway, perhaps the sights in Spain will knock some sense into young Mr. Richardson.” She pronounced the word “young” with contempt.