by D. J. Taylor
General impressions. A small, pale, nervous-looking man, seems much older than when I last saw him. A little chevron of wrinkles at the corner of his eye; pronounced air of having been hard done by. Curiously high-pitched voice. Still speaks in that drawling upper-class cockney that was so fashionable a dozen years ago: ‘nothing whatever to do with it’ emerging as nudding woddever to do wiv it, and so forth. Seemed very well informed: the morning’s papers spread out on the desk with various passages marked in red ink, next to a pile of telegrams.
There are mementoes of Wallis everywhere: a portrait of her in oils on the wall; photograph of the two of them in golfing kit on the desktop, together with funereal-looking silver urn. For a moment I wondered whether this might actually contain her ashes, but turned out to be a kind of tobacco-pot. Definite air of Miss Havisham in her chamber, so that one almost expected to see ancient wedding cake sunk under cobwebs. Room could easily not have been refurbished since 1744, given general air of decay. One of the window panes absolutely cracked. Victor says that, having been castigated for his extravagance when Prince of Wales, now determined to be most frugal monarch that ever lived.
King very affable. Claimed to remember me from the 1920s. Talked about those days with great fervour: ‘One always seemed to be sitting up late and never going to bed.’ Enquired of various personages of those times—Hartnell, Princess Bibesco, Elsa Lanchester—some of whose subsequent careers I was fortunately acquainted with. Struck by his prodigious memory: tells me about parties he had attended as if they had happened only the other day. Something infinitely sad and self-pitying about this. Hesitant when he spoke, and made occasional notes to himself on slip of paper (about what, I wonder?).
Struck by the hold—the right word, I think—which Hardinge seems to exert over him. We were several times interrupted by Hardinge rushing in unannounced to obtain the King’s signature on some document or to remind him of some trifling engagement. To this the King habitually deferred. I should have been much less deferential.
The war. Difficult at first to know exactly what he thinks about this, and how far a personal opinion was allowed to obtrude above the ‘official line.’ Said: ‘You cannot know, Mr Nichols, how hard I tried to prevent it.’ Thought Nazi–Soviet pact ‘shocking’ but understandable. Supposed that if we were to go to war with anyone it should be the Russians. Asked me what I thought of the Nazi leaders. I said I had met only von Ribbentrop, at some of the Anglo-German Fellowship meetings, and found him rather over-bearing. ‘Yes, that was how he struck us,’ the King said, dryly. ‘And rather prone to exaggerate his influence, too. There was a time, you know, when he used to send …’—and here I thought he was going to mention Mrs Simpson’s name, but he corrected himself—‘… a certain lady of my acquaintance a dozen roses every morning of the week.’ Said he thought Hitler had a natural respect for him, as he had for all royalty, had taken great pains to cultivate his German relations, &c.
We talked about the conduct of the war. He expressed relief that no large-scale conflict had taken place, or seemed likely to. Maintained that current situation was ‘very odd… . Thirty years ago, if one was at war, one simply tried to defeat the other fellows as quickly as possible. That was how we all felt in 1914.’ I asked about the other members of the Royal Family, what they thought, and he said: ‘Oh, my brother Bertie is set on being a gentleman farmer. Doesn’t come to London at all. I haven’t seen my nieces since August.’ So who does he see, I wonder? I asked: how did he occupy his time? Said there were always ambassadors coming to see him, people wanting him to visit. Said of all things he hated inspecting troops. Reminded him of Flanders, when a battalion’s strength could be reduced by half overnight.
All this time the subject of my letter hung in the air between us. Naturally I hesitated to ask him about his dealings with the Cabinet, on the very sensible grounds that (a) it would be impertinent, and (b) he would not tell me anyway. Then he remarked, almost out of nowhere, that he considered it his responsibility to do everything he could to bring about peace while continuing to support the war effort, that there was nothing paradoxical about this, and that it was our duty to show Germany we meant business if our interests were threatened, while deprecating the whole idea of war in the first place. I said, choosing my words very carefully, that a great many people felt like this, some of them in positions of considerable influence and authority: could he not give them a lead?
The King said he gets 200 letters a week urging this step, begging him to broadcast, &c., but feels there is nothing he can do. If there are to be peace moves, they cannot be seen to come from him. ‘There shall be no King’s Party,’ he said. ‘We have been through all that before.’ I replied that a King’s Party already existed, in the House and, as far as one knows, in the armed forces, let alone amongst ordinary people, and it was his to command as he chose. ‘I think, Mr Nichols, that the days are long past when a King of England could do anything he chose,’ he said. I did not mention Ramsay’s name, nor did he ask me who I represented. In fact there was a great sense of people not quite daring to commit themselves, saying less than they intended.
Just then Hardinge knocked on the door with another message, and our interview came to an end.
I got the distinct impression of an intensely shy, reserved, patriotic man whom no one will properly advise, desperate to do his duty but fearful of upsetting the apple-cart. A feeling that there was a great deal more to be said, and if the King’s reluctance to say what he evidently felt could be overcome, then a great deal might be accomplished.
What Ramsay will make of this is anyone’s guess.
18 November 1939
To Ramsay’s house in Onslow Square, having previously sent note of conversation with HM. An extremely odd collection of persons gathered together. In dealing with R, I can never quite establish whether one has walked into a meeting of cranks, who in other circumstances would be attending flat-earth societies, or an offshoot of some immensely powerful subterranean network whose true capacity has not yet been revealed. Present: Ramsay, his wife (a rather vague and ethereal-looking woman, but given to making sharp remarks about the Jewish question), Domvile, ‘Commandant’ Allen, looking like an evil policewoman, a pair of Guards officers, Bannister (Tory MP), man named Gunter who says he works for the Daily Express but looks far more likely to be employed by the Peckham and Deptford Advertiser.
Naturally, everyone intensely interested in my discussion with HM. Ramsay said it confirmed what he had always believed: the King coerced by his advisers, now seeking to ‘reconnect’ with his people. Vital to convey to the King the strength of popular feeling, support for his point of view, &c. HM’s remark about the King’s Party greeted with much head-nodding.
Bannister twice asked why I had agreed to Hardinge’s stipulation that none of this should appear in print. I declined to inform him that this is an inevitable consequence of one gentleman dealing with another! Ramsay said he was very encouraged. Did I think the King could ever be persuaded to speak his mind? I said I thought it was unlikely, but there was no harm in trying. Gunter several times observed in a cockney accent like a stage-burglar’s, ‘The King! That’s what the people want. They want to ’ear from their King!’ How Ramsay can have him in the house I cannot imagine.
Found out, inter alia, a great deal about ‘The Faction’ and how it operates. Halfway between a bridge club and the Freemasons, which is to say that a lot of talk about subscriptions, tea-parties, &c., alternates with more sinister intimations of quiet words in high places and back-stairs intrigues. Thus when I mentioned Hegarty’s visit to Ramsay, he laughed: Hegarty’s superior well known to him, not the least need to worry. Guards officers reported the mood of the troops, at any rate in London regiments, profoundly disillusioned. All ‘waiting for a lead,’ whatever that may mean.
20 November 1939
Important not to forget that one has a life beyond Captain Ramsay and meetings in On
slow Square. So let me state that today I lunched with Aggie, Baroness Stuhlbeck (poor woman is thinking of changing her name in the current circumstances), Lord Camrose, proprietor of the Daily Telegraph, and the Bishop of London. One always gets a mixed crowd at Aggie’s, and this no exception.
Lord Camrose invincibly patriotic. We should drive Hitler eastwards into the arms of his friends the Russians, who would then think better of their pact and tear him to pieces. When I pointed out that we had neither the manpower nor the munitions and the aeroplanes to perform this feat, he accused me of being defeatist. Aggie, supporting me, said she wanted the war to end tomorrow and did not care how it happened—one in the eye for Lord Camrose, although he took it with good grace, ‘Time would tell,’ &c.
Afterwards to matinée performance of Noël’s new play, about which the critics have been rather rude. Very good and well-made, audience appreciative. Wrote to Noël—he is away, I believe, but his housekeeper will send it on—saying the play a triumph and that all the critics are mad. It is fun writing letters to Noël!
23 November 1939
As I have not been getting on very well with Drawbell recently, and in addition have the beginnings of a scheme in my head which I wished to ventilate, took the opportunity of inviting him to lunch. Treated him to Roma’s in Wilton Street, where I don’t think he ever went before, and where the war’s sumptuary privations—a rather nice phrase, which I shall have to get into an article—don’t seem to apply. Potted shrimps, Colchester oysters, &c. Cost me £2 but well worth the money. Drawbell’s expression throughout rather like Mr Prendergast’s in Evelyn’s novel who, when taken to dine at an expensive hotel and offered a grapefruit to eat, says ‘My, what a big orange.’
Asked Drawbell: what would be his reaction if offered an authentic (and verifiable) statement of the King’s views on the conduct of the war? Naturally, Drawbell said he would print anything I could give him. And what, I continued, if the King’s views were contrary to the policy of the paper? Drawbell said that the expression of the King’s opinion—provided it was the King’s opinion—overrode all considerations of this kind. Having whetted his appetite, I then shut up shop and said merely that there was a possibility I might be able to offer him something on these lines, but early days. Drawbell so astonished that he accepted my suggestion for this week’s article—our military preparedness, or lack of it—without demur.
Back home to find letter from x. He has been accepted into the Merchant Navy, but finds the other recruits ‘rather a rough crowd.’ Sent him a £5 note with instructions to ‘enjoy himself.’ I dread to think what he will spend it on.
Chapter 6
Lost Girls
‘The one set in the women’s prison is good, I grant you. But it’s the one about the girls’ boarding school we really ought to do.’
‘What? Miss Harrington Hunts the Hairbrush? I should have thought that was the kind of thing that would get us prosecuted.’
‘Nonsense. I’ve seen far worse than that in the New English Weekly. Far worse.’
It was raining outside in the square and the plane trees were dripping in an impossibly melancholy manner. By the left-hand corner of the gardens—quiet now, treeless, and mostly redug for potatoes—somebody had constructed a nondescript air-raid shelter, flanked by a wall of sandbags, on which Cynthia’s eye unerringly fell whenever she looked out of the window. It was about eleven o’clock in the second week of November, and the rain had been tumbling down since dawn. In the distance beyond Euston, where the barrage-balloon still hung tethered like a giant cigar, the sky was quite opaque.
All this gave the light in the office, behind its moisture-streaked windows, an oddly smoky quality, as if a bonfire was smouldering quietly beyond the outer door and was about to send the place up in flames. ‘Like Pissarro,’ Desmond said, who had a habit of comparing most of the natural phenomena he came across to post-Impressionist painting, and had been sternly rebuked by Anthea.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Des. It’s nothing like Pissarro. Utrillo would be much nearer the mark.’
Desmond had accepted this dressing-down with surprising meekness. He was still rather afraid of Anthea.
‘I’m not going to have everything thrown into jeopardy just because you want to run a story about a lesbian orgy,’ Peter Wildgoose said, a bit tetchily but still with genuine amusement in his voice. Thrown into jeopardy was one of his favourite phrases, Cynthia thought, along with found his métier at last.
‘I absolutely agree with you,’ Desmond said, running his fingers through his sparse hair again so that it stood up on his head like a comb. He looked horribly out of sorts. ‘Naturally, if I thought anyone was going to complain I wouldn’t dream of putting it in. If it’s any reassurance, I’ll get it looked over by a chap I know at the MOI.’
Cynthia had stopped typing the letter she had in front of her on the grounds that the noise of the typewriter might inhibit their conversation. Now she wound the sheet of paper down a couple of notches and began another paragraph. Over at the other desk, Lucy was looking up someone’s address in the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook. Anthea had taken off her shoes and was putting polish on her toenails. There were books everywhere, far more than there had been a week ago: new novels, sets of encyclopaedias, travel gazetteers, a history of medieval thought in four volumes. ‘It’s Desmond’s fault,’ Anthea had said unkindly. ‘They think he’s going to review them in exchange for all the drinks they’ve stood him over the last ten years.’
‘Well, show it to your chap at the MOI,’ Peter Wildgoose said. He was a small, cadaverous man in his late thirties, who always wore a dark-blue suit, carried a rolled umbrella under his arm and, as Lucy and Cynthia had agreed, had the most beautiful manners of anyone they had ever met. ‘But I shall hold you personally responsible. In any case, we’re nearly full up as it is, so I don’t know where you think you’re going to put it.’
‘I’ve thought about that,’ Desmond said. ‘And to be perfectly honest, I don’t think anyone’s going to miss that piece about the Bodhisattva. But going back to Sylvester, I’m telling you, Peter, that boy will make our fortunes.’
‘Well, it’s a pity he couldn’t start by making his own. The last time he came in here, his shoes looked as if they were being held together by pieces of string.’
This was the third conversation about Sylvester Del Mar in as many days. It was quite capable of going on all morning. Longer, even. Unexpectedly, it was brought to a close by Anthea, who, looking up from her newly painted toes, gleaming above the grey-brown fur of the carpet, said, ‘Peter, you’re looking awfully tired. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea?’
The Duration girls were solicitous of their patron’s welfare. Desmond had several times said that when Anthea opened the door to him he always knew from the expression on her face whether Peter was in the office, as 70 per cent of her smile was reserved for him. Rather to everyone’s surprise—he was a single-minded man—Peter accepted the offer of the cup of tea, lifted the cup off its saucer with the finger and thumb of his right hand, and looked as if he might be about to say something else.
‘This war is becoming a terrible strain,’ Desmond said hastily. ‘Do you know, I was sitting in the bar of the Randolph last weekend looking at a roll of proofs I happened to have with me? There were a lot of officers camped at the next table making rather a noise, and I supposed I must have looked up once too often because one of them came over and asked to see my ID card. As it happened, I didn’t have it with me—you remember how I always mislay things, and it’s safer to leave it at home. My gas mask had gone as well. And do you know I couldn’t convince them I was who I was? There was my name on the proofs, and on my cheque-book, but that wouldn’t do at all.’
There was something rather breathless about Desmond as he said this, as if it were part of a longer confessional, long bottled up, full of discreditable secrets about him
self that he burned to impart.
‘What an ordeal for you to have to go through, Des,’ Peter said, not wholly ironically. ‘How on earth did you manage to get away?’
‘Well, you’ll laugh, I daresay, but in the end I told them I’d been to Eton. You’d be surprised how often that does the trick. And then one of them said that if I’d been to Eton I’d be sure to know where Salve Divve Potens was, so I explained, and he said I obviously had been there, and they let me go on with correcting the proofs.’
‘A jolly good job they didn’t look at them, Des,’ Anthea suggested. ‘Heaven knows what they might have found.’
‘Not much chance of that,’ Desmond said. ‘None of them looked as if they’d know what a book was if it fell on their heads from a great height.’
Cynthia stared at him. She acknowledged to herself that she was fascinated by Desmond, while not knowing if she liked him or not. Peter she acknowledged that she did like. Peter, in fact, fulfilled practically every criterion she required of anyone, let alone a man, which was to say that he was good-looking and punctilious, drew no attention to himself unless it was by dint of not drawing that attention, and gave the impression that he regarded everything said to him as faintly amusing without quite revealing where the source of that amusement lay. She could quite easily imagine herself being married to Peter, if she could have solved the problem of how one was supposed to talk to him.