by D. J. Taylor
‘I’d like that,’ Cynthia said untruthfully, thinking what an incalculably odd girl Hermione was.
The tea was almost finished now, and the tram-drivers were taking a prurient interest in them. Silently, they got up to go.
Late at night, the flat in Bishop’s Mansions grew less forbidding, more tolerable to inhabit. Snatches of dance music pulsed through the party walls. Beyond the park odd protrusions of light bounced off the houses on the Surrey side, as if there were alien spacecraft about to land, untroubled by the blackout. In the deep wells of darkness beneath the kitchen window, cats fought in the wild gardens. There were supposed to be a dozen other people living in Tyler Kent’s block: Cynthia had never seen any of them. Tyler Kent’s gregariousness was external, not domestic.
‘I saw Hermione Bannister,’ she said, at one of these times.
‘You don’t say. The redoubtable Hermione. I guess she was just the same as ever. Isn’t that right?’
‘Exactly the same. She seemed very cross that you didn’t want to marry her.’
There was a joke, or at least a compliment, to be made here, but Tyler Kent ignored it. ‘I can never get the hang of girls like Hermione,’ he said. ‘It’s one of the great mysteries of dear old England. Paying any attention to them is a piece of effrontery, but then not paying any attention to them is worse. And then they stare at you as if you’re the chauffeur who’s forgotten to bring in the bags.’
‘She was wearing one of her hats.’
‘The hell she was,’ Tyler said, less neutrally. ‘No question about it. If the Nazis sailed up the Thames, Hermione would be running out to meet them in one of her hats.’
After interludes in other parts of the flat, they had come to rest in the drawing-room. Here, shirt-sleeved and desk-bound, with a ledger balanced on his knee, Tyler Kent was cutting pieces out of the evening newspaper with a pair of scissors.
‘Just be a honey, now, would you,’ he said, ‘and fetch me that copy of the Star?’
Men were always bent on this environmental staking-out, Cynthia thought, these accumulations of paraphernalia. Desmond’s office at Duration was a kind of junk shop of tobacco jars emblazoned with his college coat of arms and penknives bestowed on him by long-dead nannies. Perhaps Mr Chamberlain sat in Downing Street surrounded by monogrammed umbrellas and photographs inscribed to him by world leaders.
She went over to the other side of the room, picked the paper off the floor—the headline said house questions conduct of war—and brought it back, looking at Tyler Kent as he sat at the desk, one hand shading his forehead. She detected a faint resemblance to Henry. The most tedious thing about men was that you always fixed on variations of the same quintessential type. Here the resemblance was not physical, but gestural, or rather it had to do with assumptions. It had never once occurred to Tyler Kent that she might not like to perform any of the tasks he proposed for her. Like Hermione’s hats the pattern was fixed, not to be altered by complaint or evasion.
On the other hand—and here, too, there was a connection with Henry—there were worse things than Tyler Kent. Another girl would have been irritated by his absorption in the contents of the desk, especially if, like her, the girl was wearing only a pair of silk pyjamas. Besides, Tyler Kent had information she had begun to take an interest in. There was a rapid shuffle of feet above their heads, like a ballerina executing a pas seul.
‘What is it that you’re doing with Hermione’s father?’
Tyler took this in his stride. ‘Mr Bannister?’ He tapped the copy of the Star, with its headline about the conduct of the war, and stared at his finger, as if it was responsible for all the burdens he had to bear. ‘We’re trying to get this thing stopped.’
‘You personally?’
‘Even cipher clerks have their secrets,’ Tyler Kent said. ‘You’d be surprised. Plus there’s the fact that I work at a foreign embassy. That helps too.’
‘What about Captain Ramsay?’
‘Oh, he’s a kind of chairman. Makes sure everyone involved is pulling their weight.’
‘Does anyone know you’re doing this?’
It occurred to her that Tyler Kent was flattered by these questions, and that a sharper operator would have been less keen to answer them. ‘There are people who know it and people who don’t. Generally it’s better that the people who don’t know carry on not knowing. Needless to say, I shouldn’t care to find out that they knew any more because of what you told them. Hey,’ he said, not quite leaving a bridge between the two sentences and not in the least drawing the sting out of the rebuke, which rather frightened her, ‘who was that girl we saw at the Featherstonehaughs? The one who works with you.’
‘Anthea Carey.’
‘What does she do at Duration? I can’t see her bringing in the lunch-pail.’
Cynthia was still registering the information about Tyler’s plans for the war. ‘The other day she spent the whole afternoon altering the first sentence of a short story from “bugger-all” to “damn-all”.’
‘She comes to parties at the embassy,’ Tyler Kent said. ‘I’ve heard of her.’
There was a sheet of paper, grey from the jellygraph, that he seemed to be protecting with the curve of his arm, and some instinct prompted her to go and examine it.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘A souvenir,’ Tyler Kent said.
‘Will it help to get the war stopped?’
‘Not in itself. Listen,’ Tyler Kent said, ‘it’s all very well your being dressed up like Hedy Lamarr in the second feature, but you’re in severe danger of outstaying your welcome.’
Not long after that the air-raid siren went off and the newspaper cuttings and the copy of the presidential telegram were returned to their box-file. The next morning Mrs Bannister rang to say that Hermione had been taken into a nursing home somewhere in Barons Court and was ‘not at all well.’
Chapter 10
Beverley Nichols’s Diary II
25 November 1939
Lunched with Noël. Very gloomy. Said that the war would ruin the theatre for the next two years whether it went on or not. Says he is thinking of writing a play called The Patriot. He seems to envisage patriotism as a kind of stance, wholly unequivocal. I said: Surely the days of ‘My Country Right or Wrong’ were over? He laughed at this, but I had the rather disagreeable sensation that we no longer see eye to eye.
Later. As Gaskin is in Cambridge visiting his sister I invited y to spend the evening here. Not a success. On the other hand, one must remember that if one entertains a pretentious young man, desirous of a helping hand, then one was a pretentious young man oneself once. And yet there is a thing called charm … y seems to have no idea that there is a war on. Said: ‘Oh, we don’t bother with these,’ when I began to wrestle with the blackout curtains. He seems to have got in with a lot of repertory actors who produce plays that nobody goes to see at the uttermost extremity of the Finchley Road. Managed to get him out of the house by the time that Gaskin returned, only to discover that one of the silver-backed shaving brushes had gone from the bathroom. Really!
27 November 1939
Another summons to the Palace. Well, that is putting it grandly. What happens is that Hardinge, the private secretary, telephones to say that ‘His Majesty is at leisure’ and wonders if I would care to ‘wait upon him.’ Rather nicely put, I thought. Found the King surrounded by what he calls his ‘unsoliciteds.’ I enquired: how many letters did he get? He said two or three hundred a week: a proportion from obvious lunatics, but the majority quite respectful and sensible. I asked him how he dealt with them all, and he said that the secretaries have a standard form of words for replies. He reads them merely to get an idea of public opinion.
More general impressions: Tired and frequently petulant. Footmen coming into the room with messages sometimes quite insufferably patronised. I suppose they regard it as part
of their job, to be discussed with amusement in the servants’ quarters. Struck by asceticism, compared to tales one heard twenty years ago. Eats, when permitted, off a tray. No hint of any lady companions, hardly even of any social life. Very keen on the Americans, whom he thinks ‘vulgar but also go-ahead. They get things done’ &c. I daresay this is Mrs Simpson’s influence working from beyond the grave. Constantly harping on Mrs S, her sound judgement, vitality, respect in which she was held, &c. All this rather tiresome, not to mention example of myth-making at its worst. I remember Victor telling me that he was at a supper party attended by the Yorks when news of her death was brought in and there was very nearly a round of applause.
Well-informed but erratic. I asked: did he get on well with the PM. Replied: ‘Oh, he comes round from time to time, you know.’ Devitalised. Often gets up from his chair as if about to reach for something in the room only to sink back into the cushions. Complains of inertia, sidelining by Government. ‘All they want me to do is to go and inspect gun emplacements. It is just like being in Flanders again.’
Polite. Solicitous. Thanks me repeatedly for coming to see him. Talks of what he calls his ‘political isolation’. Churchill once a great supporter, but now divided from him on account of war. Only friends in the Cabinet one or two of the younger ministers. Told me one very interesting thing. Apparently a week ago Beaverbrook asked to see him privately and asked: What did he think of the idea of a negotiated peace? This is extraordinary, if true. When I asked how he had replied, would not say. Did he think anyone else knew of this? He thought not. Once again, noted his absolute subservience to Hardinge.
Says things like ‘I don’t think Hardinge will care for that’ or ‘I should hardly dare propose that to Mr Hardinge.’ At one point Hardinge came into the room and commenced on a regular dressing-down—some appointment that the King had failed to keep—only to catch my eye and think better of it.
Very anxious that I should come again. Said: ‘There is no one I can talk to. Absolutely no one.’ I got the distinct impression that there were several things he burned to tell me, schemes he was desperate to impart, but could not bring himself to. Victor, whom I talked to later—and who does not, of course, know of these meetings—says there are worries about his ‘stability.’ Says he is still very much liked by some of the Labour members on account of his tours of the distressed areas &c. and ‘could do anything with them.’
28 November 1939
Wrote my column for Drawbell. Given that on the last occasion I wrote anything controversial I got into hot water, I confined myself to the meaning of St Andrew’s Day. As if anyone is interested in St Andrew’s Day at a time like this!
Thought of all the things I might have been, had I applied myself to them when I came down from Oxford. A serious composer, certainly; only to be that, one needs a private income, which I never had. A politician? But then again, who in their right mind would want to dominate the mediocrities who currently infest the House of Commons? The Bar? But the barristers one meets are such frightful bores. So here I am, twenty years later, writing my books and my newspaper articles and acting as a highly unofficial royal confidant. There are worse niches to occupy.
29 November 1939
Faction meeting at Ramsay’s house in Kensington. All arranged in conditions of utmost secrecy, e.g. no use of telephone, merely printed card saying ‘The circle will convene.’ Cloak-and-dagger atmosphere reinforced by Ramsay’s butler who absolutely demanded ‘password’ before admitting me. Of course did not know it. Turned out to be ‘Excalibur’ and Ramsay had to be summoned from the drawing room to vouch for me. All rather foolish.
One never quite knows with Ramsay whether one is in the presence of something horribly serious and well-organised or simply a lot of interfering ladies who in a happier world would burn off some of their surplus energy in the Girl Guides. Here, on the other hand, I had a very definite sense of being in the company of people who meant business. One of Gort’s staff officers talked about the ‘mood’ at Staff HQ, which is apparently ‘volatile.’ ‘Everyone is waiting for a lead,’ whatever that means. Didn’t see why I shouldn’t tell them about Beaverbrook’s appeal to HM, so did. This produced very gratifying response.
Ramsay, in particular, almost wild with excitement. What could be done? Should he make a personal approach to Beaverbrook? Privately I could not think of anything worse for the cause of peace than Ramsay, of whom the Express has in the past been highly critical, blundering around in Fleet Street, but did not think I could decently say this, so muttered something about HM’s remarks being confidential.
‘Clearly,’ Ramsay returned, ‘Mr Nichols is our conduit.’ Whereupon, having been conspiratorial and sinister, the meeting descended into an absolutely ludicrous discussion of how to attach propaganda stickers to lamp-posts under cover of the blackout. The fanatical ladies impossibly serious about this. Apparently one of them has written a little booklet about the best means of proceeding. All this attended to with the gravest expressions of interest, but I think Gort’s staff man had his doubts. I had a definite sense that the fanatical ladies were merely camouflage for something that is a great deal more capable than it may look on the surface.
Afterwards Ramsay got hold of me in the hallway. Asked: would I be prepared to carry a letter from himself to HM? I said—what I truly believe—that I did not think this would help, that I had no idea of the King’s true position, that any direct approach would probably be refused. Ramsay accepted this, but seemed disappointed, I thought.
Then to a late supper at Barbara Back’s. Reflected, as I went there, that I was exchanging the company of some of the most serious people in England for some of the most frivolous. And so it proved.
1 December 1939
The palace again. My visits now a recognised part of the weekly routine. The footmen grin at me in corridors. Hardinge looks up from his desk and nods as I wander by. All very pleasant, but there is something vaguely Ruritanian about it, the thought of paper-thin scenery that could blow away at any time. Also a tremendous sense of desuetude, to use a rather nice word. If this were eighteenth-century France I should be greeted by half a dozen flunkeys and escorted through brocade-hung corridors to some sumptuous orangerie. As it is England of 1939 I am taken to a tiny room with a threadbare carpet that cannot have been decorated for thirty years and given a cup of tea and a penny bun.
Today HM less tired than usual and much more forthcoming. Had The Times open on his desk and was shaking his head over the news from France. Said that Gort was right to be playing a waiting game, but in the circumstances that was the only game he could play. I got the impression of a terrible nervousness, eagerness to talk about anything rather than the subject closest to his heart. Again—this very often happens with HM—spoke of personalities he had met: Chaplin; the Japanese Emperor; Woodrow Wilson. Asked me: did I know Crown Prince Hirohito? I replied that I had not had the pleasure of making his acquaintance.
All this went on for nearly half an hour, and I began to think of my article for Drawbell, not to mention a luncheon party at Lady Londonderry’s that I had half promised to drop in on. When I come to write my memoirs—if we still inhabit a world in which memoirs are written—I shall certainly include a section explaining that it is perfectly possible to be bored even by royalty.
Finally, after a great deal of hesitation, half-finished sentences, &c., HM dropped his bombshell. Would I care to assist him in the preparation of his speech to the Empire this Christmas? Naturally I said that I should be delighted. Apparently he has had other helpers in the past, but none of them has proved satisfactory. Anxious that the job should not get in the way of my own work. I assured him there was no danger of this. Asked—this was something I thought best to establish at the outset—if Hardinge and his advisers know about this, he said they did, and had raised no objection. And what were the protocols surrounding it? For example, did the text have to be cleared in advance
with the Government? HM said—rather stiffly, I thought—that the monarch’s choice of words when addressing his subjects were naturally his own, but that Hardinge generally supplied the PM with a broad outline of what he intended to say.
So there it is, and I am to write the King’s speech for him! I can’t say that I experienced any sense of false modesty, for I shall do a very good job, certainly better than anyone else in London whom the King might have asked. Evelyn Waugh would have been too stiff; Hugh Walpole too pompous. We are to begin our confabulations in two days’ time.
Came away exulting in my good fortune, and did not go to Lady Londonderry’s for the excellent reason that I did not think I should be able to stop myself from talking about it. In fact, HM has been rather subtle. He knows that I am in touch with Ramsay and the peace party, but in the nature of things cannot be seen to receive him. By employing me he will be communicating with them by proxy.
Got home to find a telephone message from y asking if I wanted to come to dinner. Ignored this, and instead settled down into an armchair with a large whisky, back numbers of Spectator, New Statesman, &c., to think how I might set about what, it scarcely needs saying, is the most exalted commission of my career.
3 December 1939
To the palace. All very winter-ish. Guardsmen’s breath spouting in the frozen air. Unswept leaves piling up against the sentry boxes. Had assumed that we would begin work straightaway, but when I arrived found myself taken off to Hardinge’s office. Cordial but faintly suspicious, like a schoolmaster who fears his prize pupil may have disgraced himself but has no real evidence to prove it. Asked: was I aware of the very grave responsibility that had been placed on my shoulders? I decided to enter into the spirit of the interrogation, smiled my blandest smile and said that I was fully aware.
After that Hardinge relaxed a bit, said the King could be difficult in these matters. Above all, needed guidance. Was prone to make passionate statements which then had to be qualified. Apparently last year he ventured some remarks about unemployment in the distressed areas about which Downing Street nearly had a fit. I said I should do my best to curb this impetuousness, but in the last resort he was the King and I merely his humble subject. Hardinge, whom I suspect of having a sense of humour behind his impassive exterior, remarked that this went without saying. If I had any problems, he concluded, I should bring them to him immediately. Meanwhile, he would be glad to see a draft of the speech as soon as it became available. Naturally I agreed to this, while thinking that I wanted as little to do with Hardinge over its contents as possible.