The Good Servant, page 13
‘To us.’ She was shocked by George’s story and angry that his wife could have put so much strain on her marriage. She hadn’t been well, so that wasn’t her fault, but nonetheless, how could anyone be so awful to dear George? Fresh from the war and with uncaring parents.
He took her free hand again. ‘I really am so sorry for pouring my woes out to you.’
‘We are friends, aren’t we?’
‘I would like to hope we are.’ He took another mouthful of his whisky. ‘What must you think of me? Forty-three years old, divorced and with no family. I’m not much of a catch, am I?’
Marion looked into his eyes, then rested her forehead on his shoulder. Yes, she knew she was falling in love.
Chapter Sixteen
145 Piccadilly, 22nd January 1936
‘Crawfie!’ The little Princesses had been put to bed, but as soon as she opened their door they leapt out and ran to her.
‘What are you two little monkeys awake for?’ she whispered. ‘Alah and Bobo are next door – they’ll be cross with me for waking you up.’
‘Then why did you?’ asked Lilibet staunchly.
Marion put her arms round both girls, relieved to see them. ‘I have missed you scallywags.’
‘And we have missed you!’ said Margaret, gripping Marion’s legs tightly.
‘Let’s sit down before we all fall into a heap, shall we?’
She had arrived at 145 less than ten minutes ago and Ainslie had handed her a note from the Duchess. It read: Don’t let all this depress Lilibet and Margaret more than is necessary, Crawfie. They are so young.
She sat in the armchair by the dying fire and held the hands of both sisters. ‘How are you?’ she asked gently.
Lilibet leant against the arm of Crawfie’s chair, looking forlorn.
‘We are all very sad.’
‘Of course you are.’
Crawfie hitched Margaret onto her lap. ‘And are you sad too?’
‘Horribly,’ Margaret said dramatically, before leaning on Crawfie’s shoulder and doing her best to sob.
Lilibet put a comforting hand to her sister’s back. ‘Oh, Crawfie. I am worried for Granny. What will she do without Grandpa?’
‘We can never play again!’ Margaret wailed.
‘Oh, hush the pair of you. Your grandfather loved you and the last thing he would want is for you or Granny or anyone else to be unhappy. Now, you two are tired and upset and you need some sleep. Tomorrow you will feel a lot better. Into bed, please.’
Marion tucked them up again and, saying goodbye, closed the door softly. She went to the nursery sitting room where she was sure she would find Alah and Bobo.
‘I’m back,’ she whispered, putting her head around the door.
Bobo immediately began weeping, but Alah, although she was pale with dark circles under her eyes, kept her upper lip stiff. ‘Crawfie?’
‘Yes. I came as soon as I could. How are you both holding up?’
Alah’s face crumpled. ‘We are fine. It’s the girls …’
Marion stepped closer to the low flickering of the fire. ‘Bobo, would you make a tray of tea, please?’
Marion felt a bit mean asking the poor girl to make tea, but she wanted to speak to Alah without the distraction of Bobo’s sobs.
‘I have just looked in on the Princesses,’ she said, when Bobo was gone. ‘They are worried for the Queen.’
Alah wiped her nose and sighed. ‘We all are. What will we do without her and the King?’ Tears ran again.
Marion, with more hope than belief, said, ‘The Prince of Wales has been trained from birth to pick up the reins seamlessly. He’ll be a wonderful King.’
Alah shook her head. ‘But he doesn’t have a queen. What will he do as an unmarried king? No children, no loving arms to come home to. The only child of the old King unmarried, and the very one that needs to be.’
‘I am sure our Duke and Duchess, and the Princesses, will do all they can to help him,’ Marion said. ‘They will be wonderful.’
The damp hanky twisted in Alah’s hands. ‘The Duchess called us to her room this morning. She is still very weak from the flu, not well enough to leave her bed yet. The girls knew nothing of the King’s death and the Duchess wanted to tell them herself. Dear little things thought they were going to get another chapter of Right Ho, Jeeves.’
Bobo returned, bumping the door with the heavy tea tray. Marion gestured to her. ‘Just pop it all on the table here. Alah is telling me about this morning.’
Bobo’s little face fell glum again. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
Marion gave her a small smile. ‘Pour the tea, and let’s listen to Alah a moment.’
Alah sighed again. ‘The Duchess, so pale but still so pretty, had Dookie on the bed with her and the girls dived on to him, laughing and making the damn thing bark. But after the Duchess explained about the dear King …’ A tear ran down the older woman’s face. ‘And Lilibet, not even ten, immediately comforted her mother. You know how she is. So stoic and so … grown up. She asked how the Duke and Queen Mary were and then said “Poor Uncle David. Has he got to be King?”’ Alah’s tears flowed freely. Her body collapsed in on itself.
Marion could picture the heartbreaking scene, and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I think you can pour the tea now, Bobo.’
Sandringham, 22nd January 1936
The day had been long and heavy with grief. Tommy was grateful that he had not had to deal with the undertakers who prepared the King’s body for the first stage of his return to London. Instead, he had the job of relaying messages across the Commonwealth.
No matter how much preparation was put into a state funeral, the rehearsals for the procession of horses, carriages and servicemen, there were always crowned heads and presidents, admirals and generals who needed to have the schedule in order to organize their own. There were telephone calls between number ten, the palace and Sandringham that needed to be joined and minuted.
And here was the emotional wreck that was the new King, Edward VIII. He drank and smoked and cried and the Queen comforted him as best she could, but her own heart was broken.
More than once the King had begged Tommy to arrange for Mrs Simpson to join him, so much so that he passed the receiver over to Tommy while Mrs Simpson was on the line.
‘Please let her come. I need her,’ wept the King.
Tommy took the receiver calmly. ‘Mrs Simpson? Tommy Lascelles here.’
‘Tommy,’ she said, using her saddest American drawl, ‘I am really worried about David. He is so upset and wants me by his side, but I just can’t come. It would be too difficult for the Queen and everyone. Can you please help him to understand? I am waiting in London and will be here when he returns.’
Tommy controlled his relief at this turn of events. ‘Of course, Mrs Simpson. I understand, and so will the King.’
The King was not pleased and drank steadily until his father’s body was taken to the small church where the family worshipped.
Then at last, and totally drained, Tommy wrote to Joan.
Joan my darling,
It is very late, but I will not be able to sleep without getting the events of the day down on paper. Forgive me for unburdening myself to you.
Tonight the King lies peacefully in the little church, St Mary Magdalene, at the edge of the garden. We left the house, with the Queen and the family, no more than a dozen of us, following the small, wheeled bier which was flanked by a few towering Grenadiers and led by the King’s piper playing a lament. It was dark and rainy with gusts of icy wind tearing through us. Turning a corner, we saw the lychgate of the church, lit brilliantly, with the rector, Fuller, waiting for us.
The guardsmen carried the coffin from the bier and let it rest in front of the altar for a brief but desperately moving service. The Queen said nothing, but what must have been going through her mind? I only hope she will remember this dignified, private moment, when the clamour of the state funeral dins her ears.
The Prince of Wales, paler than I have ever seen him, even after a day of drinking, stood forlorn by her side. I suppose I shall be thrown back into service with him. Junior members of the household cannot walk out on a new king simply because they disapproved of him as Prince of Wales.
The old King is now to be watched for a vigil of thirty-six hours by the men of the Sandringham estate: gamekeepers, gardeners, faithful retainers, all guarding their beloved squire.
Tomorrow we will accompany him to London by train, and all the inevitability of a state funeral will follow.
When we got back to the house tonight, I am not ashamed to say that the Duke of York and I shared a couple of glasses of whisky. What a decent man he is.
Yours,
Tommy
145 Piccadilly, 22nd January 1936
Marion watched as Alah fumbled for a handkerchief and wiped her eyes then the corners of her lips. Then she held the square of cotton over her mouth, stifling her grief.
A flood of compassion for the older woman flowed through Marion. ‘Do we know any of the plans for the … arrangements … for the King yet?’
‘Not yet, but Lilibet will go to the lying in state at Westminster Hall. It is her duty.’
Marion felt her heart sink. ‘That poor little girl. Perhaps I could chaperone her?’
Alah was quick to reply, ‘The Duchess has already asked me to accompany the Princess Elizabeth.’
‘But I should so like to pay my respects to the King. He was a great support to me.’
Alah set her lips firm. ‘I am the one who has known Lilibet from birth, therefore I am the person the Duchess wants.’
Marion was tired after her long journey, exhausted by her mother’s interferences, anxious that she had been unable to get hold of George to tell him where she was – and now Alah was pulling rank on her, as she had been doing recently. Marion had had enough. Anger murdered her compassion.
‘Alah, you and I are not in competition with each other. For goodness’ sake, do we always have to bicker?’
‘Bicker? I accommodated you when you first arrived, showed you the ropes when you knew nothing – but you forget all that now. You have got a bit big for your boots, young woman. Yes, I see you watching the Duchess, copying her manner and style as best you can, thinking you’re best friends with the family. Well, you’re not. You and I are paid servants. We are needed and useful, but we are not their friends. You would do well to remember that.’
Marion felt the sting of Alah’s words.
‘I am sorry you feel that way.’ She stood up, towering over her colleague and her pettiness. ‘I shall ask the Duchess myself. I am sure she would be grateful to have the both of us accompany Lilibet.’
Chapter Seventeen
Buckingham Palace, 23rd January 1936
Tommy was on the phone to the Duchess of York, who was calling from her sickbed. ‘I shall deal with that immediately, ma’am.’
‘Tommy, dear, thank you. I know you have a lot to deal with over the ensuing week, but one of your quiet words would help me enormously. I don’t want to worry the Duke just now.’
‘Understood, ma’am.’
Tommy replaced the receiver in its cradle and cupped his tired mind in his hands. ‘Dear God.’ He sighed, then buzzed P-T, his secretary.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Would you ask Miss Clara Knight and Miss Crawford to pop over from 145 and come to my office please?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And a tray of tea for three may be in order.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Thank God he had P-T – calm, efficient, never wasted words. He got up and walked to his window, surveying the neat yellow gravel within the palace gates and the traffic on Constitution Hill beyond. The past forty-eight hours had been a non-stop melee of meetings, orders and arrangements. He would give anything to take a walk up to Wellington Arch, along Piccadilly and into the civilized realms of Fortnum’s for a reviving lunch. Perhaps a fillet of Dover sole with slices of thin bread and butter, or an Omelette Arnold Bennett with a glass of chilled Pouilly-Fuissé? In the last few days since the King had died, meals had been scant and unpredictable.
His insides were feeling the lack.
He hoped P-T would show her usual foresight and bring some biscuits with the tea. In the interim he gave himself a swift pace around the room, then sat down to reread and absorb the complicated arrangements for the funeral.
P-T knocked and entered, bringing with her his two guests.
‘Sir, Miss Marion Crawford and Miss Clara Knight. Tea is on its way.’
Tommy stood, smoothing the strips of hair either side of his balding head. ‘Ladies, do take a seat.’ He indicated the two chairs in front of his desk. ‘Thank you for coming, and forgive me if I have interrupted your morning routine.’
The two women sat, looking equally composed – but, he noted, not at each other. This would clearly require all his diplomatic skills if no feathers were to be ruffled.
He plucked at the knees of his trousers and sat down.
‘As you know, the King is now lying in state at Westminster Hall. Princess Elizabeth is expected to attend so that she may pay her respects to her beloved grandfather, and also to see and understand the royal protocol surrounding such occasions.’
Miss Knight bent her head in agreement, then glanced sharply at Miss Crawford. She looked ahead, listening intently. The elder woman spoke. ‘The Duke and Duchess both agree that the Princess is old enough to attend. It is my duty and my pleasure to accompany the Princess.’
Tommy dipped his chin in agreement. ‘Yes, quite so. A car will take you and the Princess Elizabeth this evening, when the crowds will be thinner. It will be a special memory for her – she will go during the twenty minutes when her father and uncles will be holding their own vigil at their father’s coffin. The Duke of York, King Edward VIII, the Duke of Kent and the Duke of Gloucester, will attend in full uniform and swords reversed, as is the custom.’
Miss Knight was triumphant. ‘Thank you, sir.’
There was a tap at the door and P-T nudged it open with a hip. She bore the tea tray in her hands, and Tommy was cheered by the sight of bourbon biscuits.
P-T smiled. ‘Here you are, sir. Tea, as ordered. Shall I pour?’
‘Just leave it on the side table, please.’
When she’d gone, Tommy poured three cups and offered the women the bourbons. To his delight, they politely declined.
Miss Crawford managed a warmish smile for Miss Knight.
Tommy stirred his tea three times clockwise, as he always did, before saying, ‘I hear, Miss Crawford, you would like to pay your respects to the King, yourself. Is that correct?’
She looked up. ‘It is, sir, yes, and I was wondering if I could—’
He raised a hand to stop her. ‘I am going myself today, after luncheon, and the Duchess has given permission for you to take the afternoon off to accompany me if you so wish? No point sending two cars when one will do, eh?’
Miss Crawford beamed as she accepted the invitation. ‘Sir, I would be honoured.’
‘Good. I am glad that is settled. Meet me here at two o’clock sharp.’ He drained his teacup and walked to the door. ‘Very nice to see you again, Miss Knight, and also to meet you, Miss Crawford.’
He saw them off with a charming smile. As they disappeared down the corridor, he shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief.
That, Tommy old boy, he said to himself, is diplomacy in action.
At 2.00 p.m. sharp, Crawfie returned to Buckingham Palace and was met by Tommy’s secretary. ‘Sir Alan will be with you in just a moment,’ she said. ‘Do take a seat.’ She proffered a choice of three chairs in the corridor.
‘Thank you.’
‘He shouldn’t be too long, Miss Crawford.’
‘Forgive me, but I don’t believe I know your name.’
‘Oh golly, sorry. It’s Jane Pepper-Thynne, but everyone calls me P-T. So much easier.’
‘We all seem to have nicknames, don’t we? Mine is Crawfie.’
P-T relaxed, leaning back against the wall. ‘Oh you’re Crawfie! How lovely to meet you. I hear you are working wonders in the schoolroom. And how are the terrifying Alah and dear Bobo?’
Crawfie smiled carefully; she didn’t want to be reported as a gossip. ‘Delightful.’
‘Really? That’s not what I have heard.’ P-T laughed. ‘Sir Alan shouldn’t be too long now. You know even he has a nickname, don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Everyone calls him “Tommy” – but only when he gives them permission. For now, call him Sir Alan. Ah, here he is.’ Tommy stepped out of his office carrying a heavy coat and his hat. ‘Miss Crawford is here, sir.’
‘Good.’ He smiled at Marion. ‘As you have a warm coat on, I think we shall walk to Westminster Hall. I could do with some fresh air.’
In silence she followed him from his office, down a short, red-carpeted flight of stairs, along the corridor, past the painting of Queen Victoria’s coronation and out through the door that took them to the front of the palace. The cold was fierce, and Marion pulled her coat firmly around her.
Outside the gates, they pushed their way through the growing crowd of mourners. They were clustered in groups around the gates, looking up at the royal standard that hung limply against the January sky.
‘I don’t know what they hope to see,’ murmured Tommy as he carved a path to the right. ‘The Queen isn’t going to come out for a chat, is she?’
Marion was surprised by his lack of heart, but thinking this might be another a test of her loyalty, she said nothing.
‘How is everyone at 145?’ he asked, striding out so that she had to increase her pace to keep up with him.
‘We are all pulling together. Of course we feel deep sorrow for the whole family.’
‘And the Duchess? The Duke tells me she is beginning to feel a lot better after her nasty flu.’
‘I believe so, sir.’
‘And the girls?’
‘Bearing up, sir.’
‘Good.’ As they crossed the road heading for Birdcage Walk, Tommy wondered why the old King had spoken so highly of the young woman by his side. He had said that she was intelligent, thoughtful and brought a breath of fresh air into the fusty old schoolroom – nothing like the expressionless, monosyllabic and rather dour Scottish woman now presenting herself.
