The Good Servant, page 16
A cough from the door made them turn.
Crawfie stood in the doorway, the Princesses by her side. ‘Good evening, sir, ma’am. The girls would like to say goodnight.’
Husband and wife moved quickly from the window and put their arms out to greet their daughters.
‘Have you had a good day, my darlings?’ the Duke asked, embracing one in each arm.
‘We have, thank you,’ said Lilibet. ‘Can we wait for Uncle David?’
‘If he’s here before eight o’clock, of course you can,’ their father said.
The Duchess laughed. ‘Such spoiled girls! Shall we have a quick game of Happy Families while we wait? I was expecting Alah, Crawfie, but perhaps you would like to play?’
‘I would like that, thank you,’ she answered. Despite herself, she really did want to see Mrs Simpson.
‘I will get the cards,’ said Princess Margaret bossily.
‘And I will shuffle them,’ replied Lilibet.
By eight o’clock – after several furious rounds of cards – there was still no sign of the visitors. The girls reluctantly said their good nights and headed for the stairs, a disappointed Crawfie chivvying them along.
As they crossed the hall from the drawing room to the stairs, the powerful roar of a motorcar speeding its way up the drive stopped everyone in their tracks.
‘It’s Uncle David!’ screamed the girls.
Ainslie appeared from nowhere to open the front door, where a huge and sleek American motorcar stood on the thick gravel.
‘Halloo!’ called the King, as he bounded out and around the endless bonnet, before helping Mrs Simpson to disembark.
The girls ran out to greet him, but stopped when they saw the elegant woman stepping out. She was clutching a small handbag and had a large diamond brooch on the shoulder of her effortless cocktail dress. She walked towards them in very high heels, clutching their Uncle David’s arm.
The Duchess stood inside the open portico of Royal Lodge and went no further. Crawfie noticed the charming smile arranged on the Duchess’s lips, but her eyes, usually so blue and twinkly, were carefully fixed on Mrs Simpson
‘Darling Elizabeth.’ The King, who had always been fond of his brother’s wife, took the steps two at a time to reach her. ‘Long time no see.’ He kissed her hand and her cheek, then turned to Mrs Simpson who was hanging back a little. ‘Wallis has been dying to see you again, haven’t you, my love?’
Crawfie saw the imperceptible curl of Mrs Simpson’s carmine lips as she answered, ‘Gosh, yes,’ in her East Coast American drawl.
The Duchess bent her head graciously but said nothing
The Duke stepped forward and shook her hand. ‘W-welcome to Royal Lodge, Mrs Simpson. Now, come on in, both of you. The ice in the cocktails is melting.’
His stammer was a little worse tonight – a sign of his anxiety.
Crawfie stood back in the shadows of the staircase, watching the scene. Not one of them seemed to notice her.
The Duchess made her way to her husband and held his arm. ‘David,’ she said, ‘you are very naughty keeping Cook waiting.’ She said this with a tinkling laugh, but underneath it lay annoyance, Crawfie could tell. ‘I Imagine you’ll be late for your coronation!’
The King shrugged his shoulders and swooped on to his two nieces. Mrs Simpson looked as if she were in the presence of zoo animals, as she watched the King tussle and wrestle with the giggling girls. Putting them back on their feet, he adjusted his jacket sleeves and waved his hand towards Mrs Simpson. ‘Girls, you remember Mrs Simpson. Say hello to her.’
Crawfie saw the Duchess’s eyes tighten.
‘Hello,’ they said politely.
The King lit a cigarette. ‘My new car, and Mrs Simpson, are both from America. Do you like my car?’
‘Yes, but it’s jolly noisy,’ said Lilibet.
‘But that’s the part you will like when you come for a ride with your Uncle David and Aunt Wallis.’
The girls looked at her shyly. Uncle David’s friends were always very smart and pretty, but this woman had none of the curves and comfort their mother had. Her perfume was overpowering and body too angular.
‘Give her a kiss then,’ the King told them.
They did so. All three of them looking stilted and uncomfortable.
‘Well, now.’ Their mother smiled – satisfied, Crawfie thought, that her daughters would not take to the American interloper. ‘Time for bed, girls.’
Upstairs, as Crawfie helped Bobo to tuck them in, Margaret whispered to her, ‘I still don’t like Uncle David’s friend. Her dress’s so tight you could see her bones.’
Lilibet whispered back, ‘I don’t think Mummy likes her either.’
‘Now, now.’ Crawfie reached for the new Agatha Christie. ‘She is a lady a long way from her home, so we must be kind.’
Crawfie went to bed that night without once thinking about George, or the letter she should write him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Royal Lodge, August 1936
Tommy came up on the early Sunday morning train from London to Windsor. He had planned to go to West Sussex for the weekend; his family home was in the small village of Bepton, at the foot of the Sussex Downs, and it had been a couple of weeks since he’d seen his wife Joan and their three children. How he longed to be back home. He could do with a damned good walk as much as anything. The South Downs Way always cleared his mind of the clutter of state.
When in London he lived and worked at Buckingham Palace, which Joan didn’t like. He frequently attempted to soothe her anxieties, persuading her that she and the children were better off out of the capital, which of course they were. They could lead a perfectly normal life with perfectly normal hours, rather than constantly wondering where he was, when would he be home and whether he had eaten. But that didn’t mean he didn’t miss her. He loved to take her out for lunch in Chichester, or go swimming at the Witterings, or do the gardening together.
Simple things, but all his plans were currently dashed.
The Duke and Duchess of York had invited the King to a family lunch at Royal Lodge. Alec Hardinge, the King’s private secretary, and therefore Tommy’s boss, could not attend; thus, as assistant private secretary, Tommy was obliged to show his face.
Joan had been disappointed but understanding.
‘Will Mrs Simpson be there?’ she had asked.
‘I have no idea,’ he had replied.
‘Well, if she is, I want you to tell me all.’
He climbed out of the car that had been sent to collect him from Windsor station and stood for a moment, surveying the large and beautiful house and garden. A pleasant breeze brought with it the smell of newly mown grass. The flower beds were rather ordinary, shrubs mostly, but there were a few good roses too. He must remember to ask Joan how the roses were doing in Sussex.
Taking a preparatory deep breath, he turned back to the house and climbed the steps to the door.
‘Good morning, Sir Alan.’ Ainslie seamlessly took Tommy’s summer coat and panama hat.
‘Hello, Ainslie. Is the King here yet?’
‘No, sir, I believe he is still at the Castle. There was a rather late dinner party last night. We are not expecting His Majesty and his guest for another hour.’
‘Hmm. And his weekend guest is?’
‘Mrs Simpson, sir.’
‘Hmm,’ Tommy said again.
Ainslie blinked, but did not comment. ‘Their Royal Highnesses are waiting on the terrace.’
Tommy followed Ainslie across the hall, through the drawing room and out on to the beautiful terrace overlooking Windsor Great Park.
Ainslie announced him. ‘Sir Alan, ma’am.’
The Duchess was sitting under a vast parasol, watching the Princesses, who were sitting on the lawn, counting with their eyes closed.
Tommy addressed the Duchess. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’ He inclined his neck in the perfect courtier’s bow.
‘Ah, Tommy. Would you like a drink before lunch?’
‘A small gin and tonic would be just the ticket, thank you.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Ainslie withdrew to the drawing room.
The Duchess looked across the lawn. ‘The Duke is playing hide and seek. He’s awfully good. Can you see him?’
Tommy peered into the sun. In a small copse of five silver birches, he caught a flash of a royal trousered leg dangling from a branch.
‘Ah, I may have caught a glimpse but mum is the word.’
The Duchess laughed. ‘We had rather a late party last night.’
Ainslie appeared with a clinking gin and tonic and withdrew once more.
Tommy kept his eyes on the garden. ‘Oh yes?’
‘The King and his friend Mrs Simpson were here.’
Tommy’s eyes didn’t waver. ‘Ah.’
The Duchess looked closely at him. ‘Thank you for joining us today. I hope it hasn’t mucked up any plans you may have had?’
He sipped his drink. ‘Not at all, ma’am.’
Shouts of ‘Coming to find you, ready or not!’ came across the garden.
The Duchess waved and smiled, then said, ‘How is it, working with the King?’
‘It’s an honour to serve, ma’am.’
Her girls had found the Duke’s hiding place and were now being chased by him.
The Duchess said, ‘I recall you actually resigned from his service, when he was Prince of Wales.’
Tommy looked into his glass without an answer.
‘I believe you disapproved of his lifestyle at that time. What do you think of it now?’
‘Ma’am, I serve our King. I do not judge him.’
The Duchess laughed. ‘A courtier’s answer, if ever I heard one.’
The Duke came across the lawn, wiping his brow. ‘I could do with a drink – where’s Ainslie? Ah, hello Tommy. You need a top-up, by the looks of your glass.’
Ainslie reappeared, took the orders and disappeared again.
A pleasant hour idled by, as the conversation flitted between roses, cricket and a Beethoven concert that had been on the wireless. The Princesses were charming and polite. They greeted Tommy, then retreated to a blanket under the shade of the birches, reading their books and pouring glasses from a jug of lemonade.
Tommy felt himself getting drowsy, and the Duke looked as if he had already fallen asleep. It was a perfect English summer Sunday.
But idylls did not last, and this one was abruptly ended by the arrival of a hungover King and his immaculate female friend.
The Duke and Tommy got to their feet and bowed to their sovereign, while the Duchess performed a perfect curtsey. Mrs Simpson ignored it all, heading to a chair under the shade of the parasol.
The King, in dark glasses, was ordering a drink from Ainslie.
‘A Bloody Mary – large.’ Stubbing out his cigarette, he lit another and sat down in the chair Tommy had just risen from. ‘And a dry martini for Mrs Simpson.’ He rubbed his head. ‘I have a headache.’
After a slow train journey, Tommy was back in London, in his rooms at Buckingham Palace. He divested himself of his clothes and put on his dressing gown, a gift from Joan. He missed her and the children dreadfully, but he also prized the solitude of life he led without them. He often felt torn between the two.
Sitting at his desk he pulled out a sheet of headed note paper and began to write.
Darling Joan,
I have just returned from Royal Lodge. Excellent lunch as always – poached salmon and new potatoes, then summer pudding. The Yorks were charming.
However, the garden was a disappointment, the lawn suffering without water. I found myself wanting desperately to be back in West Sussex. By the way, how is the Dahlia v Earwig contest going?
But you won’t want talk about earwigs. You want to hear all about ‘a certain person’, as she is known at BP.
The King was hungover and chain smoking. Nothing new there. He was pleasant enough and his family appeared happy to see him, but I detected several degrees of concern. He is very thin and tired-looking. He ate very little of the excellent food and smoked throughout lunch.
The Duchess was warm and amusing – you know how engaging and supportive she can be – but I saw one or two expressions of disquiet cross her pretty face. There is a tough woman behind her soft exterior. She remained cool, hiding her emotions admirably.
The centre of attention was, of course, Mrs Simpson. She was totally at ease, so much so that she took the hostess’s chair, at the head of the table.
The Duchess, with perfect manners, did not turn a hair as she took Mrs S’s allotted seat. Ainslie, poor man, was puce with anxiety about where the King would sit. To Ainslie’s relief, he did not take his brother’s seat but settled where he had been placed.
I had the feeling that Mrs S’s faux pas was no mistake. She is very slender with a sharp face and dark hair pulled back to reveal hard eyebrows, rather pained eyes, a large nose and a thin, lipsticked mouth. Her jewellery, however, was exquisite: a gem-encrusted bracelet, three rows of very good pearls and diamond drop earrings. I have no doubt they have been gifted to her by the King.
At one point she looked out on to the garden and the hill beyond and said to the King, in full earshot of the Yorks, owners of the said garden, ‘Don’t you think, David darling, that the view could be improved by moving a few of the trees and flattening part of the hill?’
The Duchess remained the very distillate of unruffled. If the remark was designed to irritate, the very opposite appeared true. The Duchess smiled and even managed a light joke. ‘Goodness. Our weekends would be busy.’
As we were leaving, we all had to admire the King’s new American station wagon car, a huge boat of a machine.
‘Isn’t she marvellous?’ the King said.
The Duchess said it was delightful.
Mrs Simpson replied, laughing all the while (and I still cannot believe she actually said this): ‘I am left with a distinct impression that while the Duchess is sold on an American car, she is not so sold on the King’s other American interests.’
How does one respond to that?
In short, my darling Joan, I fear the woman is unsuitable company for a King to keep. He reminds me so much of Mr Toad from The Wind in The Willows, always looking for the next great excitement.
Talking of which, plans for his coronation are coming together for next spring. Definitely good reason for you to go hat shopping.
And don’t forget to let me know re dahlias and earwigs.
Your
Tommy xxx
While Tommy signed and sealed his letter in London, Crawfie was at her desk in Royal Lodge, writing a letter to George.
She had procrastinated for too long. She was going back to Scotland very soon for her summer break and it was only good manners to let him know of her return, in case he wished to avoid seeing her. She had agonized over the wording, but finally decided that she had better be short and to the point.
Dear George,
I do hope you are well. I am coming back to Dunfermline next week and will be staying with my parents. I shall be home until early September. I hope you might be free to meet. It would be very nice to hear all your news.
I quite understand if this does not suit.
Yours truly,
Marion
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dunfermline, late August 1936
Marion felt the chill of the Scottish evening as she stepped off the train at Dunfermline station. In London, she had left behind a sweltering August, and even though she’d brought a coat, she was rueing her decision not to wear a cardigan as well.
She carried her bags to the small taxi office, hoping that they would have a car available. She found him sitting behind his glass window, smoking a pipe.
‘Mr McGregor?’
He looked up and grinned. ‘Ah, Miss Crawford. Back home again. What is our new King like? Have you met him yet?’
She ignored the question. ‘Do you have a wee car to go?’
‘I thought you’d be wanting a carriage and fine horses?’ He moved the pipe from one corner of his mouth to the another, laughing.
She smiled politely. ‘Just a wee taxi, please.’
She heard footsteps behind her, but kept her focus on Mr McGregor, who was running his finger down a notebook with that evening’s bookings. ‘Maybe in about twenty minutes. Jim is dropping at the hospital just now and Robbie has just gone home for the day.’
The footsteps behind her were getting closer. A man’s voice said, ‘Marion. Your chariot awaits if you’d care to hop in?’
She spun round in delighted surprise. ‘George!’
‘Hello.’ He smiled at her. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but Robert told me which train you were on. How could I leave you stranded?’
Mr McGregor sat back in his old wooden rotating chair. ‘Do you know this gentleman, Miss Crawford?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you, I do.’ Marion was flushed with pleasure. ‘George, this is Mr McGregor, and Mr McGregor, this is George Buthlay. A …’ She wasn’t sure how to introduce him. ‘A friend of the family.’
‘So, you won’t be needing a car?’
‘No. I am fine now, thank you.’
As they walked towards George’s motorcar, George carrying her luggage, she said, ‘Funnily enough I wrote to you yesterday.’
He placed her bags in the boot, and turned around with a sheepish smile. ‘I must apologize for my lack of letters. I have been very busy with the garage and I have moved. I meant to send you my new address.’
He opened the car door for her and waited as she settled herself. As he walked round to get into the driver’s seat, she allowed herself to relax in the face of his simple explanation. He had been too busy and he had moved. There was nothing so very terrible in that.
‘Where have you moved to?’ she asked, as George got in and started up the engine.
‘A nice little house in between here and Stirling.’ He manoeuvred the car out of the station car park and set off towards her home. ‘I am closer to work, and it will still be a short drive to visit you. You remember Christopher, from the garage?’
