The Good Servant, page 17
She did, and not favourably. She nodded.
‘He and I are sharing the place. Decent rent and a little garden. You will have to come and see it.’
‘I would love to.’
‘Hardly a palace, though – it’s not what you’ll be used to.’
‘George, please don’t say that. Whenever I come home, people expect me to be … oh, I don’t know … grand or something? But I am a proper Scots lassie, nothing else.’
He looked at her and smiled, his eyes crinkling with fun. ‘I have missed you.’
Her heart did a flip. ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’
The six weeks that followed were something that Marion had never experienced before. She was romanced.
George gave her his constant attention. During the week she hardly saw him as he was so busy with Christopher selling cars, but at weekends they shared walks and picnics, quiet pubs and dinners.
Her mother was relentless.
‘You will never find another man like George. He’s so kind and thoughtful, exactly the sort of husband I would choose for you.’
And after one particularly excruciating Sunday lunch at home, she asked across the dining room table, ‘I can’t believe you have never married, George. But then, maybe you haven’t met the right girl.’
Marion’s embarrassment was obvious, but George took the question in his stride. ‘Actually, Maggie, I was married once, a long time ago. I am divorced.’
‘Oh,’ Maggie said, taken aback. ‘Any children?’
‘No.’
Maggie rallied. ‘Well, that’s a blessing.’ Then added hurriedly, ‘That is, did you want a family?’
He furrowed his brow and he said with sincerity, ‘I would dearly love a family, but who would want a man like me? I’m in my mid-forties and I know I have very little to offer a woman who is young enough to have children.’
‘Robert and I would so love to be grandparents.’
Robert was as uncomfortable with this conversation as his daughter and drew a line under it. ‘Why don’t we clear the table, Maggie, and make some tea?’
Left on her own with George, Marion apologized. ‘I wish mother wouldn’t talk so freely about things she shouldn’t.’
‘Why shouldn’t she?’ George asked her. ‘She wants the best for you.’
‘Well, I hate it.’
He was quiet for a moment, looking at her across the table. ‘Do you want to be married?’
She flushed. ‘Goodness, what a question.’
‘I think you would make a wonderful wife and mother.’
Her heart jumped in her chest. What was he asking?
Before she could think of a response, he said, ‘I know how fond of you the little Princesses are, but don’t you ever think about looking after your own children, rather than someone else’s?’
She glanced towards the kitchen, terrified her mother would be listening in. Then she looked back at him with pleading eyes. ‘Please, George, can we change the subject?’
‘I know I’m sixteen years older than you, but we are friends … I hope?’
‘Yes.’
He took her hand. ‘You see, there’s something I want to ask you.’
Was this it? Was he going to propose?
She had thought about this moment many, many times, so why was she frightened? She knew she loved George, but this was unexpected, too sudden. She wouldn’t know how to answer him. It was all too soon and not how she had imagined, and anyway how could she stay in London if she said yes? Her life would change irrevocably and she wasn’t ready. She felt suddenly hot and sick. The timing was all wrong. She thought she might throw up.
‘George, I am sorry, but I’m not feeling very well.’
His eyes were full of concern. ‘I have upset you.’
She took her hand from under his and stood up. ‘It’s not you. I just need to lie down.’
She needed to leave before she was sick in front of him.
‘Sorry.’
She ran upstairs to her room and closed the door behind her. What had just happened? Adrenaline was gushing in her veins. The pit of her stomach was cold. Her breath was coming fast and shallow. Feeling faint, she went to her open window. It was a hot day with barely a breeze, but the air felt good in her lungs. She sucked in as much as she could, until calm was regained and the nausea abated.
Had George been about to propose to her? Or was he teasing? Or did he really think he was too old for her? She didn’t think he was.
She lay down on her bed, not wanting to go back downstairs, not wanting to face him.
After a little while, there came a quiet knock on her door, then it opened an inch. ‘Marion?’ It was her mother. ‘What happened?’
‘I came over a bit faint. I think maybe I have had too much sun.’
‘George has gone. He said to tell you he’ll call tomorrow. He’s worried you aren’t well.’
‘I’m fine.’
Maggie stood at her daughter’s bedside and took her hand. ‘Was it my fault? Your father has already had words with me.’
‘Mother, I just need to sleep. Let’s speak tomorrow.’
George rang up the next day, but Marion told her mother that she wasn’t feeling well enough to come to the telephone. She said the same for the next three days.
On the fourth day, he didn’t ring.
On the fifth day, she felt safe enough to leave the sanctuary of her room and venture out into the garden.
Her parents were outside, sitting in the shade of her father’s prize rose – a peach-coloured and heavily scented climber, his pride and joy.
Her mother, mending basket on her lap, shaded her eyes with a cupped hand and looked her up and down. ‘So, you’re up.’
Her stepfather was more sympathetic. ‘How are you feeling, lassie?’
‘I’m all right.’
‘Come and sit in the shade.’ He got up to give his seat to Marion. ‘I’ll get you a cold drink. Would you like a sandwich? You’ve hardly eaten all week.’
‘A drink would be lovely. Thank you, Dad.’
As soon as he had disappeared into the kitchen, Maggie started. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened between you and George?’
‘I don’t want to talk right now, Mother.’
Over her reading glasses, she gazed at Marion. She asked quietly, ‘Was he inappropriate with you?’
Marion frowned. ‘No!’
‘Did he want you to do something you didn’t want to do?’
‘Mother! No.’
‘Then what?’
‘He …’ She took a deep breath. ‘I thought he was going to ask me to marry him and … it scared me.’
‘Oh my God!’ Maggie’s jaw dropped into a wide grin. ‘He was going to propose?’
‘I thought so, yes.’
Maggie smiled. ‘Congratulations. You did the right thing to keep him in suspense.’
‘Mum …’
‘It’s always best to think about these things.’
‘I don’t know what I’m thinking. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Well, do you like him?’
‘Yes, but—’
Maggie was gentler. ‘He is quite a bit older than you, I know, but that means he’s matured. He obviously thinks the world of you or he wouldn’t be paying you so much attention.’
Marion looked sad. ‘But now he hasn’t rung up for two days.’
‘He’ll try again.’ Maggie laughed. ‘And when he does, you’ll agree to see him.’
‘But what if he actually proposes?’
‘Could you love him?’
This was an awkward question. ‘I have sometimes thought I loved him, but … If I love him, why was I so scared?’
Her mother tutted. ‘Marion, you are ready to marry. You’re at the perfect age and he is a lovely man. Do you respect him, trust him?’
‘I do.’
‘Good. The rest will follow. Say yes and make him happy.’
‘But what about my work? I don’t want to leave the Duchess or the girls.’
Maggie patted her arm. ‘You don’t now, but when you are married, with your own home and children, you will feel very differently.’
She didn’t think she would. Not unless … unless she could stay in London and do her job, even after she was married. Governesses and teachers gave up their careers as a rule when they married, but Marion’s situation was surely unique. How could she just leave the York household? They needed her and, in a way she couldn’t put into words, she needed them.
Perhaps George would come to London? That would be the perfect solution. But could he leave Scotland? He didn’t have family that she knew of, so there wasn’t anyone standing in his way, but she knew he liked his work with Chris.
She shook herself.
No. He’d stopped ringing her because she had behaved like a fool on Sunday, and she would probably never hear from him again. Indeed, she would be too horribly embarrassed to ever see him again.
She was worrying without need. The moment had passed and she could carry on with her job unchallenged. It was a narrow escape if ever there was one.
The next day was Sunday, and her parents were out at church when the telephone in the hall rang. She was almost too afraid to answer it. If it was George, what would she say? If he asked her again, she wanted to say yes – but only if he would come to London with her.
She steeled herself, and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Marion? It’s me. George.’
She felt her legs weaken and she sank onto the bottom stair.
He was anxious. ‘Marion? Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I am fine, George.’ Her voice sounded tinny.
‘I have been expecting you to never want to speak to me again,’ he said quickly. ‘I am so sorry about last Sunday. It came out all wrong. Would you please accept my apology?’
Marion felt far from comfortable with this. She had no idea how to deal with personal situations. And what did it mean, that he was apologizing? That he hadn’t meant it, that he hadn’t been able to propose after all?
‘Nothing to apologize for,’ she heard herself say. ‘I was suffering from the heat and had to lie down. That’s all.’
‘I rang you in the week. Several times. But your mother said you were resting.’
‘Yes.’
‘And are you feeling better now?’
‘Yes. I am so sorry about dashing off the other night.’
Marion held the phone, breathing hard, desperate for him to speak again. Was this the moment her life would change forever? When friendship became intimacy?
‘Marion, are you busy this evening?’
‘No.’
‘I could pick you up at five and have you home by seven. Maybe a little fresh air? We could stop at that little pub we like, the one that does jugs of Pimms. Remember?’
She held her hand to her throat. He had said we. The pub we like. She smiled. ‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Then you’ll come?’
She closed her eyes and took a leap into the unknown. ‘Yes, I will.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Buckingham Palace, mid-September 1936
Darling Joan,
I am in a jam. Alas, I shall have to postpone my trip to join you for John’s fourteenth birthday celebrations. I will ring up on Saturday morning to wish him many happy returns. I am sure he won’t even miss me. You are so good at organizing parties and such like, he will hardly notice I am not there. I will put a postal order for £2.00 in the post.
Things have got a little heated here.
The King has announced privately that he wishes to marry Mrs Simpson. There are many reasons why he cannot. She is still married to Mr Simpson, for one thing, and even after a divorce, the King would be her third husband. It is unlikely that she would bear children and therefore any line of succession to the Crown would be impossible. And more pertinently, I believe the country would not take to her. Marriage to her would be disastrous for the country.
The Prime Minister, Mr Baldwin, came for a private luncheon yesterday to which I was also invited. The purpose was to discuss the King’s coronation and gauge his ability and sense of duty for the job. I also had the opportunity to watch Mrs S and scrutinize her motives.
She is smart, attractive and friendly, with a keen interest in the King’s future, but has a side to her that is too sharp. She and the King behaved very badly in front of the Prime Minister, me and the attendants serving our lunch. She laughed as she shared her opinion of the Yorks. She thinks the Duke dull and the Duchess plump and dowdy, calling her ‘Cookie’ and sneering at her taste in décor and clothes. The terrible thing is the King laughed too. And he used to be so close to his brother and sister-in-law. The King, I fear, is as weak and spoiled a man as he was when I worked with him as the Prince of Wales.
I felt I must defend the Yorks, and from across the table I laid my opinion bare. ‘They are people to admire,’ I said.
Her reply was astonishing. ‘They don’t like me, so I don’t need to like them.’
Poor Mr Baldwin is, like me, very fond of the Yorks, and was horrified, but he said nothing.
The upshot of all this is that Mr Baldwin has called for a meeting this weekend, in an attempt to seek some order in this chaos.
I can’t help thinking that if we could simply remove the King and Mrs S and replace them with the Yorks, the monarchy would be in very safe hands. They have a stable marriage and two charming little girls. Of course the Duke’s stammer would need to be addressed, and the Princess Elizabeth would need to accept to bear the weight of being a future Queen, but it would be much the easiest solution.
I know I needn’t tell you that this is all strictly confidential and I should not be letting you know the situation. It’s all rather shocking and I would be in a frightful pickle if anyone but you read this letter.
I miss you dreadfully. How about you come up to town next week? I need to take my wife to lunch!
Your
Tommy
145 Piccadilly, mid-September 1936
Marion was in a state of agitated excitement. George was arriving that evening and she was to meet him at the Lyons’ Corner House at Leicester Square. It was now three weeks since he had taken her to the nice pub that served Pimms, and she was still taken aback by what he had had to say.
He had carried the tray with the jug and glasses out into the beer garden. There was a small wooden table in a secluded corner, with a bower of peach roses hung above it. Their scent on the cooling evening air settled around them.
‘Are you comfortable, Marion? Would you like my jacket?’ he had asked.
Marion looked over the fields towards the purple hills beyond. She knew she would look back on this in the years to come as the most perfect moment in her life. ‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said.
They sat in peaceful silence sipping their drinks, while George gathered his words.
‘Marion.’
She took a breath. ‘Yes?’
He ran a finger over each side of his moustache. ‘I don’t have much in the way of savings, and so I am thinking of looking for a new job. I have decided to look for work in London.’
Her heart skipped for a moment. He wanted to come to her, so that she need not return to Scotland? Her prayers were being answered.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘I need a decent income, and I have applied for a post in a bank.’
‘A bank!’ Her mother would be satisfied.
‘Yes. I have an interview in September. And I wondered if you might know anywhere I could stay?’
She smiled. ‘There are plenty of affordable guest houses.’
‘Oh, that’s good. Could you look one out for me? I mean, you actually being in situ, you would be better placed.’
She hesitated. He was asking her to look for a place for him – one that she could visit? She felt nervous again. ‘Yes … I could.’
‘Oh, that is a weight off my mind. I haven’t been to London since the war and I expect it has all changed so much.’
‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘Aye.’
Crawfie’s heart dropped into her abdomen. He wasn’t going to propose? She picked her disappointment up quickly. ‘No problem at all.’
‘And maybe—’ He halted.
Her hopes lifted a little. ‘What?’
‘Maybe I could take you out for dinner to thank you when I get there.’
She became brisk. She didn’t want to show any signs of dismay. ‘That would be very nice. Goodness, look at the time – I really must get home.’
She had wanted to renege on the decision to find him a place to live. Why should she wear her shoe leather out? What did he actually want from her? To use their friendship for his own ends, for convenience?
Her mother, when she heard what had happened, could only see his actions as noble. ‘Marion, he is obviously keen. Why wouldn’t he want to gather some savings ready for married life? And a bank! He has ambition and drive – both very good things. I foresee that this time next year you will be married, or at least engaged, and he will be doing very well and you will have no need to work. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s taking things slowly so as not to scare you off. Now, you start searching for a nice guest house for him and make sure it’s close enough for you both to see each other easily while he’s in London.’
Marion had found a clean and homely guest house off Kensington High Street, run by a tiny woman, a Scot as it happened, widowed by the war. Mrs Bridie was warm, chatty and happy to take in a respectable fellow Scot.
‘The thing is,’ Marion explained, ‘I don’t have a firm date for his arrival yet.’
‘Nae bother, lassie. You write down his name for me so I know who to expect. Around mid-September you say? I always keep my back room free in case of last-minute guests. I hate to turn anyone back to the streets; I think of my husband, given shelter by French farmers during the war. He wrote to tell me how lovely their cheeses were.’ She smiled sadly. ‘But they couldn’t save him from the fighting. Only twenty-eight when he was killed.’ She appeared to shake the memory away. ‘I was in service. Big house in Regent’s Park. But I had saved a bit and bought this wee house to do for others what others had done for Bill. Here’s my telephone number. Just ask him to ring up and we’ll make the arrangements.’
