The Good Servant, page 21
‘Oh, darling!’ cried the King. ‘Poor Tommy.’
She ran from the room.
The King looked sorrowfully after her, then rang the bell, presumably for another cocktail. ‘So, Tommy, the thing is,’ he said, ‘we have a problem. Wallis and I love each other and wish to be married. If the archaic rules of old Henry remain, I shall abdicate.’
‘Ah, sir,’ Tommy replied. ‘I think that is rather what the PM is worried about.’
The King set his jaw. ‘Bloody Baldwin can go and boil his bloody head. You can tell him that. You may go.’
Tommy did go. Straight back to his office to do what he always did in crisis: write to his wife.
Dear Joan,
God, how I long to be home with you. How is the garden looking? Have you lifted the dahlias yet?
Rather larger problems here. The King is insistent that he wishes to plant Mrs Simpson at the centre of the monarchy by marrying her. He’s mad with love, apparently. Why does he have to marry her? Why not keep her as a mistress? He’s had enough practice. I suppose she wants to be Queen, but I cannot see the country swallowing that.
Poor Baldwin is apoplectic. The King must not marry a divorcee. Besides, we all know the divorcee in question would make an appalling Queen and has no love of children. She pretends with the York girls but it’s clear she has no interest in them. She is furious that the British press now have the story (I don’t know how we stopped them for so long – the foreign press has been running it for months) and the King is threatening abdication. It’s a poor threat.
God knows what this is doing to his mother. The respect Queen Mary has within the royal household and among the people is second to none.
Does the King really think Mrs Simpson could live up to that?
Presumably he cannot bear to be out of the company of his American friend for more than twenty-four hours. I hear he has given her £50,000 of jewellery which has been in the royal family for several generations. Unfortunately, somebody told the Queen this, and she has showed her displeasure by being distant and cool towards him. Both commendable and proper.
All those years I spent in service to him when he was Prince of Wales, I witnessed such disgraceful behaviour. He was always late, keeping dignitaries waiting, arriving smelling of the previous evening’s excessive drinking and, on one occasion, unshaved. Unforgiveable.
I was right to leave him when I did. I had hoped that, returning to work with him after more than a decade, I would find some maturity in him. He has never said an unkind word to me, but I find his character as appalling as ever.
My love to the children, and perhaps you could make a trip to London soon, and allow your old husband to take you to lunch?
With my fondest love,
Tommy
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Windsor, 11th December 1936
The worst had happened.
Sitting at his desk, staring across the room, Tommy’s head was clear and focused.
The Prime Minister had done all he could to dissuade the King from abdicating, but the King insisted he could not sit on the throne without the woman he loved by his side.
This impasse had gone on for weeks but now the final blow had fallen. The King was to be forever severed from his birthright.
The end had come.
Tommy had been witness to one dreadful conversation where the Prime Minister almost begged the King. ‘Think of the country, sir. Your father. Your mother. There is time to change your mind.’
But the King was determined. ‘The answer is the same, Mr Baldwin. No marriage, no coronation.’
Mrs Simpson had been distraught. Finally she understood that she was the one responsible for the situation. Tommy did not doubt that there were strong feelings between her and the King, but she did not wish to be the most hated woman in British royal history. She wrote a statement declaring her wish to ‘withdraw forthwith from the situation’. Was it gallantry or cowardice? Tommy couldn’t be sure, but the blithe, quick, gay and unconquerable Wallis had fled that night from England’s shores to await her divorce in France.
In all of this, Tommy was a mere servant. His job was to serve the monarchy, smooth stormy waters, to apply all the smoke and mirrors of diplomacy he had at his disposal and to present this disaster as a mere blip.
With a sigh, Tommy picked up his pen.
Dear Joan,
The inevitability of the situation we have found ourselves in is worse than one could have imagined. The King will be the most tragic ‘might have been’ in all history. He could not have his cake and eat it, so he ate it.
I have spoken to the Duke of York, who is in a state of shock over what has happened. But he accepts the role he must now take on.
Earlier today a meeting was held to explain how the machine of state would proclaim him King on Saturday.
He listened attentively and solemnly to the briefing, after which, when we were on our own, he offered me a drink. I felt he wished to get things off his chest. And my word, he did.
The King had taken the draft Instrument of Abdication to his mother, and had wept on the Queen’s shoulder for an hour. What was in his mother’s heart as she held him, we will never know. Maybe she always knew he would not, could not, face the ultimate price that kingship requires.
I feel so much for her. In one year she has lost her husband, her position, and now her son.
Apparently the King gave his final dinner party at Fort Belvedere, his beloved home, two nights ago. A party of nine included Mr Baldwin, the Duke of York, and others. The King made sure they talked of everything other than the problem at hand. And his younger brother made no mention of the fact that he would soon be King.
The following day all three younger brothers – the Duke of York, Duke of Gloucester and Duke of Kent – arrived at the Fort to witness the signing of the abdication document.
We are now in uncharted waters. May God guide us.
Our ex-King went to his room to continue packing. The Duke of York joined him. The sofa was cluttered with personal belongings and clothes but the ex-King made space for him. I heard him say, ‘You are not going to find this job difficult at all. You know all the ropes.’
The Duke’s stutter was amplified by the circumstance, but he managed to say, ‘The first act of my reign will be to create you a Duke with the family name Windsor.’
One can only imagine the level of emotion between the two.
The Duke of York then left the Fort and returned to Royal Lodge alone. The Duchess is unwell with a bad attack of flu and had remained in London with the Princesses. The Duke sat by himself and listened to the King’s radio broadcast of abdication.
At midnight the old King was packed and ready to leave the Fort without a look back. He got into his waiting car and asked the driver to take him to Royal Lodge for a final adieu to his successor, his brother.
I hear the new King George VI was surprised by the visit and almost wept as his brother bowed to him as his subject before taking his leave.
He is headed to the continent, bound for Austria, where he will stay with friends. They say Mrs Simpson will remain in France until her divorce is finalized.
So, the King is dead. Long live the King.
The British public will be devastated, naturally. But we must present the new King as a phoenix from the ashes. Capable and respected. Strong and just. A family man with a good woman at his side and two beautiful daughters.
Prince Albert, Duke of York, second in line to the throne, is now King George VI.
Has there ever before been a year of three Kings?
I shall telephone you when I can, my darling.
Fondly,
Tommy
PS I think the idea of enlarging the new kitchen garden is an excellent one. Give Jennings the go ahead xx
145 Piccadilly, 12th December 1936
The nursery was in shock. Alah, Bobo and Crawfie had sat huddled around the wireless the previous day, listening to the King’s abdication speech.
Today, the entire household ran as usual, as if on rails, but in stupefied disbelief.
The Duchess had taken to her bed, struck down by the flu she was so susceptible to. She had not been in Windsor as her husband had witnessed the final hours of the King’s reign.
This morning she had woken as a Queen.
After breakfast, Crawfie took the Princesses to see her. Her bedroom curtains were half drawn, allowing the weak December daylight to creep across the carpet.
‘Good morning, Your Majesty,’ Crawfie said with respect and a deep curtsey
‘Good morning,’ the new Queen croaked. She looked sallow against her peach pillows.
‘How are you, Mummy?’ Lilibet was all solicitude.
Margaret ran and jumped onto the bed, planting a kiss on her mother’s face. ‘Daddy’s going to be King.’
‘Yes, darling. I know.’
‘He telephoned and told us last night,’ said Margaret.
Lilibet sat on the edge of the peach-quilted counterpane. ‘I think he sounded a bit sad when he told us.’
‘Yes. I think he is a bit sad,’ the Queen agreed.
‘Why?’ asked Margaret.
‘Because he wanted Uncle David to stay as King.’
‘Why couldn’t he?’
Lilibet frowned at her little sister. ‘Because he loves Mrs Simpson.’
The new Queen lifted herself limply further up her pillows. ‘Darlings, this is all so difficult for Daddy. He needs us three to be good and look after him.’ She looked at Crawfie, who was waiting to be dismissed. ‘Isn’t that right, Crawfie?’
‘Indeed, ma’am.’
The Princesses snuggled up on either side of their mother. ‘Margaret and I will look after you, Mummy. And Crawfie too,’ Lilibet told her.
‘Yes.’ The new Queen stroked Lilibet’s hair gently. ‘You know, Crawfie, I started the year as a King’s daughter-in-law, then a King’s sister-in-law, and now I’m finishing the year as a Queen.’ She kissed Lilibet’s head. ‘The future looks so different for all of us.’
Crawfie knew exactly what the Queen was thinking: her precious elder daughter would never have the life she wanted. No house in the country with dogs and children and horses.
Her future would one day be as Queen herself.
Chapter Thirty
King’s Cross Station, 22nd December 1936
The train hissed and squealed as it began to pull out of King’s Cross Station and Marion knew she would be using the long journey to process the last few days.
She had almost decided not to come home for Christmas. She had not wanted to leave the young Princesses at this critical and shocking time, but the Duke and Duchess – Their Majesties, she corrected herself – had persuaded her.
‘Darling Crawfie, you are an absolute brick, but you must have your holiday. We shall need you to be fit and strong in the New Year.’ The Queen had patted Crawfie’s arm and smiled warmly.
‘But you are still recovering from the flu, ma’am,’ Crawfie protested. ‘I am happy to look after the wee Princesses while you recover. You must rest.’
The Queen shook her head. ‘Alah and Bobo always come to Sandringham for Christmas with us. The girls shall be looked after very well. Besides which, your parents must be longing to see you. In the new year, there will be a lot of change. You will have to move the schoolroom into the Palace.’ The Queen sighed. ‘So much to do.’
‘If you are sure?’
‘Absolutely. And the King agrees with me, don’t you, Bertie?’
They had been in the drawing room at 145 Piccadilly, the King sitting in his armchair by the window, smoking. He had lost weight, Crawfie knew, and his skin was grey. ‘What am I agreeing to?’
‘Miss Crawford must go home for Christmas. We shall need her fit and rested for January.’
‘Oh, good Lord, yes.’ The King had tapped some ash from his cigarette. ‘Crawfie, we are depending on you to do your bit in keeping the family on an even keel. If the Princesses are happy, the Queen is happy. And if the Queen is happy, the King is happy. And if the King is happy, the Country is happy … You see what I mean?’
Marion’s train was full of people going north for Christmas. She could sense the joy of her fellow passengers as they came aboard, searching for spaces in the racks above the seats into which they could push their suitcases. She sat quietly by the window, her eyes tracking drips of condensation as they rolled down the glass.
Marion’s compartment was full. A young couple were sitting beside her, while an older couple with two children – a son of about seven she guessed and daughter a little older – sat opposite. Marion was in no mood to talk. The last week had been nothing but talk. The gossip amongst the household staff and servants’ quarters had taken on a life of its own.
All week photographers and reporters had been camped outside the front door of 145 Piccadilly, day and night. Flash lights popped, catching the startled expressions of cabinet ministers, clergy and the Prime Minister as they climbed from their official cars.
And there were also a determined few who hung around the basement door of the house, offering money to household staff for a story.
Ainslie had called a below-stairs meeting.
‘If I catch anyone,’ he had told his assembled team, ‘speaking to a reporter, passing a note to a reporter, or receiving money from these grubby Fleet Street vermin, I shall see to it that they are sacked immediately without reference. Everything you hear or see that is said or done in this house is top secret. Do you understand me?’
There was a shuffling of feet and a murmured, ‘Yes, Mr Ainslie.’
‘The King and Queen must trust us. That is our duty. This is their home, their sanctuary, away from public interest.’ Ainslie had swept his eyes around the room, searching for any guilty faces. ‘If you have even the slightest suspicion that someone in this household is passing information to reporters, I am asking you to come to my room, at once, and give me that person’s name.’
‘You’re asking us to snake on our friends?’ exclaimed the under-cook.
Ainslie straightened his ramrod back further. ‘I think you will find that anyone prepared to betray Their Majesties are not your friends, or mine. Anyone with information will remain anonymous and the accused will be given a fair examination. But if the evidence is too strong to be refuted’ – he gave them another sweep of his steely eyes – ‘may God have mercy on their souls.’ He paused, then added, ‘God save the King!’
Closing her eyes, Marion gave herself up to the lumpy springs of the scratchy woollen seat. She wanted to make clear to her travelling companions that she didn’t wish to be spoken to.
Now the train had left the station and was in steady moment, the older woman opposite her pulled some knitting from her bag and turned to the young couple. ‘Off home for Christmas?’
‘Yes,’ said the young man.
‘Work in London, do you?’
‘Yes. We both do.’ He turned to the young woman next to him and squeezed her hand. ‘My fiancée and I.’
‘Fiancée!’ The woman sounded thrilled. ‘When is the happy day?’
‘Well, Florrie and I have to tell our parents first.’
‘It’s sort of their Christmas present.’ Marion did not open her eyes, but assumed this information came from Florrie.
‘How exciting.’ The woman had a pitch to her voice that was extraordinarily irritating. Marion thought she could sense one of her headaches coming on. ‘You are not going to elope then?’
‘My mam and dad would kill me.’ Florrie again.
‘But so romantic.’ The woman’s knitting needles were clacking at an irritating pace. ‘I reckon Mrs Simpson and …’ She stopped knitting for a moment. ‘What’s the King’s new name?’
‘Duke of Windsor,’ her husband said.
‘That’s it. I reckon she and the Duke of Windsor ought to have eloped. They could have come back to Buckingham Palace and told everyone, too late to abdicate then. That’s what I said, didn’t I, Ronald?’
‘Yes, dear.’
Marion fidgeted involuntarily at this ridiculous thought.
‘Are we disturbing you?’ the woman asked, leaning over and patting Marion’s knee.
Marion opened her eyes a little. ‘Not at all, it’s just that I do have a rather bad headache coming on.’
‘Oh dear.’ The woman began to rummage in her handbag. ‘I have some smelling salts here somewhere. I find they are wonderful at curing my headaches. Don’t I, Ronald?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, just handed over the small bottle of salts to Marion, who was now obliged to open it and take a sniff. The ammonia and eucalyptus made her eyes water and she coughed.
‘That’s it. Take a good sniff.’
Marion knew the woman meant well, but this was all still a nuisance. She returned the bottle and searched for her handkerchief to wipe her nose. ‘Thank you.’
‘I just hope the poor new Queen has a bottle of these with her at all times. What a shock all the abdication business must have been. And her poor husband, with his stammer, having to take over. Not to mention those little girls. I suppose the older one will be Queen now, if they don’t have a son. Dreadful business. I still don’t understand why his brother couldn’t just marry Mrs Simpson and be happy! People think being royal is easy, but I think it’s cruel. Imagine not being able to marry the one you love.’
‘I think Mrs Simpson is a very stylish woman,’ said Florrie.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ her betrothed answered. ‘Not as pretty as you.’
Florrie giggled. ‘Oh, Frank, that’s so sweet of you.’
Marion wanted desperately to escape, but didn’t know how. It would be too rude to just get up and leave, and it was so busy today that there might not be another seat left on the train.
At last, rescue came in the shape of the guard.
‘Next stop in five minutes. Five minutes to next stop.’
‘Is this us?’ asked the woman.
