The Good Servant, page 24
P-T asked, ‘Is anyone hungry? It seems ages since lunch. I can ring down for some sandwiches.’
‘Good idea,’ Tommy agreed. ‘But haven’t you two young women got young men waiting for you somewhere? It is Valentine’s night, you know.’
P-T grinned. ‘And how could I get a young man when I work all the hours God sends working for you?’ With a chuckle, she left to order the sandwiches.
‘Point taken.’ He looked over at Crawfie. ‘What about you? No Bonnie Prince Charlie keening for you?’
‘No, sir.’
He looked amazed. ‘What the hell are the young men of today up to? I despair.’ He picked up his glass. ‘A toast, to young hearts everywhere and to the abdicated King and his Mrs Simpson. To foolish love.’
The whisky scorched down Crawfie’s throat where a lump had suddenly appeared. She thought of George and wherever he was at that moment.
‘Do you know,’ Tommy began, ‘he seemed the most admirable man I had ever met when I started working for him. I had a deep admiration for him and was convinced that the future of England would be safe in his hands. But it transpired that he is just a person like any other. After nine years working for him when he was Prince of Wales, my admiration changed to despair. His lack of sense of duty and his self-absorption made him unfit for his destiny. I wasn’t wrong, was I? You must have met him. What did you make of him?’
Crawfie was shocked that he could speak so candidly and – in her opinion, disrespectfully – about the man who had been King. ‘I met him only a couple of times,’ she replied primly, ‘and I thought he seemed very nice.’
‘You were blinded by his looks, no doubt.’
The whisky was working its way into her system, provoking some bravado. ‘He is as handsome as a King of England should be – a man whose only crime was to fall in love.’ She felt the heat rising in her cheeks. ‘And because of that simple, human emotion, he had his crown taken from him.’
‘Taken from him?’ Tommy frowned. ‘My dear, he gave it away.’
‘I respect the Crown, sir.’
‘You think I’m disrespectful?’
‘I do.’
Tommy’s expression became serious. ‘Good for you, Miss Crawford. But something I have learned in this life of service is to never give respect to those who don’t earn it, or indeed want it. He wanted to love and be loved. Bugger his duty.’
P-T arrived, banging the door open with her hip and carrying a tray full of sandwiches. ‘Here we are, sir. Chicken, ham or cheese?’
‘Chicken, ham, cheese.’ He laughed. ‘The Crown or Mrs Simpson. Life is full of decisions. P-T, our glasses are empty.’
P-T dutifully topped up the glasses, even though Crawfie said no, and she began to tell an off-colour story about a footman, a chambermaid and a bicycle.
Gradually Crawfie relaxed into the comfortable atmosphere that alcohol and food very often induces. She listened as Tommy talked about his children, and P-T regaled them with tales of her flatmate who was working in the cabinet office.
‘There’s an awful lot of anxiety about Germany and Herr Hitler,’ she said. ‘Mr Baldwin is being talked into retirement. Making way for a younger Prime Minister, you know – one with the courage to stand up to foreign aggression.’
‘Poor old Baldwin.’ Tommy reached for a cheese sandwich. ‘The abdication ballyhoo took it out of him. My money is on Winston Churchill for next PM. Mark my words.’
Crawfie read the newspapers every day, fascinated by the accounts of the people and events that she lived with. She had seen Mr Baldwin many times at 145 in the run-up to the abdication and saw how burdened he had seemed.
‘My parents would prefer a Labour government to replace him,’ she said.
Tommy turned his amused eyes on her. ‘Off with their heads.’
P-T pretended shock. ‘I never had you down as a revolutionary, Miss Crawford!’
Crawfie knew she was a little tipsy because her laugh came out more as a giggle. ‘I said my parents, not me. Maybe I used to be a little revolutionary, but not now. Now I see how hard it is for all people in all walks of life.’
‘Very hard indeed,’ Tommy intoned. ‘So many jewels and houses to deal with. The interesting people queueing up to fawn over one. Dreadful life.’
‘I mean it,’ Crawfie said, trying not to laugh. ‘Their lives are not normal. I am privileged to be charged with the education of Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret, particularly now. If the Duke and Duchess are not blessed with a son, Lilibet will be Queen one day. My duty is to show her the real world before the doors close around her.’
P-T and Tommy looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. ‘P-T, call the guards. We have a red under the bed.’
‘I am not a red – and neither am I a blue!’ Crawfie said crossly.
‘I tell you what you are.’ Tommy uncrossed his elegant legs and stood up. ‘I’m still hungry. Come along – I am taking you two to dinner.’
They had a brisk ten-minute walk over to the Ritz, where Tommy effortlessly breezed in and was greeted by a welcoming waiter with, ‘Your usual table, sir?’
Crawfie had never been inside the Ritz before, and pulled herself up to her full height as she allowed her coat to be taken and her chair pulled out. Dining with the elegant Sir Alan and P-T meant she could observe how the privileged spent their time. It was quite different in style to that of the over-formal behaviour at the Palace. Here, around each table, were monied people gossiping and keeping their eyes open for faces they knew. This was fun, expensive and fascinating to Crawfie – a world between the simplicity of Dunfermline and the stuffiness of the royal household. And she realized, suddenly, how oddly comfortable she felt within it.
Over fillets of sole Veronique, Crawfie let slip about George, leaving out the disaster of New Year’s Eve. ‘And he says he might come down for the coronation,’ she finished.
‘Might he indeed.’ Tommy picked up his wine glass. ‘And do you want to see him?’
P-T replied, ‘Of course she does. He sounds very charming.’
Tommy hummed through a mouthful of rather good white burgundy. ‘Hmmm. I shall give him the once-over when I meet him. It will be good practice for those callow Lochinvars who will beat their way to my own front door in pursuit of my daughters.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
145 Piccadilly, 16th February 1937
It was the last day at 145 Piccadilly, and Crawfie felt a fresh wave of relief break over the household. At last, the hinterland of the abdication, followed by the Christmas break, was bridged. Tomorrow the family and household would move to Buckingham Palace.
The press were once again focused on the outside of 145 Piccadilly and Lilibet was enjoying peeking through the windows at them.
‘There are so many, Crawfie.’
‘Come away, please,’ Crawfie said. ‘We don’t need a picture of you looking at them, thank you.’
Margaret was hopping about excitedly. She was wearing a new dress, a Christmas gift from her maternal grandmother, who was coming for tea shortly. She was swishing about in it. ‘I would like them to take my photograph.’
‘There will be plenty of time for that, but not today.’
Today there were no lessons. Crawfie was keeping the girls occupied while Alah and Bobo were at Buckingham Palace, putting the last of the laundry and bedlinen into ancient airing cupboards. The Duchess – no, Crawfie checked herself for the umpteenth time that day, the Queen – had invited her mother, and her friend Lady Cynthia Asquith, to tea, and Crawfie was getting the girls dressed in their prettiest dresses, ready to meet her.
‘Let me brush your hair please, Lilibet.’
Lilibet was so easy to look after. She was almost eleven now and stood patiently, barely frowning as the hairbrush pulled a knot.
‘Now, let me look at you!’
Lilibet did a twirl.
‘Very nice indeed,’ Crawfie told her. ‘Now Margaret, please.’
Margaret frowned. ‘I don’t want my hair brushed. It hurts.’
‘You want to look nice for your granny and for your mummy’s friend, don’t you?’
Margaret was six, with a mind of her own. She dragged herself towards Crawfie as if she were on her last legs. ‘But I hate having my hair brushed … Ow!’
‘I haven’t even touched you yet. Stand still.’
Crawfie finally led the girls downstairs to their mother, then quickly ran back up to the nursery. Bobo and Alah had just returned from the Palace and were at the window overlooking the front door.
Bobo’s face was pushed against the glass. ‘Here she comes.’
Alah pushed her to one side. ‘Is it Lady Asquith or the Countess?’
Bobo pushed through to see. ‘Lady Asquith, I think.’
Alah sighed with pleasure. ‘She is wonderful. A woman who understands what it means to be a wife. Unlike Mrs Simpson.’
‘Alah!’ Crawfie was surprised. ‘What do you mean? She couldn’t help falling in love.’
‘Love?’ Alah snorted. ‘The only thing she loves is being the centre of attention. A woman who imagines her needs must come first. I believe the newspapers call it bourgeois feminism. What a load of rot.’
Below them, the ghastly Fleet Street mob immediately began to crowd the pavement, while two policemen tried to hold them back without success. The photographers snapped frantically as the distinguished wife of the former Prime Minister arrived. She posed politely and briefly for the cameras before entering the house.
Bobo was thinking. ‘I think it is important to be feminine,’ she said.
‘Feminism does not mean feminine,’ Crawfie told her, ‘Quite the opposite, some say.’
‘And it is,’ said Alah. ‘We are not the equal of men and never shall be, despite what these female radicals shout about.’
Another black car drew up beneath the window, and again the photographers surged forwards as the Queen’s mother, the Countess of Strathmore, arrived. She did not stop or pause, but told the photographers in a clear and aristocratic voice, ‘I shouldn’t waste a photograph on me,’ before disappearing through the glossed black door of 145.
Alah moved away from the window. ‘Bobo, put the kettle on, would you?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Alah settled in the chair by the fire, and Crawfie joined her.
‘Female radicals?’ Crawfie asked.
‘They are a disgrace!’ Alah sniffed. ‘We have the vote and we can divorce on certain grounds, but the rest of it would be the ruination of society.’
‘Would it? Do you not think that a woman could be as successful as a man if she wanted to?’
‘Why would she want to? A woman’s place is in the home. How would the King be able to do all he has to do, if the Queen decided to run for parliament or go out to work? And how is the Queen able to be the Queen without us caring for the Princesses? It is the balance of nature that we hold the fort.’
‘I didn’t realize you had such strong feelings about it, Alah.’
‘Well, I do. I am so grateful that you show no sign of silly girlishness, running after young men and such like. You are single and you are not distracted from your work – just like me. Long may that be the case.’
‘Supposing I did meet someone and wished to be married. What then?’
‘What do you think? You would be dismissed.’
Downstairs the Queen was enjoying the final afternoon tea she was to hold in the sitting room of 145.
‘You will miss this little home, won’t you, darling?’ Countess Strathmore asked her daughter.
‘Bertie and I have some wonderful memories here,’ replied the Queen. ‘It does seem sad to leave. It is not what we were expecting, at all.’
‘Quite a lot to take in, I expect.’ Lady Asquith smiled. ‘I have always hated moving house. Such a bother for everyone.’
The Queen smiled. ‘It is, rather, but it’s poor Bertie who is having the hardest time.’
‘Packing the boxes as we speak, is he?’ Lady Asquith was known for her wit, and everyone laughed.
‘Would you like to see me dance?’ Margaret piped up. ‘Come on, Lilibet, let’s dance.’
And the two girls, like any other little girls, got up and danced for their mother, grandmother and family friend.
Tea was drunk, sandwiches were eaten and gossip was whispered above the Princesses’ heads. When the pretty French clock on the mantelpiece struck four, the ladies moved to collect their spectacles and gloves and the party broke up.
Lilibet escorted her grandmother and Lady Asquith to the door. On the hall table was a letter addressed to Her Majesty the Queen, and Lilibet pointed to it. ‘That’s Mummy now,’ she explained.
As the door opened, a fresh blast of camera bulbs went off – but not at the two women who were leaving. The new King had just arrived and was getting out of his official car.
‘Afternoon, Your Majesty,’ the photographers called, jostling each other, desperate to get a picture of him looking towards them.
‘Over here, sir, Daily Telegraph.’
‘Give us a smile for the Daily Express, sir.’
He politely smiled and waved before entering his home for the last time.
Crawfie had been summoned to come downstairs and collect the girls. She stood in the shadow of the stairs, amused by the slightly chaotic crossover of leavers and arrivals.
Finally, the Countess and Lady Asquith were safely in their cars and the King stepped into the hall. The large black door was closed behind him, shutting out the doorstep clamour.
Crawfie hung back, allowing the girls to welcome their father. They were whispering to each other.
‘Don’t hold on to me,’ Lilibet ordered Margaret. ‘Do it like we used to for Granny and Grandpa when they were King and Queen.’
The King kissed his wife, then the Princesses took a step forward and swept to the floor in graceful curtseys. ‘Welcome home, Your Majesty, Papa.’
As they smiled up into their father’s weary face, Crawfie witnessed something she’d never forget. The King was taken aback. It was as though the reality of his position had swamped him again. His eyes glistened with tears as he stooped and took both girls into his arms. Time stood still for them.
Crawfie turned her gaze from the intimacy and melted back into the shadows.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Buckingham Palace, 17th February 1937
‘Margaret, would you please stop cycling up and down this corridor!’ Alah was rubbing her shin.
‘Why?’
‘Because you have run into me twice. And it hurts.’
Lilibet was grooming one of her toy horses. ‘Come and help me, Margaret. We have to get all our horses to feel happy in their new home.’
‘But it’s so boring.’
Crawfie arrived. ‘Alah, it’s the oddest thing. I don’t have a light switch in my bedroom. I looked everywhere and it’s outside in the corridor, at least six feet from my door. Ouch!’
‘Sorry!’
Alah lifted Margaret off her tricycle. ‘That’s it. I’m putting this away. Go and help Lilibet, please.’
Margaret immediately burst into tears and ran into her room, shouting, ‘I don’t like living here! I want to see Mummy!’
‘Difficult morning?’ Crawfie asked.
Alah sighed. ‘You could say that, yes.’
The day continued in similar vein. The entire palace was overrun with removal men, painters and cleaners.
The Queen was busy with her maid, making her bedroom cosy and homely. The King had rejected the old King’s bedroom and chosen his father’s smaller dressing room. It held happy memories of watching his father dressing for dinner when he was a boy.
Life here was certainly very different. The Palace was the opposite of the homely warmth of 145 Piccadilly. It was enormous: endlessly long corridors, draughty rooms, vast and important works of art at every turn. Liveried staff and footmen with powdered wigs scurried through the unseen rat runs behind secret doors. All was pomp and ceremony.
The Palace steward headed up a staff of four hundred servants, including equerries, ladies of the bedchamber and ladies-in-waiting. Dining tables were laid with golden candelabra and bowls of red tulips.
The Queen’s diary was heavy with appointments: dressmakers, ambassadors, letters to answer and portraits to sit for. Crawfie had twice seen her walking the corridors in full evening dress and a tiara at half past nine in the morning!
The King spent most of his days in his office, dealing with matters of state and practising his new signature: George R VI.
There were no more afternoon naps, and very few bath-time romps for the Princesses.
Crawfie, Alah and Bobo took a while to find their way around the miles of corridors and antiquated plumbing. The building was full of history, rusty pipes – and mice. When Alah found a mouse climbing her stocking, she shrieked, but the Princesses laughed. ‘It’s only a little mousie,’ said Margaret. ‘Lilibet and I feed him crumbs when he comes into our bedroom at night.’
Eventually, they all settled down in their new home, and after a visit from the Palace rodent catcher, no mouse was seen in the nursery again.
There had been so much going on that Crawfie didn’t have time to stop and contemplate her new home, to absorb the fact that she, Miss Marion Crawford, was now living in a royal palace, with a King and Queen who employed her to care for two royal Princesses. The reality of that was going to take some time to sink in.
And it wasn’t only the Palace that was busy. In the Royal Mews, the Crown equerry oversaw the grooms and coachmen who tended the seventy-five horses and state carriages. The Princesses adored going to visit, their pockets full of apples and carrots.
Her Majesty Queen Mary, now the Dowager Queen, had stayed at Buckingham Palace since the death of her husband and abdication of her son, and appeared reluctant to move out. But go she had to, and after some negotiation, Crawfie heard she had agreed to move to Marlborough House, another mansion and only a stone’s throw away, on the Mall.
On the eve of her departure, she invited the family and the more important members of the household, including Crawfie, Bobo and Alah, to the white drawing room, where they found two long tables with dozens of trinkets that the Dowager Queen had no use for.
