The Good Servant, page 39
Bruce shook George’s hand, and Beatrice put her arm around Marion’s shoulder.
‘In the meantime,’ she said, ‘I am going to bring back with me one of my dearest friends. She will type every story you tell her so that you don’t have to. You just talk naturally, telling her the stories, as you would to a friend, and she takes it all down. Simple.’ She let go of Marion and reached for her handbag. ‘OK, you guys. We’ll leave you in peace and see you very soon. We’ll let ourselves out.’
Marion followed them to the door and waved them off.
She couldn’t shake off the doubts she had. She trusted the Goulds and the Queen trusted her and Lady Astor wouldn’t involve herself in anything that was wrong but … it didn’t feel right. She walked back into the drawing room.
‘George, do you think this is going to be all right?’
George had given up any pretence of being sober and was now draped in his chair, emptying the remains of the whisky bottle into his glass. ‘All right? It’ll be better than that. That stuck up bitch you call boss is going to get what’s coming to her.’
‘George! Don’t speak about the Queen like that. She has been so wonderful to us.’
‘Ha!’ He jerked his hand to punctuate a point, slopping his drink down his shirt. ‘What has she ever done for me? Eh? Kept me away from you for over eleven years, that’s what. And left me to spend my last years with you in a house that should be condemned. What’s so bloody wonderful about that?’
‘George, you don’t mean that.’ She tried to appease him. ‘We have so much to be thankful for. A roof over our heads, an income and my CVO.’
George carefully stood up and swayed over to the mantelpiece, where her medal was shining in its box. ‘This,’ he slurred, holding it up in front of her face, ‘this is a piece of shit. Fairground tat. You are worth so much more than this and I am going to make sure you get it.’
Nottingham Cottage, July 1949
Marion had mistakenly thought retirement would mean a slower pace of life. How wrong she was.
At least three days a week, she received a telegram from the Goulds in New York:
MORE DETAIL ON MRS WALLIS SIMPSON STOP
HAS HIS MAJESTY MET UP WITH HIS BRO DUKE OF WINDSOR? STOP
WHAT WAS REACTION IN UK WHEN US TROOPS JOINED WAR? STOP
She was scared stiff each time the knocker went.
And on top of that, George was unwell.
‘Major Buthlay, how much do you drink every day?’ the doctor asked.
Marion glanced anxiously at George.
‘Just a wee dram before bed. Helps me to sleep.’
Marion held her tongue but couldn’t help her worried expression. The doctor saw it.
‘Would you agree with that, Mrs Buthlay?’
Marion sidestepped the question. ‘He has trouble sleeping sometimes.’
The doctor pursed his lips in doubt and continued to examine George. ‘Look at the colour of your eyes. They should be white, not yellow. Have you noticed that?’
‘I had malaria serving overseas in the last war. It flares up.’
‘Hmmm.’ The doctor reached for his stethoscope. ‘Take your shirt off please, and lie down on the couch.’
Marion stood by George and took his hand, which he immediately snatched away. ‘I am not a child! There is nothing wrong with me.’
Marion made room for the doctor, who pressed George’s abdomen.
‘Ow!’
‘Does that hurt?’
‘No.’
‘How about this?’ He pressed again.
George gasped.
‘You have lost some weight since I last saw you and yet your abdomen is rather swollen.’
Marion spoke. ‘He has lost his appetite recently.’
‘Hmm.’ The doctor inspected George’s feet, ankles and calves. ‘Oedema in lower leg. Do you take much exercise?’
‘Oh yes. Marion and I walk every day.’
The doctor glanced at Marion for confirmation.
‘We haven’t walked so much for a couple of weeks. He gets tired very quickly.’
‘Aye,’ George said, ‘because I don’t sleep well at night. I have told you that.’
‘Indeed.’ The doctor returned to his desk. ‘You can get dressed now, but I am sending you for a blood test. Come back next week for the results and in the meantime, no alcohol.’
George got dressed, and he and Marion left with a blood test form and directions to the phlebotomy unit.
They walked in silence until Marion spotted an arrow pointing to PHLEBOTOMY.
‘We go left here, George.’
‘I am not having a damn blood test. We’re going home.’
‘But George!’ The anxiety that lived permanently in Marion’s stomach rose up. ‘You have to. Please.’
‘I am going home. I need a drink.’
There was a furious row over George’s determination not to return to the hospital or give up drinking. Marion felt helpless. She wanted to help him, but his anger, resulting in her getting a black eye one Sunday evening, meant that she decided to ignore the problem.
It was a heavy secret to hold. It ate her up each day and night. The only thing that calmed him was talk of the Goulds and their money.
They had wired to say they were on their way and would be at Nottingham Cottage in three days. Beatrice’s friend, the stenographer who would type every word Marion said, was coming with them.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Buckingham Palace, August 1949
Tommy bowed as he entered. ‘How may I help you, ma’am?’
‘Tommy, I fear that I may have been misunderstood on something.’ The Queen dabbed her nose nervously with an exquisite lace handkerchief.
‘How may I help?’
‘I think Miss Crawford, in whom I had the utmost trust, could be selling stories about the children to an American magazine.’
‘Ah.’
‘It was suggested to me by Lady Astor. She mentioned that the Foreign Office were keen to improve our popularity in the United States. I talked to the King last night about it and, well, let us say we had words. I explained that I had done nothing other than to listen to Lady Astor and meet with Miss Crawford, but there was no talk of selling stories. I need you to explain to Miss Crawford yourself that it is simply out of the question.’
Tommy knew that the Queen was being a little economical with the truth and could only imagine the King’s fury. He himself had been on the other end of one of the monarch’s tirades and he knew how unpleasant they were.
After a moment’s thinking, he said, ‘Supposing I draft a letter explaining the mix up?’
‘Oh yes, that would be most helpful.’ The Queen looked reassured – and relieved.
‘However’ – Tommy coughed – ‘the letter must be signed by you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, it will send a much clearer view of things than if I were to sign it.’
The Queen thought for a moment. ‘I suppose it might.’
‘It would, most definitely. I can draft something today.’ He smiled. ‘Nip it in the bud.’
‘Dear Tommy. That is most kind and I would be grateful if you didn’t mention it to the King until it is posted. Then I shall tell him myself.’
‘Of course, ma’am.’
Buckingham Palace, the next day
The postman, a very inquisitive man, handed Marion the letter. ‘Still keep in touch, I see. That’s nice.’
Marion smiled, said ‘Thank you,’ and closed the door on him. Really, people were so nosy.
She opened the letter in happy anticipation.
My dear Crawfie,
After some conversation with my private secretary, Sir Alan Lascelles, I do feel most definitely that you should not write or sign any articles about the children. People in positions of confidence with us must be utterly oyster. You have been so wonderfully discreet for all the years you have been with us, and you would lose all your friends. I do hope you put all the American temptations aside, very firmly, and say no, no, no to any offers of dollars for something as private and precious as our family.
I know you will do the right thing.
Elizabeth R
Marion’s heart almost leapt out of her chest. The Queen had discussed her situation with Tommy? She read the letter again and felt she could detect the parts written in Tommy’s voice and the parts the Queen had added.
What was she going to do?
The Goulds were arriving tomorrow.
She would have to stop them.
George was in the kitchen making tea for them both, probably adding whisky to his. She had to show him the letter. He had had a little breakfast and this was the golden hour between his hangover and the next bout of drinking.
He read it and scowled. ‘Insurance – that’s all. She’s covering her tracks. Don’t worry about it. She wants the articles written or she wouldn’t have asked you. Forget it.’
‘It frightens me. I don’t want to be in any trouble. Can we not just say no to the Goulds? It’s not too late, is it?’
‘Marion, it is too late. They will be here tomorrow, sitting in our wee drawing room, and you will give them all the stories that you have. You are not letting state secrets out. They can’t drag you off to the Tower. It’s 1949!’
She sat at the kitchen table, clasping her cup of tea. ‘I feel awful. What does she mean, I won’t have any friends?’
‘As if Bobo and Sir Snooty wouldn’t still be your pals! They will all still be there, just sorry they didn’t have the chance to make a few quid themselves.’
‘I hope that’s true.’
George sat down next to her and took her hand. ‘Darling, I have been meaning to say some things about that family, which I think you should hear.’
‘What things?’
He took a deep breath. ‘They have treated you appallingly from the start. They dictated your life. You and I could have been married years ago. We could have a wee family by now. Not only have they deprived you of your own children – they have deprived me of mine! And look at this house. It’s totally unsuitable – it’s a wreck. Even your mother told me it was.’
Marion stared at him. ‘Not this again, George. I love it here and am so grateful. Mother said she liked it too.’
‘She didn’t want to burst your balloon. No, she doesn’t like it. She feels sorry for you. Knows you deserve more. She says it needs pulling down and I have to agree with her. Look around you, Marion. The plumbing, the damp patch by the chimney, and the furniture foisted on you by the old lady!’
‘Queen Mary was very generous.’
‘No, she wasn’t. She wanted to get rid of it and she couldn’t very well take it down to a jumble sale, could she?”
‘Don’t say that. I like having her things.’
‘Well, I don’t. And what about the wedding presents? A coffee set we will never use, a dinner service which would be grand if we could fit more than four people round this table, or had a dining room, and a couple of table lamps? All of it is an insult considering how you have subjugated your life for them.’
Marion started to cry. ‘That’s not true. Please, George, don’t say such things. I have been so happy. It was my job. They love me.’
‘Do you think so?’ He paused and reached into his trouser pocket for his handkerchief. ‘Here. Wipe your eyes. You gave them your whole heart but they saw you coming.’ He feigned a clipped English accent. ‘Give her a hovel to live in, pay her a pauper’s pension and, what fun, the final insult, give her a CVO.’
‘Don’t say that! The CVO means so much to me. It is a very special honour to show their respect for my work.’ She was finding it hard to get the words out through her tears.
‘No, no, my love. You should have had a DCVO. Dame Commander of the Victorian Order. Not just Commander. They cheated you, gave you second best, as they always have. And that is why we are going to work with Bruce and Beatrice.’
Chapter Sixty-Three
Nottingham Cottage, September 1949
The little drawing room of Nott Cott was bulging with the five of them.
Dorothy Black, Beatrice’s typist friend, had set her typewriter up on the Victorian gate-legged table, handed down to Crawfie by Queen Mary. Bruce was explaining how the articles would be written.
‘Dorothy will be immensely helpful in crafting your memories. The Queen will love how our readers take to her.’
Beatrice pulled out a sheaf of news cuttings from her bag. ‘If you are in any doubt, take a look at what the papers in the States are saying about her and the King. They do not make pretty reading.’
Marion scanned them. The headlines were unkind and anti-British as well as anti-royalist. She frowned. ‘Is this what they really think?’
‘I am afraid so. But they are ill-informed and unnecessarily hostile, don’t you think?’
‘I do.’ Marion was shaken by them.
‘Only you can write the truth and help your royal friends.’
‘You have too much faith in me.’
‘Don’t you trust our journalistic experience?’
‘I do, but …’
‘Uh-uh, no buts. This your chance to tell the world what you know, and bring both our great nations together again. You know what?’
‘What?’
‘I have it on pretty high authority that the Queen herself will write a preface to these articles in her own handwriting.’
This made Crawfie brighten. ‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, honey.’ Beatrice turned to Dorothy. ‘OK, Bruce and I will leave you two together now. We have meetings in London and then Paris before we head back to New York. We’ll be back in four weeks to pick up the manuscript.’
Bruce kissed Marion, then shook George’s hand. ‘We will have the contract ready to sign, with your amendments included. You drive a hard bargain, sir.’
‘Have you not heard about the canniness of the Scots?’ George slapped Bruce’s shoulder. ‘See you soon.’
Every day for the next four weeks, Dorothy coaxed reminiscence after reminiscence out of Marion, constantly asking her for more ‘colour’, as she put it.
‘Describe the Queen’s bedroom.’
‘What perfume does she wear?’
‘How handsome is the Duke of Windsor?
‘What was Mrs Simpson wearing? Describe her jewellery.’
‘What presents were exchanged at Christmas?
‘What colour was your bedroom?’
‘Tell me about the scent of the flowers in summer?’
‘Chronicle the war years.’
‘Recount tales of life in the nursery and the schoolroom.’
In her mind, Marion had to believe that what she was telling Dorothy was good for the family. She trod as carefully as she could around the most personal questions (‘What lingerie does the Queen favour? Do she and the King still share a bed?’), telling the truth but drawing a line where she felt it should be drawn.
Dorothy encouraged and provoked, and at the end of each day congratulated her on her recall and charming stories.
George was completely supportive, always praising her. ‘Darling, you are doing the right thing. This will earn you the DCVO that you deserve.’
He was still drinking, but not as much. He stayed sober enough to make the endless cups of tea and coffee for Marion and Dorothy throughout the long days, and then produce simple suppers for Marion in the evenings.
Eventually, Dorothy pulled the last sheet of paper from the typewriter and announced, ‘We are done! What you have here is a love letter to Great Britain and its royal family. It has been my privilege to commit your words to paper.’
‘Thank you. May I read it now?’
‘Oh, no. I told you at the beginning, no peeking. Wait until you see it tidied up. Beatrice and Bruce are terrific editors. I promise that when you see the final work, you will be so proud.’
Marion tried to smile. ‘I hope so.’
‘I know so.’ Dorothy began to pack up her small office. The many pages she typed each day were put into a black box file that she took away with her each evening. ‘Bruce and Beatrice will come over from New York very soon to pick this up. I will call them tonight from the hotel.’
‘How soon is soon?’ Marion asked.
‘I’d say forty-eight hours. They will want to see this as soon as possible.’ She tucked the box file under her arm and picked up her coat. ‘I’ll send for the typewriter later.’
The two women exchanged kisses, and then Dorothy Black was gone.
Marion was mentally and physically exhausted. She sat down heavily in an armchair, as George poured more praise on her and a large whisky for himself.
‘You have done it, Mrs Buthlay,’ he said with a smile. ‘Congratulations.’
Marion didn’t sleep well that night. She rarely slept well nowadays. Her most regular dream involved being handcuffed and thrown into the dungeons she had known so well during the war. George’s assessment of how badly she had been treated, by the Queen in particular, had a ring of truth, but it was so difficult to match with the reality she had experienced. She knew that she loved the royal family, and that they, in their way, had loved her.
She had to have faith that the articles being written, without her name attached, would be seen as positive.
She had so much to be grateful for, so much to trust.
Nottingham Cottage, November 1949
‘We bring champagne!’ Beatrice Gould, standing on the doorstep of Nottingham Cottage, held up a bottle of Pol Roger.
Bruce stood next to her, his arms opened wide. ‘Marion – my favourite author! You have a great big success on your hands!’
‘Really? I have been so worried.’ She stepped back to let them in.
‘Worried? What is there to worry about!’ Bruce hugged her. ‘Where’s George?’
‘In the sitting room.’
Bruce walked past her. ‘Hey George, you son of a gun, you have one hell of a wife!’
‘I know.’
George was not looking well, and Bruce was immediately concerned. ‘How are you?’
