The Good Servant, page 40
‘A bout of malaria. I’m fine.’
‘Poor you. Beatrice, hear this – George has malaria.’
Beatrice came in and put her bag and the bottle of champagne down, then embraced George. ‘You poor man! Have you seen a doctor?’
‘No,’ Marion said. ‘He hasn’t.’
George flapped his hand. ‘I am fine.’
‘You need a holiday.’ Beatrice smiled at Bruce. ‘Do you want to tell him, sweetie?’
‘Sure, OK. This is the big one.’ Bruce stretched his arms wide. ‘You can go on holiday to wherever you want, whenever you want, as soon as you have signed this.’ He dipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
George’s yellow tinged eyes gleamed. ‘The contract?’
‘That’s it!’ Beatrice was bouncing with glee. ‘Marion, get some glasses. You are going to sign this and then we will pop that cork.’
Marion went to the kitchen and brought back four tumblers. ‘I am so sorry, we don’t have any champagne glasses.’
Beatrice laughed. ‘Marion, you will have all the champagne glasses you want once you’ve signed this.’
George was reading through the two-page document. Bruce had his fountain pen ready.
George turned over the top page, leaving the second one to her. ‘Sign here, Marion.’
She put the glasses down and took the proffered pen. ‘Can I just read it all first?’
George pulled a face. ‘Darling, it’s a lot of legalese. Don’t worry. I’ve checked it and it’s all good.’
‘All right.’ She hesitated. ‘Has the Queen given her approval?’
‘Sure she has,’ Beatrice said, with absolute sincerity.
‘Good.’ Marion took a deep breath and signed on the dotted line.
‘Congratulations!’ Bruce popped the Pol Roger. ‘Your husband made you a great deal.’
‘Did he?’
‘He hasn’t told you?’
‘No. Not yet.’
Beatrice looked at George questioningly. ‘Are we spoiling something here?’
‘Not at all. I just wanted to surprise her.’
‘Well, tell the poor girl now!’ Beatrice put her hand on Marion’s arm. ‘You might want to sit down.’
‘OK.’ Marion took a seat, feeling suddenly anxious. ‘Tell me.’
George told her, very slowly, ‘You have just earned eighty-five thousand dollars.’
The shock was immense. Marion’s head began to spin and she thought she might faint. She quickly put her head on her knees and began to take deep breaths.
Beatrice found a tea towel in the kitchen and put it under the cold tap. ‘Here you are, put this on the back of your neck. Stay low and let the oxygen back into your brain.’
After a minute or so Marion managed to raise her head. ‘How much was that again?’
They told her.
She shook her head. ‘All that for a few articles?’
‘We have news on that, too.’ Bruce passed her a glass of champagne. ‘You have given us enough material for a book, and so’ – he paused for dramatic effect – ‘we are going to publish it as a book!’
‘A book? But you will not use my name, will you? I promised the Queen that no one would know that I had anything to do with it.’
Beatrice soothed her. ‘Honey, let’s get it looking like a book first and then the Queen will read it and she’ll love it. That reminds me – we would like to put photographs in, as well. I’m sure you have lots of sweet personal ones?’
Bruce grinned. ‘Sure she has. And let’s keep this all to ourselves until we publish. We don’t to want to spoil the surprise.’
Chapter Sixty-Four
Westminster Hospital, Christmas 1949
‘How are you today?’ Marion sat by George’s bed, her hand on his. ‘I’ve brought you a newspaper and some grapes.’
He gripped her hand. ‘Please get me out of here. I want to go home.’
‘And I want you home. I put the tree up and we have had Christmas cards from Lilibet and Philip and baby Charles, and from Margaret and the Queen.’
George turned his puffy face to see her better. ‘I want to go home.’
‘I know. We shall ask the doctor when he comes. The nurse said he won’t be long.’
Drowsily, George closed his eyes. He had been like this for two days now, sleeping on and off.
Marion always felt less upset when he slept. Awake, he often struggled against the pain and spoke in confused riddles.
She stayed with him, accepting a cup of tea from the kindly WRVS ladies who brought their trollies round each teatime. They always stopped for a chat. Today it was a mousy woman in her seventies, Marion judged, with her grey curls tucked under a hair net. She was Marion’s favourite.
‘He’s looking better than he did on Tuesday.’ She smiled, revealing her very neat dentures which amplified her mouselike appearance.
‘He is, isn’t he?’ Marion said.
‘You must be tired, me duck. All the hours you visit – and then I bet you don’t sleep much when you are home.’
Marion was touched and felt the tears sting her throat. ‘Oh, you know. I spent last night putting the decorations up for when he comes home.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely, but you have to look after yourself, you know. How about a bit of fruit cake with your tea?’
‘Thank you. I am a bit peckish.’
‘Not feeding yourself properly, I expect. I was the same when my old man came home from France. Lost his leg.’ She bent down to pull something from the bottom of her trolley. ‘Got the evening paper here – some bloke in X-ray left it in the waiting room. You have it. Do the crossword. It’ll make the time pass.’
Marion wondered about the kindness of strangers and how perfectly timed the kindnesses came – unasked for, uninvited and yet given selflessly. She thought of the Bible lessons she taught to the Princesses and the one from Hebrews which had Lilibet had often repeated: Do not forget to show love to strangers, for they may be angels in disguise. Marion smiled to herself. It would be just like God to make an angel out of a tea lady.
She drank the tea and ate the delicious cake before starting on the crossword.
After a peaceful hour, the doctor arrived. The nurse attending him drew the curtains around the bed, so they could speak in private.
‘Sleeping, is he? When did he last have his meds, nurse?’
‘About an hour and a half ago,’ she replied.
‘Ah. No wonder he is sleeping. And how are you, Mrs Buthlay?’
‘I’m well thank you,’ said Marion, ‘but worried for George.’
‘Naturally. Are you all ready for Christmas?’
‘Just some wrapping to do.’
‘Good, because Mr Buthlay can go home tomorrow. He has responded very well to treatment and not being able to get hold of any alcohol. He’s been lucky. If he had carried on the way he has, he would be very seriously ill indeed.’
Marion swallowed hard. ‘How can I help him?’
‘No alcohol in the house – none at all. Regular healthy meals, plenty of water and some exercise in the fresh air. I’ll send him home with his medication. Make sure he takes it, and I hope I don’t have to see him again.’
‘Thank you, doctor.’
‘Now you go home,’ he replied. ‘Collect him at ten o’clock tomorrow and have a jolly good Christmas.’
‘We will – and you too. Thank you.’
She went home feeling much happier. After the shock of the contract and the arrival of the money in their joint account, George had begun his old routine: nights in the pub and days recovering or shouting at her – or both.
Walking back home from the bus stop, she wondered how she would manage to stop George drinking through Christmas. It was going to be hard. He wouldn’t like it and he wouldn’t like her for imposing it. She turned this over in her mind all the way to her front door.
As she slipped the key in the lock, she heard her telephone start to ring.
‘Hello?’ She slammed the door shut with her foot and disentangled herself from her bag.
‘Marion? It’s Tommy. Tommy Lascelles.’
Marion relaxed. ‘Hello, Tommy, how are you?’
‘Very well, thank you, but I am calling you on rather a delicate matter.’
Immediately Marion’s anxiety flared. ‘What would that be?’
She heard him clear his throat before answering. ‘Have you signed a contract with Mr and Mrs Bruce Gould? The publishers from New York.’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was soft. ‘Yes, I have.’
He slid his finger between his collar and throat. This was going to be difficult. ‘Ah. I see. We have a snag this end. Lady Astor has received a proof copy of your stories and has shown it to the Queen.’
Marion felt her blood run cold. ‘But why? My name isn’t on it.’
‘Unfortunately, it is. Maybe we could have got around that except for the content within …’
Crawfie began to shake. ‘You have seen it?’
‘Yes. I have read it – all of it – and there are certain events and conversations described that I know not to be true because I was there.’
‘But I was most circumspect with what I said. There were no untruths.’
Tommy’s heart went out to her, but he had to be tough. ‘Listen, Crawfie, I believe the Goulds have taken you for a fool. It appears they have falsified the truth. I know you are a truthful person, one who would never lie. I am certain they have twisted your words and crafted them to their liking.’ He paused.
‘Oh my God.’ Crawfie crumpled. ‘But my name – they promised me it was not to be included. I only signed the contract because George had read it and told me …’ She began to cry, her words coming out in gulps. ‘He told me they were not using my name.’
‘I am sorry to tell you he lied.’
‘No! No! George would never do that. He is an unwell man. He is in hospital. I have just returned home. And why would he lie?’
Tommy never felt comfortable around tearful women but he had to plough on. ‘I have the book in front of me. The cover says The Little Princesses by Marion Crawford.’
Marion cried noisily. Tommy waited a full two minutes, hoping it would subside.
Eventually Marion was able to speak again. ‘What has the Queen said?’
‘She …’ Tommy did not want to describe the terrible scene in the Queen’s drawing room. ‘She is upset, naturally.’
‘I must go and see her – to explain. This is not what I thought was going to happen at all.’
‘I think it best you don’t see her at the moment. You recall the letter she sent you, asking that you should not have anything to do with the Goulds or accept any money from them?’
Ice slipped inside Marion’s chest. ‘Yes.’
‘Have you accepted money from them?’
Marion wanted to throw the phone down and run away. ‘Yes.’
‘A lot of money, I hope – because after this, life will be hard.’
‘What will happen?’ she asked fearfully.
‘To you?’
‘Yes.’
‘There is little that can be done,’ he replied softly. ‘You have not broken the law. But you have broken a trust for which you will pay heavily. Not financially, but in the way people will view you.’
‘I will lose my friends? That is what she wrote in that letter.’
‘I know. I … helped her to write it. I tried to warn you.’
‘Oh Tommy, please don’t say that!’
‘The Queen will not forgive you for this, I’m afraid.’
‘Yes, she will. In time. When she sees how well loved she and the family are. The book will be a success here and in America.’
‘Is that what they told you? The Goulds?’
‘Yes,’ she said, gathering her conviction. ‘Yes, they did. You will see. I shall be thanked.’
Tommy took a long pause. ‘You know how much I have valued our friendship, but I will not be contacting you again. That is the Queen’s choice.’ His voice was low, and she heard the emotion in it, the resignation. ‘You understand? I do wish you well.’
‘But the Princesses! Lilibet and Margaret, they will understand.’ Marion was distraught. ‘They have sent me Christmas cards.’
‘I fear they will be your last.’ Tommy pinched the top of his nose. ‘Spend the money wisely, won’t you?’
Her throat was tight with tears. ‘I never wanted the money.’
She heard him sigh. ‘I believe you didn’t. I am very sorry for you. Look after yourself, Crawfie. Goodbye.’
He had called her Crawfie. The last person who would ever call her that.
She was finished.
She put the phone back on its cradle. This couldn’t be happening. George would sort it all out when he came home. He would explain to them.
Distraught, she paced the small cottage, flinging her arms and raking her fingers through her hair. Finally she dropped onto the sofa and sobbed.
When it was over, she wiped her eyes and her nose. She had done nothing wrong – nothing at all. The Goulds were the ones at fault. They had misled her. Cheated her into signing the contract. George must have been cheated, too. He would never let her sign something that was wrong. The Queen would understand that it was not her fault. Her only stupidity was loving her employers too much and assuming they loved her. She had done what she had done for them.
But she had taken the money. The twenty pieces of silver, to betray the people she loved.
George had been right to get some money for her. And what a lot of money it was. Better than a rundown cottage and a lifetime of service had brought her. It would not mend the hurt she felt, but it certainly helped.
She stood up shakily, and felt a weary anger rise in her. She was suddenly determined. From now on, she was going to concentrate on getting George better and enjoying life on her own terms.
Damn the lot of them.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Rubislaw Den South, Aberdeen, September 1950
‘Isn’t it lovely?’ Marion walked through the large hall of her new home. ‘So much space to stretch out in. What do you think, Mother?’
‘I don’t understand why you haven’t bought somewhere closer to me.’ Maggie was peeved. ‘There’s a hundred miles between here and Dunfermline.’
‘But I am back in Scotland,’ said Marion. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
Maggie walked from the hall, with its impressive staircase, into one of the four reception rooms which overlooked the large front garden. Through the window she could see George walking Robert through ‘the grounds’, as he had started to call them.
Her mother ran a critical hand over the windowsill. ‘Very dusty.’
‘It’s been empty for a while.’
‘And too close to the road.’ Maggie sniffed. ‘Although we all know why you chose it – a stone’s throw from Balmoral.’
Marion baulked. ‘No, it has nothing to do with that. I just happen to like this area and so does George. The fresh air up here will do him good.’
‘So you won’t be waving at the bottom of the drive when the royal cars come through then?’
‘Why on earth would I do that?’ Marion swallowed the perennial irritation that came with any contact with her mother.
At that moment, a large removals van turned into the drive. ‘Ah, here they are.’
Moving from the compact Nott Cott to this grand Victorian granite bungalow was a salve for her heart and dignity. Yes, she, Crawfie the governess, could afford to buy a splendid home of her own.
Leaving London behind her had been heart-wrenching, but necessary. Her old friends and colleagues had shunned her, just as Tommy had predicted. Her neighbours at Kensington Palace and friends from Buckingham Palace were afraid to speak to her in case they were accused by association. Even Bobo had not returned her telephone calls or replied to her letters. The stench of the traitor clung to her and George like ivy.
There was nothing else to do but leave London with as much dignity as she could and return to Scotland.
The Little Princesses had been published and become an overnight sensation in America. The Goulds added another half a million new subscribers to the Ladies’ Home Journal magazine, which ran excerpts from the book to drive phenomenal sales. Fifteen million readers lapped it up in the US alone. Its success and the positive interest it created around the British royal family meant that there were no objections to publishing it in the UK.
The popularity of the King, Queen and Princesses had never been higher.
Mr and Mrs Gould were even invited to a Royal Garden Party in Buckingham Palace Gardens. When Marion had read that in the newspapers, with an accompanying photograph of the Goulds shaking hands with the royal family, she had run into the garden and thrown up.
The Goulds were forgiven for their impudence and treachery, while she had been cast out.
The new house gave her fortification and substance. A grand home for a great woman. She deserved it.
When the removal men arranged the furniture from Nottingham Cottage into the new rooms, they were lost, their size diminished. But she made certain that all the pieces from Queen Mary and gifts from the Princesses were placed where the few visitors couldn’t help but see them. Her CVO was still in pride of place on the marble mantelpiece, but her joy in it was soured.
George and she were just rubbing along. The horror and pain of her shame had damaged the little pleasure they had had in their relationship, and they found that they had nothing much to say to each other. They had become a tiny, contemptible footnote in history. The adventure had come to an end.
George’s alcohol consumption had escalated very quickly on his return to Scotland, with new pubs and new drinking pals. His health was unsteady, his fits of drunken anger more regular.
George had honed his insults so that each one pierced her to the core.
‘You don’t think I married you for your looks, do you?’ he said one day. ‘Face it, you’re no oil painting. Imagine if we had had a child – what an ugly little brat that would be. I am glad you couldn’t have children. Barren and frigid. You are a miserable old woman. A nasty, spiky old woman. You have no friends – and no wonder. Your arrogance and assumed airs and graces push them all away.’
