Past Caring (14 page)

“How long would that be?”

“Let us suppose that matters fall out as we expect, that the
Lords do reject the Budget next month. There would then have to be
a general election—probably early in the New Year—to give me
the right to ask the King to create sufficient new peers to swamp the
Lords if they will not then concede. The matter would be resolved
by the spring.”

“I see.”

“Is that too long to ask you to wait? Just a few months may see
78

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

us establish forever the right of a democratically elected government to legislate without hindrance from an hereditary upper
house. These are grave issues indeed. Would you see our case weakened by the impatience of youth?”

There seemed, again , no choice in how to respond.

“No, Prime Minister, I would not. And if all you need are six
months to finish the job, then you can rely upon my discretion—and
that of Miss Latimer—in the interim. Do I take it that we could
proceed after that without objection?”

“Of course. I have no wish to stand in your way. All I ask is
your support in the trying months ahead.”

“You have that without the need to ask.”

When I left Downing Street, I felt disappointed by Asquith’s excessive caution but consoled by the esteem for me evident in his reaction to the idea of my resigning. I proceeded at once to Putney
and told Elizabeth what had happened.

“What the Prime Minister is saying then ,” she remarked with
composure, “is that he has no objection in principle to our marrying
but that he expects us to keep it quiet until his problem with the
House of Lords is resolved next spring.”

“Precisely.”

“And you gave him an undertaking to that effect?”

“My dear, what else could I do? We had spoken of a spring wedding anyway. Is it such a great hardship to announce nothing until
then?”

Elizabeth crossed to where I stood and took my hand. “No, it is
not, Edwin. It is a small price to pay for your remaining a minister
and I would not wish for all the world to damage your career,
which, after all, may achieve so much good.”

I was relieved. “I am glad to hear you say so. I felt presumptuous in speaking for you as well as for myself this afternoon.”

“There is no need. We must both learn to speak for each other
henceforth. But do not think”—her eyes flared theatrically—“that
this will let you off the hook, Mr. Strafford. The day after the Lords
pass the Budget, I shall expect an announcement in
The Times
.”

We laughed and kissed and were surprised by Mercy in search
of her embroidery. I did not stay for dinner, leaving Elizabeth to

P A S T C A R I N G

79

impress upon her aunt the need for discretion whilst I penned a letter to my mother with the same injunction.

Next day, there was a Cabinet meeting at which Asquith informed us all of his expectations for the progress of the Budget.

Lloyd George uttered threats to dismantle the Lords which confirmed my suspicion that the Prime Minister had need of me at this
time. There was, naturally, no mention of our conversation the previous day.

Rather as Asquith had predicted, the Budget passed the
Commons on November 4 and was rejected by the Lords on
November 30. The government’s reaction was pre-ordained: we
would go to the country in January and, upon re-election , force the
Lords to pass both the Budget and a bill depriving them of the right
to veto legislation by the threat of creating sufficient new peers to
swamp their Tory majority. Asquith set about persuading the King
that he should cooperate in this by being willing, if necessary, to
create those peers and gave us in the Cabinet to understand that he
was encountering no difficulty. There remained only the slight
problem of winning the election.

I went down to Barrowteign for Christmas—Elizabeth (and
Mercy) joining me a few days later in the name of discretion—and
stayed on for the campaign in the constituency. This time, Elizabeth
was not much seen in the area, again for discretion’s sake. She
chafed at her relative confinement, but was kept amused by Mother
and Mercy. Robert and Florence had gone to Dartmouth for
Christmas, which was probably as well. I made no attempt to determine the provenance of the communication to the Chief Whip,
though I harboured various suspicions. Still and all, the impending
election kept me occupied, knowing as I did that a great deal more
hung upon it than was normally the case. One help to the government in general and its Home Secretary in particular was that the
suffragist organizations called a truce for the campaign , hoping for
their reward in the new parliament. So far as she had been able,
Elizabeth had supported this move in her branch of the WSPU and
it had been implemented despite Christabel Pankhurst’s trenchant
opposition.

The citizens of mid-Devon did not betray me. I was returned
80

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

with another enlarged majority, taking me past the figures Sir
William had been wont to attain. The election went less well for
the party as a whole, however. We won rather fewer seats than in
1906, losing more than a few to Labour, who seemed to gain (as I
had feared) by the frustration generally felt at our inability to
bring about the reforms which we had promised. Fortunately, the
Conservative vote collapsed. Nevertheless, we lost our clear majority and, though much the largest party, were dependent upon the
Irish members to pass legislation.

When Elizabeth and I returned to London—again separately—in the middle of January 1910, it was in a mood of cautious
optimism. Despite the less than clearcut nature of our victory at the
polls, I had no doubt that we could at once set about breaking the
power of the Lords forever. Once that was done, I could turn with a
clear conscience to the sealing of my personal happiness by marriage to Elizabeth. Never at any point in this, our trial by tiresome
parting, did I doubt the ultimate triumph of our love.

I left Strafford there and went up to bed. The silence and shadow of his own drawing room seemed no place to follow his chronicle into its darker phase, the phase I knew must follow, when all his flair and promise turned to pathos and despair. At first, I’d been fascinated by the transformation and how it had come about.

Now, it was beginning to appal me.

Yet some of the grimness had gone by morning. The sounds and light of another hot Madeiran day reminded me of a there and then sufficient for my purposes. There was no sense in falling under the spell of my long-dead research subject. Apart from anything else, it wasn’t professional. I went down to breakfast with a remedial jauntiness.

Alec was on the verandah, eating a grapefruit. I helped myself to some coffee, which stood ready, and sat beside him.

“Bad news, Martin,” Alec said between spoonfuls. “Today we go back to Funchal.”

P A S T C A R I N G

81

“Well, I didn’t expect to stay this long anyway, but I’m nowhere near finishing the Memoir.”

“Don’t worry. Leo’s thought of that. He’s asked me to get a photocopy done. He doesn’t want to part with the original for long, so we’ll take it with us, make a copy, then I’ll return it to him.”

“Fine. When do we go?”

“Pronto, I’m afraid. I need to be back in Funchal for this afternoon’s soccer. As sports correspondent, I can’t afford to miss the island’s fortnightly big match. And that’ll mean catching the bus.

There aren’t many on a Sunday. I’ll ask Tomás what time the next one passes.”

“It seems a pity to leave so soon.”

“Needs must. Talking of which, Leo’s in his study and wants you to look in on him there. I think he’s planning a business chat.

You know how meticulous South Africans are where money’s concerned. Why don’t you have a word with him while I look for Tomás?”

Sellick’s study was on the eastern side of the courtyard. It was a far cry from Strafford’s—small but pleasantly cool, with a window overlooking the fountain.

Sellick swung round in his chair clutching a sheet of paper as if it were a profitable bill of lading.

“Come in, Martin, come in,” he said. “Please excuse the cheerless venue. You’ve come at just the right time. I’m writing to my banker”—he flourished the paper—“instructing him to transfer to your bank account the sum of one thousand pounds, to start your research off. Then you need only let me know when you need more. I trust that seems satisfactory.”

I assured him it did and gave him the name and address of my bank.

“Thank you, Martin. That will have been arranged by the time you return to England. Now, how goes the reading?” The change of subject was abrupt, as if the sordid question of money was to be given minimal attention.

“It’s going well, though there’s still a lot to read. But Alec tells me I can have a copy to refer to.”

82

R O B E R T G O D D A R D

“Yes, and he wants to return to Funchal today. So I shall see no more of you until . . . well, until you’ve reached a conclusion.

But I shall expect regular progress reports.”

“You’ll get them. I’m eager to start. I should be able to finish reading the Memoir before I fly home on Wednesday. Then I’ll get straight down to it.”

“Where will you begin?”

“Difficult to say at the moment. I’ll decide after finishing the Memoir. But probably with the records of the time—before tackling survivors of the events in person.”

“Well, that’s for you to judge. Just do your best. If we can find out something, perhaps Strafford will rest easier.”

“I hope so.”

He rose and held out his hand. “Good luck in our enterprise.”

We shook hands. “You will carry my thoughts.” He looked straight at me with his keen blue eyes, no smile lightening their intensity. Yes, it was a serious business. I’d thought of it as enjoy-able, lucrative, rewarding, but never till then as the solemn undertaking Sellick clearly felt it to be.

We left a couple of hours later, in time for the bus Tomás assured us would pass the Quinta shortly before noon. Sellick saw us out into the courtyard, shading his eyes against the glaring sunlight.

Alec headed down the drive, but I paused for a moment to wave farewell to Sellick as he stood, smiling, by his fountain. I remembered him as he appeared then—a small, dapper old man, my benefactor—longer than I did his clear calculating mind. I remembered above all the Quinta, its mood and magic as the place of Strafford’s exile, where he could search forever in the solitude of his study for the fatal error he didn’t know he made. Where Strafford ended, I was beginning.

Two days away in the cool uplands had made me forget the noise and glare of the capital. There was only time to drop the Memoir off at Alec’s house and bolt some lunch before setting off for the football stadium in the western suburbs. I wanted to stay at home and read some more, but Alec wouldn’t have it.

P A S T C A R I N G

83

Presumably, he didn’t see why he should suffer alone.

Maritimo, the island’s premier football team, were at home in a Portuguese League match that
Madeira Life
couldn’t afford to miss. The concrete stadium at Barreiros was ideal for basking lizards and well-oiled Madeirans who couldn’t tell good football from bad, but to English eyes the players looked unfit and unimaginative.

“It’s always like this,” said Alec, as the ball was kicked lethar-gically around. “Mañana interspersed with melodrama. I’m sorry if it’s a bit of a bore.”

“It’s not that. It’s just such a contrast with the Quinta.”

“Well, it’s easy to be romantic about Madeira if you live up there.” A paunchy Madeiran with a beer bottle blundered into Alec while taking his seat. “This is as real—if not more so—than the Porto Novo valley. As an historian, you should know that.”

“Perhaps it’ll stop me getting starry-eyed about Strafford’s Madeiran connection.”

“No fear of that, Martin. You’re more of a realist than I am.”

“Realist enough, I hope, to notice the part you played in getting me this job.”

“Nothing to do with me.” He craned over a shoulder for a view of the match’s first shot at goal. “It was all Leo’s idea.” To universal groans, the Maritimo forward ballooned the ball over the bar.

“Come off it, Alec. Leo hardly stopped saying what a glowing account you’d given of me. He seemed remarkably well-informed about how I’m placed at present. And didn’t you say in your letter the visit might be worth my while? Was that the come-on or wasn’t it?”

“Well, okay, I suppose so. I told him you were a well-qualified unemployed historian. I knew he might put two and two together and figure you were the man for the job he had in mind. And I reckoned it would appeal to you. And I did what I could to help a friend. What’s wrong with that?”