Past Caring (16 page)

I left Downing Street that morning my mind reeling at the
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complexity of what once, on a rock in Devon , had seemed so simple.

I immediately took a cab to Putney and reached Mercy’s house
with the frost still on the lawn. Elizabeth was in the drawing room
with a friend, a Suffragette of similar cast, who rapidly excused herself upon my arrival. Elizabeth beamed and kissed me, but uttered
a warning word.

“Julia will have recognized you,” she said. “I thought we were
to be cautious.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but caution could not stand in my way this
morning. Have you heard what Asquith said in the House last
night?”

“No.”

“He admitted that he had no guarantees from the King to create peers in the event that the Lords reject a Parliament Bill.”

“But that means . . .”

“It means, my dear, that there will have to be a second election ,
probably this summer. We would not be able to marry with his sanction before the autumn at least.”

Elizabeth sank down dejectedly in a chair.

“Oh, Edwin , we have waited so long.”

I went to her side. “I know, I know. That is why I have come
here this morning, to decide with you whether we should wait any
longer.”

She turned her dark eyes upon me, mirroring in their anguish
the longing I also felt. “You know what I want to do—marry you.

But we cannot throw your career away for that.”

“We can and we will if the two aims are incompatible.”

“But they are not—yet.”

“Perhaps not. But how long can we wait? Even coming here this
morning, I took a risk. Must I take risks to be with you?”

“I don’t want you to, but let us think for a moment. Perhaps the
Lords will pass the bill.”

“We can’t hope for that.”

“Let’s at least wait to see if they do, then decide what to do.”

Elizabeth was right, as I knew, and though I protested feebly a
little longer, we followed her course. It was strange that she, the
young lady, should commend patience to the older man , but her eye
for the right action did not desert her. We resolved to wait, a little

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longer, agreeing however that any further delay would be intolerable. I was prepared, that day, to toss away the bauble of my career
for the shimmer of a loving future with Elizabeth, but she held me
back, and later I thanked her for that. Looking back now, I wish I
had not been so persuaded. We could not then know that the road of
reason on which we had embarked was ultimately to lead us apart.

I returned, still seething inwardly, to my office and all the
appanages of ministerial rank which sat so ill with the inclination of
my will. It was a difficult task to wait again upon events so much beyond my control, but I sought to do so, setting my sights on distant
fulfilment. And Elizabeth and I still snatched meetings, by prearranged chance, and filled our letters to each other with private
hope.

In that way the month of March elapsed and April wore on. By
then , the Irish had been won over by the ultimate promise of Home
Rule and the terms of the Parliament Bill agreed by the Cabinet.

The original occasion of the crisis, Lloyd George’s 1909 Budget, was
meekly passed by the Lords on April 28th, in the knowledge that the
real battle was yet to be fought.

That evening, most of us ministers gathered at 11 Downing
Street for dinner with the Chancellor of the Exchequer, to celebrate
the laggardly passage of his Budget. It was a cheery, even exuberant, affair and I contrived to affect the prevailing mood, without
much success. Asquith was in good heart, though weary in appearance, while Lloyd George and Churchill contemplated in the euphoria of alcohol and cigars a triumphant summer election

,

followed by a resounding victory over the Lords. I strove to share
their confidence and, in a quiet moment, Asquith said to me,

“They’re right, Edwin. By the autumn , we should be in the clear.” I
only wanted to believe him and, that night, in that able, talented
company, I did so.

Even I could not blame Asquith for the next stroke of fate to tell
against me. Suddenly, on May 6th, King Edward died. During the
ten days of mourning that followed, we all soberly realised that his
guarantee to create peers had gone with him and, I personally realised, the prospect of an autumn wedding. I did not feel able to bear
any further delay, nor did I believe I could expect Elizabeth to. Yet
our rightful response was as hard to devise as before.

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The day after the King’s funeral, a lengthy, ceremonial event in
which I was obliged to play my part, I happened to arrive outside
the tropical plant house at Kew Gardens at noon , just as Elizabeth
did. We strolled amongst the exotic fronds in apparently idle dis-course that was, in truth, an anxious appraisal of our circumstances.

“It is chastening to realise,” I said, “that somebody as seemingly powerful as I should be so at the mercy of others. Now, my
dear Elizabeth, we must wait upon the King.”

“I would rather wait upon you, Edwin.”

“And I on you. But the new King is an unknown quantity. We do
not yet know his mind.”

“On what subject?”

“On the creation of new peers. Should he be more amenable
than his father, he may consent without another election.”

“That would be marvellous.”

“Indeed it would, disposing swiftly of any objections to our marriage. The problem is that he is not bound by his father’s guarantees
and may take a harder line. We can only wait upon his word.”

There, again , was the message of which we had both sickened,
the message of waiting that had worn us down. Yet still we had the
light tread of hopeful young lovers as we left the humidity of the
plant house and strolled across the grass, our hands in secret clasp.

On May 27th, we risked dinner at The Baron to mark the anniversary of our first meeting. Strangely, that distant event seemed
welcomely simple by comparison with the toils of political complexity in which we now found ourselves. And still we had to wait.

It was, in truth, not long before King George showed his hand.

In early June, he explored with the leaders of both major parties the
possibility of agreeing some compromise legislation that would
avert an open clash with the Lords. Of this I knew nothing until a
Cabinet meeting on June 6th. It became apparent, from the Prime
Minister’s peroration , that the King had indeed thrown over his father’s guarantees to create peers. What he desired was resolution
without conflict. To this end, he wanted the party leaders to meet
and devise a decent settlement. Asquith favoured the idea as, to my
surprise, did Lloyd George. Seeing an end to my personal suspense
receding with an election into the distance, I protested that we
should not become embroiled in interminable negotiation and

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looked to Churchill, hitherto a voluble exponent of dissolving and
having done, for support. But he said nothing, significant though his
exchange of glances with Lloyd George seemed. The others paraded behind Asquith’s assertion of loyalty to the Crown and mine
was a lone voice.

Nevertheless, I was asked by Asquith to stay behind after the
meeting, along with Lloyd George and the Marquess of Crewe
(Leader of the House of Lords). I was thus obliged to simmer
beneath the Prime Minister’s blandishments as to my and their
suitability to constitute the four Liberal representatives to the
Constitutional Conference. There were to be four Conservative representatives and one each of the Labour and Irish Nationalist
parties.

The first meeting took place at 10 Downing Street on June 16th,
a scene-setting event at which Asquith and Balfour exchanged high-sounding nothings, the Conservative peers uttered dire threats and
the Labour and Irish delegates made their shrill presence felt. At a
prearranged meeting in Hyde Park the following Sunday, I was
unable to express more optimism to Elizabeth than that I would resist a little longer before we took matters into our own hands.

The Conference re-convened on June 20th. There was a lengthy
discussion of the merits and demerits of joint sittings, quinquennial
parliaments and exemptions from veto of special categories of legislation , but with no signs of movement from either side on any issue.

Ten grave figures sat round a table expending more air than effort
and I grew more depressed and silent with each well-trod avenue
that we fruitlessly explored. A pyrotechnical attack on the
Conservative peers by the Irish representative served to terminate
proceedings in the late afternoon.

As if taking pity on my woebegone expression as I left, Lloyd
George caught my eye and invited me into number 11 for a private
discussion. At tea time, he served whisky, of which I felt in need and
we both expressed exasperation with the Conference.

“You may be sure,” he said, “that this will go on for months.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to stick that.” He was not to know that
my intolerance was rather more than the impatience of youth.

“You should do, Edwin. There might be something in it for you.”

“For all of us, I hope.”

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“Naturally, but I meant that we, you and I, stand to profit personally from the proceedings.” My ears pricked up—what Celtic
ploy was this?

“I don’t see how.”

“Then consider, Edwin , what is the implication behind the
King’s action in setting up this conference?”

“That he wishes to avoid open conflict between the two Houses
of Parliament.”

“But in what way?”

“By bringing all sides together to reach an agreement.”

“Exactly. All sides together spell coalition.”

“There’s been no mention of that.”

“No, but there will be, mark my words. It’s the only way. How,
otherwise, can the Tories consent to Liberal legislation? A share in
the government would have to be their reward.” There was something in what he said and it explained his sudden conversion to negotiation.

“Is that why you supported this Conference?”

He wavered for a moment. “It was certainly in my mind.”

“But where is the profit for you and me?” Now I was playing
him at his own game.

“Isn’t that obvious? A coalition could not function under the existing premiership. The Tories would never wear it. No, it would be
an opportunity for bright young men of all parties, free of party
dogma, to come together for the good of the country.”

“And the good of themselves?”

“Why not? Who are we to refuse a golden opportunity if history offers us one? I’ve already sounded out Balfour.”

“You’ve done what?”

“I’ve had an informal word with Balfour and he likes the idea.

We would drop some reforms for the sake of others that would not be
the victims of party conflict.”

“Such as?”

“Such as votes for women—some women at any rate—which
we’ve discussed before. Such as a federal solution to the Irish problem. Great gains which might be feathers in our caps.”

A vision came unbidden to my mind, as mayhap it had to Lloyd
George’s. It was of that magical Welsh orator at the head (or near

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it) of a ministry of all the talents, Asquith’s rein on his ambitions at
last shrugged off, turning millstones to milestones at his gifted
touch, hailed as a hero by Suffragettes, Irish Nationalists and any
number of other discontented groups, able to persuade skilled, clear-thinking colleagues of the justice of whatever cause he might advance. Here was not merely an aspirant to political primacy seeking
my support but a man hungry for power who saw in me a potential
co-conspirator.