Sweet Sorrow (6 page)

‘Now, what about a game of bowls?’ Leonard said. ‘Don’t look so surprised, Edward. Hasn’t anyone told you? I’m a demon bowls player and Virginia is quite good.’

He laughed and looked at his wife affectionately. He went into the writing-room and came out with a box. ‘All right, everybody?’

Evensong in the cool, quiet church was a moment of peace in a world in turmoil. Edward savoured the Englishness of it – the badly sung hymns, the wheezing organ and even Paul Fisher’s lengthy, hell-and-damnation sermon during which Edward studied the marble plaque on the wall listing the villagers killed in the Great War. He thought of the first time he had walked under School Arch into School Yard and seen the names of the dead in black bronze stretching along the arcade and into the cloisters. He remembered how he had wept for the first and last time as an Eton schoolboy as he read the words from Milton’s
Samson Agonistes
. ‘Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, dispraise or blame; nothing but well and fair, and what may quiet us in a death so noble.’

There were a dozen people seated on the narrow pews. According to Leonard, this was a few more than usual – no doubt as a result of the terrifying reports on the wireless. The Nazis were threatening the Baltic port of Danzig, the Poles’ access to the sea. To add to the fear, the IRA were planting bombs in London and for security reasons the public were being denied access to the House of Commons. The Chancellor, Sir John Simon, had just announced new defence borrowings of five hundred million pounds, and at the Ideal Home Exhibition luxuriously fitted-out bomb shelters were being offered for sale.

Edward wondered whether it was sentimentality that made him pray that this village and its ancient church, which had survived so much bloodshed in its long history, would be spared the tide of destruction relentlessly sweeping over Europe.

As the little congregation left the church, Paul took Edward by the hand and asked to be excused from joining them for dinner. He gave no clear reason beyond a need to pray and a general disinclination, as he put it, to make merry at such a time. Edward was surprised and annoyed but did not press him. He knew that Verity would take his change of mind as a snub but, if Paul had decided not to come, there was nothing to be done about it.

‘Another time,’ Edward said, trying to sound undisturbed.

‘Of course. Please convey my apologies to your wife. I hope she will understand.’

Leonard had overheard the exchange and said, ‘Our vicar’s a rum cove but I respect him. Tell Verity not to take it personally. We are all anxious and out of sorts and will be until this war has really begun. Then I believe we will buckle down and do what has to be done.’

As they strolled through the churchyard out past the village school, he added, ‘The news is very bad. It can’t be long now. Both of us have cyanide pills. If the Nazis do invade, we shall not wait to be rounded up and sent to a concentration camp.’

‘We have withstood invaders before now,’ Edward tried to reassure him.

‘Not ones with powerful flying machines to transform the Channel into a simple ditch. But I do not despair,’ he said, hunching his shoulders. ‘Not yet, at any rate.’

3

Waiting on the platform at Lewes the following morning, they literally bumped into Byron Gates. Edward was effusive. Verity had noticed before that, when he did not like someone, he tended to hide his distaste by being extra-friendly. Byron explained that he was on his way to Broadcasting House to plan the next series of talks he was due to give on why Britain had to stand up to Hitler.

‘Better late than never,’ he added ruefully. ‘Reith backed the Prime Minister all the way. Now even he has to accept that appeasement has failed and that war is inevitable. I knew from the first that it was better to defy Hitler,’ he lied.

Sir John Reith, the BBC’s first Director General, had recently resigned to become Chairman of Imperial Airways but his shadow still hung over the BBC.

‘Churchill can’t abide him,’ Edward commented.

‘That’s because, during the General Strike, he refused to let the government take over the BBC. Quite right too,’ Byron said. ‘He set the precedent and it’s a good one. The BBC must remain independent of government. Even in wartime, though we may have to censor the newspapers and wireless broadcasts, the government must not be allowed to take them over and dictate what they print or broadcast. If it did, the public would never again believe what they heard on the wireless or read in the newspapers.’

Edward had to agree. ‘What are you doing tonight?’ he found himself saying. ‘Verity and I thought we might have dinner and go on to the Embassy. It’ll probably be the last time before war breaks out, but I expect that sounds rather frivolous to you.’

‘Not at all. As it happens, I was thinking of doing something similar. I quite often go to the Embassy when I’m in London and I thought of taking my friend, Miss Burrowes – Frieda. Did I tell you about her?’ He was all eagerness – evidently not at all hesitant about introducing them to his girlfriend.

‘Well, why not join us?’

Verity wanted to kick Edward for spoiling their last romantic evening in London.

‘Oh, no – I’m sure you want to be on your own,’ she said rather too quickly. ‘We wouldn’t want to butt in on a romantic evening . . .’ She smiled and wondered if Byron would be indignant with her for making it clear that she knew Frieda was his mistress. He gave no sign of it and said he particularly wanted her to meet Frieda. Edward, instead of taking the hint she had dropped about not wanting to ruin
their
romantic evening, insisted that they would be welcome if he and Frieda would like to join them.

In a black mood, Verity sank back in her seat and attempted to read her book – Arthur Koestler’s
Spanish Testament
. To do Byron justice, he did not continue to make conversation but took out
The Times
and
The Listener
in which he buried himself until they reached London.

It was odd, Verity thought, but in Sussex where there was no visible sign of the approaching war Edward had seemed restless and on edge. In London, with trenches in the parks and sandbags outside public buildings, he seemed more relaxed. His long nose seemed to sniff the air like a hunting dog catching the scent of a fox or badger. Most of the men under forty wore uniforms of one sort or another and, from the taxi, they saw a barrage balloon being hoisted up by a winch. In the sunshine it looked strangely beautiful, even innocent, like a child’s toy, but it sent a shiver down Verity’s spine.

Edward paid off the taxi at the Foreign Office. Verity said that, as it was such a lovely day, she would walk to Fleet Street. They agreed to meet in his rooms in Albany at about six.

‘The porters will let you in if you get there before me, V.’

‘No need to be furtive now we’re married?’ she teased him. ‘Rather spoils the fun. It’ll be odd being there without Fenton, “yes, my lording” all over the place. How long are you going to manage without a valet?’

‘Mrs Brendel seems to fit the bill. To be honest, I got the feeling that Fenton decided to give notice as soon as we announced we were going to be married. Much as he liked you, V, he was used to living with a bachelor so it was perhaps a relief to both of us when he got his call-up papers.’

As he entered the Foreign Office, Edward could not help but think of the many times he had walked up that imposing staircase. Always there had been some sort of ‘flap’ on, to use a phrase his nephew had taught him. Frank was a junior lieutenant aboard the destroyer HMS
Kelly
commanded by Lord Louis Mountbatten and was constantly in his uncle’s thoughts. Would there be a great naval battle like Jutland in 1915 or would it be a war of attrition, ship against ship? Edward could only guess but he knew, whatever kind of war it turned out to be, that Frank would be in great danger.

Oddly enough,
Kelly
came up in the conversation when, having kicked his heels for half an hour, he was shown into the office of Sir Alexander Cadogan who had taken over from Sir Robert Vansittart as Permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office. Edward had only met him once before but had been impressed by his no-nonsense approach. He might be brusque, even rude, but Edward understood and forgave. He did not envy Cadogan the immense burden he carried and was only grateful if, in some humble way, he could be useful.

‘Corinth – good to see you. How’s marriage treating you?’ Without waiting for a response, Cadogan went on, ‘You know the Duke of Windsor, do you not?’

‘I haven’t seen him since the Abdication,’ Edward replied in surprise.

‘Well, the fact is the Duke has appealed to us for help.’

‘He’s still at his villa in the south of France?’

‘He is,’ Cadogan confirmed, ‘but as soon as war breaks out we must bring him home. I think you also know Lord Louis Mountbatten?’

‘Yes, my nephew is serving on the
Kelly
.’

‘Very good! When I give the word, you will go aboard the
Kelly
, sail to the south of France and pick up the Duke and Duchess and escort them back to England. You are not to leave the Duke’s side until I tell you. The fact is, we don’t yet know what we are going to do with him. He can’t stay in England so he’ll have to go to Canada or Australia – somewhere conveniently far away, you understand me? You’ll get your orders but Van says you can be trusted to keep him out of trouble.’

Edward was aghast. The Duke was going to be an embarrassment for his brother, the King, and for the British government wherever he went. He was patriotic in his own way but, as a fervent admirer of Hitler and bitter at the way he had been treated by the Royal Family, he was never going to sit tight and obey orders.

Edward gulped. ‘I’ll do my best,’ was all he could say.

‘Good man! Well, that’s all for now. Expect to receive your orders sometime in the next month – maybe sooner. Now I must be off. I’ve got a meeting with the PM and Winston. You’re a friend of his too, I hear. Amazing man but untrustworthy and he doesn’t like the FO – thinks we’re all defeatists. You may be useful as a go-between. We’ll have to see.’

They shook hands and Edward found himself back in Whitehall hardly knowing how he got there. Pulling himself together, he went off to see Guy Liddell, the head of MI5. Whatever job he might have for him, it could hardly be more demanding than nursemaiding the Duke of Windsor.

Verity took a deep breath as she entered the modern glass building on Fleet Street that housed the
New Gazette
. She greeted Fred on the door who touched his cap and hoped she was quite recovered. She felt as though it was her first day at a new school. Everyone else was rushing about, busy with their daily routine – only she had no particular purpose. She had not worked since she had caught TB over a year ago. There was a new editor whom she did not know and she had no idea whether or not she would be welcomed back into the fold. She was well aware how quickly one could be forgotten.

She had always been the special pet of the newspaper’s proprietor, Lord Weaver, which hadn’t made her popular. It had annoyed the editor at the time to find that he had no control over her and could not even sack her. It also annoyed her colleagues, who thought she got special treatment and probably a higher salary than they did. It hadn’t mattered so much when she was in Spain covering the Spanish Civil War but, if she were to be in London for any length of time, she knew she would get into trouble and end up having a row with the editor, even if he proved to be much more tolerant than the previous incumbent.

Verity knew herself to be a first-class foreign correspondent despite, or even because of, her sex and she longed to be at the centre of things once more. This was one of those moments in history when the fate of England and her Empire hung in the balance, and she wanted above all else to be a privileged witness to the momentous events of the next few weeks and months and record what she saw in the newspaper she loved.

Jutting out her chin, she asked Fred if Lord Weaver was in the building and was told he was. She decided to risk going straight up to his floor – there was a private lift that only went to Lord Weaver’s suite at the top of the building – and see if she could wangle an interview with her boss. His secretary was a friend of hers and she knew it could be managed if he wasn’t rushing out to some high-powered meeting. There was a rumour that, when war broke out and if Churchill became Prime Minister, Lord Weaver would join the government. He had been a great friend and supporter of Churchill’s while always taking care to keep channels of communication open with the Chamberlain government. He knew Churchill valued his ‘get-up-and-go’ approach and fancied he could serve his adopted country – he was Canadian by birth – at the head of a department tasked with producing war materials. He hated ‘red tape’ and would breathe fresh air into a moribund ministry. Like Churchill, he had complained time and time again at Britain’s failure to rearm in the face of the Nazi threat.

Miss Landon was delighted to see Verity and asked if she were fully recovered and whether she was coming back to work. Verity said she was, in answer to both questions, and reminded her that Lord Weaver had promised her a posting. As they were talking, the door burst open and the great man himself appeared. He was a bear-like figure at the best of times and Verity thought he had put on weight since she had last seen him. His colour was bad, too, but his energy seemed undiminished.

‘I thought I heard a familiar squawk. What are you doing here, Verity? I thought I had made it plain that you were to take a month off to get used to marriage and all that sort of thing before I sent you anywhere. Don’t say you are already bored with the domestic life. By the way, how
is
Benedick, the married man?’

‘Benedick . . .? Oh, you mean Edward. He’s not too bad – a bit restless perhaps but that’s only to be expected. We all are. Everyone’s on tenterhooks waiting to be told we are at war at last.’