Abdication A Novel

Chapter TWENTY-FIVE





Julian could hardly believe he had only left England six weeks ago. Since his departure, constitutional Britain had undergone an astonishing transformation, as described at titillating length in the French newspapers. What was equally surprising to Julian was the change in his own outlook on life which had been stimulated, pummelled, extended, inflated and reordered in ways he had never dared hope for.

He had left his letter for May on Mr. Hooch’s workbench in the garage knowing Mr. Hooch would make sure May got it as soon as he saw her. The taxi had picked him up before anyone else was awake on that late October Sunday morning and he had been driven in the dawn light to the port at Newhaven. He had sat on the ferry to Dieppe, even then trying to convince himself that he had made the right decision. Despite the earliness of the hour, he soon emptied the demi-carafe of Beaujolais the waiter had brought over to his table and had immediately ordered another. Wine had never tasted so good, especially after the mild headache he attributed to the late hour of the previous night’s talks with Philip.

Julian soon cheered up as the wine worked its magic and he began to concentrate on the prospect of a few weeks in Paris. He had often dreamt of spending time in the city that had at times been host to Voltaire and Gide, Proust and Hemingway, culture and intellect, wine and beauty. And after six weeks he was able to conclude that the experience had not disappointed. Peter had proved to be the most knowledgeable of guides and stimulating of companions. He had introduced Julian not only to his earnest friend the writer Eric Blair, but to the outspoken Spanish surrealist painter Joan Miró, who had a habit of staring at ceilings before jotting sketches in his notebook. Henry Miller, an American novelist, and his lover, a writer Anäis Nin, were Julian’s favourite couple although the sexual connection around them was sometimes so strong that it felt indecent to remain in the same room.

For six weeks Julian found himself absorbed into the company of this group of individuals, all of whom held the Spanish Civil War at the forefront of their creative and political lives. For six weeks he had argued and listened, learned and laughed, raged and marvelled about politics, books, paintings, poetry, love, sex and death until the sun came up over the Seine.

“Ici, en ce moment, on peut trouver le sens de la vie et le but de vivre,” Miró had pronounced one evening.

And yet, Julian’s own reasons for living were incomplete. When after six weeks his companions came to a decision that it was time to leave Paris for Spain, Julian hesitated. If he joined them he would be closing down that part of his life that he was now certain mattered more than any other. He felt only a little guilty at having abandoned his mother to suffer her illness alone. He did not regret that he had missed a whole term of his law course. There would be time to catch up. But he had left Cuckmere without telling May what he felt about her and he did not want to wait any longer. He said goodbye to Peter and Eric at the Gare du Nord and boarded the Thursday morning train for Dieppe. If he was lucky he would arrive in London by the following afternoon in time for the weekend.


May finished writing in her diary and decided to walk over to Smart’s Picture House and see if the Friday afternoon newsreels were yet carrying the official news of the abdication. In the packed cinema May took the only available aisle seat in the back row. The sound of crunching peanuts was unusually subdued that evening, although the familiar mix of praise and abuse was still being hurled unabated at the screen.

A woman in the seat beside her was in a terrible state, wringing her hands and shaking. “How will we manage without him?” she said turning to May. She did not seem to expect an answer. Although the lights had already dimmed and the film had already begun to roll, she pushed past May and headed for the door.

May watched the black-and-white pictures moving in front of her, reaching instinctively up her woollen sleeve to check the silver bracelet was safely in its place, and running her finger along the slightly worn line of forget-me-nots. In front of her the scenes of snowfall in Argyllshire with the caption promising the “proverbial snowy Christmas” were followed first by news of the varsity match, and pictures of the victorious muddy faces of the Cambridge team, and then by coverage of a dreadful air accident. A Dutch plane had crashed into a row of terrace houses in Purley shortly after leaving Croydon Airport in fog and fourteen people had been killed. There was no mention at all of the abdication, no film of the hasty departure abroad of Mrs. Simpson a week earlier, no footage of the man who had been king up until the day before as he went between the Fort and the royal palaces working out the details of the biggest decision of his life.

Just as May was beginning to wonder if she had invented the whole royal spectacle as a distraction from the uncertainty of her future with Julian, a photograph of the Duke and Duchess of York appeared, captioned, “Our New King and Queen Elizabeth.” The film footage continued to roll amid collective gasps and cries of “God Bless them,” as the narrator’s voice with its cut-glass accent recounted how in 1923 the Duke of York had chosen “a charming Scottish bride” from Glamis Castle.

A castellated building at least ten times the size of the Fort filled the screen at the same time as a tall man in a cap appeared at the end of May’s row and indicated she should make room by budging along to the empty seat beside her. Barely glancing up, May sighed slightly with irritation as she moved across, while keeping her eyes firmly ahead on scenes of a curly-haired girl, wearing a white coat and holding the hand of her pearl-laden grandmother. “Princess Elizabeth Alexandra Mary is now in the direct line of accession to the throne,” the plummy voice announced as the newcomer beside her unwrapped a roll of newspaper, releasing the familiar vinegary smell into the air. May suddenly felt hungry. She had eaten very little these past few days despite Rachel’s protests that these were times for everyone to keep up their strength.

“Would you like a chip? They’re still quite hot,” the man whispered, taking off his cap and untying his stripey scarf. Still May did not look round but the voice was as familiar to her as if it had been the voice of her own mother. It was the same voice that whispered to her in her dreams and was the first sound that she tried to summon to her mind in the morning.

“In the hands of King Albert we may rest assured that the dignity of the Crown, so well established by his beloved father King George V, is in safe keeping,” the commentator was saying. “To King Albert and Queen Elizabeth we wish long life, happiness and courage in the years to come,” the voice concluded. May forced herself to eat the chip, surprised to discover that it tasted delicious.

“Thank you, darling,” she murmured as Julian reached across the seat for her hand. Interlacing her fingers with his own, he took off his glasses and bent to kiss her, lighting up the cinema with his head of white-blond hair.





Acknowledgements





I am most grateful for the information provided by Anne Sander at the Archives at Balliol College Oxford, Luke McKernan at the British Library Newsreel, Mike Lamden at National Express Coaches and the ever-helpful staff at the London Library. I have consulted dozens of biographies, histories, essays, novels, newspapers, magazines, diaries, personal letters both published and private, and several photographic collections during the research for this book. Among the publications I found especially valuable were the Duke of Windsor’s own memoirs, A King’s Story; Wallis Simpson’s autobiography The Heart Has Its Reasons and Wallis and Edward, The Intimate Correspondence 1931–37 of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, edited by Michael Bloch; Queen Mary by James Pope-Hennessy; Edward VIII by Philip Ziegler; Blackshirts-on-Sea by J. A. Booker; Journey Through a Small Planet by Emanuel Litvinoff; The Age of Illusion by Ronald Blythe; The Long Weekend by Robert Graves and Alan Hodge; Chicken Soup with Barley by Arnold Wesker. I would like to single out one other book that I cannot recommend highly enough for its illumination of the decade, Juliet Gardiner’s The Thirties: An Intimate History.

First novels are intimidating undertakings at every stage of the process and from conception to birth I have been guided and encouraged by a number of amazing people. I would particularly like to thank Patricia Anker, Kitty and Michael Ann, Frankie Baldwin, William Boyd, Kevin Brownlow, Paul Calkin, Debo Devonshire, Sophie Ford, Antonia Fraser, Arthur Fyne, Hugh Harris, Dr. Jonathan Hunt, Diana Kelly, The Hon. Mrs. Charles Kitchener, Katie Law, Pam Leigh, Dr. Kate Murphy, Adam Nicolson, Molly Nicolson, Rebecca Nicolson, Rosie Nicolson, Vanessa Nicolson, Cate Olson, David O’Rorke, Tim O’Rorke, Sarah Raven, Nash Robbins, Julian Smith, Tom Stoppard, Joanna Trollope, Hugo Vickers, and Henry and Rachel Wyndham. I am indebted to Hilary and Galen Weston for their invitation to Fort Belvedere and for the unprecedented and invaluable sense of place the visit gave me.

My research has been backed up by the unflagging energy, imagination, and intelligence of Clementine Macmillan-Scott.

Ed Victor has radiated confidence and encouragement in the book from the beginning. He is the best. And I am as grateful as ever to his colleagues Charlie Campbell, Maggie Phillips, Morag O’Brien and Linda Vann. My forensically intuitive editor Michael Fishwick has taken unprecedented trouble over the book and I am also blessed at Bloomsbury with the enthusiasm, professionalism and flair of Alexandra Pringle, Katie Bond, Oliver Holden-Rea, David Mann, Anna Simpson and Alexa von Hirschberg.

My agent in America, William Clark, has worked harder on my behalf than I deserve. At Atria Books I would like to thank my editor Sarah Branham for her unflagging passion and perceptiveness and Judith Curr for her belief in me as a writer.

I could not have imagined life in the Britain of 1936 without the memories of Jeremy Hutchinson who was a young man on the cusp of adulthood during the extraordinary events of that year. His arrival in my life has been one of the huge joys of writing this book.

My biggest thank-yous are for the unwavering insight and love of my girls, Clemmie and Flora, and for my saint of a loyal and loving husband, Charlie. The book is for them with all my love, and more.