Abdication A Novel

Chapter SIX





May was waiting for Sir Philip in the library, attempting to calm herself by laying her open handkerchief out flat on the table in front of her and folding down each corner, one on top of the other so the handkerchief became an ever-decreasing square. This schoolgirl trick, if done correctly with paper, resulted in a fortune-teller’s cup. But the corners of the cotton handkerchief were too bulky to stay in place and no sooner had May flattened the edges than they bounced back up again. She felt horribly unprepared for the interview ahead of her. She was still getting over her arrival at the station.

Reaching the end of the platform, she had put her hand out in greeting towards the man waiting for her, only to notice his misshapen chin and a nose resembling a squashed fig that was nowhere near the centre of his face.

“Hooch,” he said. “Mr. Hooch,” by way of introduction.

“I’m May Thomas,” she replied. “Nice to meet you.”

She had avoided looking at the disfigurement that was plainly visible in the driver’s mirror during the ten-minute drive from the station and had instead allowed herself the unaccustomed treat of being a passenger in such a lovely car. The familiar smell of the Rolls-Royce’s red polished leather seats was comforting while the upholstery felt fit for a king.

When the car reached the end of the single-track road lined with huge elm trees, in the grand French manner, she saw Cuckmere Park rise out of a dip, its Sussex flint stones the colour of the rain clouds above, each window in perfect proportion to the next. The front door was wide open and a woman wearing a black dress reaching almost to the ground was standing just inside. Her white hair was caught in a ponytail, an old-fashioned style for a woman who must only be in her early forties, about the same age as May’s mother.

“Good afternoon, Miss Thomas, welcome to Cuckmere Park. I hope Mr. Hooch looked after you? Brought you in the Rolls, I expect, just so you could feel the movement?” she asked in the rolling accent that May had heard on the telephone the day before.

May followed the housekeeper into a stone-flagged hall where two deer-size dogs were lying asleep in the centre of the floor. The flags must have been laid centuries ago, May thought, wishing that Sam were here to show off his knowledge of history; he would love this old house. May stumbled slightly on the uneven stone as she hurried to keep up with Mrs. Cage.

“Isn’t January blooming awful?” Mrs. Cage said, her voice echoing around the high grey walls. “Mind you, Sussex in winter can be beautiful, and I’ve known some lovely ones over the past nine years,” she continued, the words flying up to the ceiling and returning in shadow form. “But I cannot help thinking about how nice it will be to be warm again.”

“I miss the warmth too,” May said, agreeing with her enthusiastically.

“Do you like swimming?” Mrs. Cage asked, turning to look at May.

“Yes, I love it. Is there a beach near here?”

“Yes, there is, in matter of fact, down at Cuckmere Haven. Florence and I sometimes go there even though it is a bit of a walk.”

“Florence?”

“Oh sorry! Florence is my daughter. She is nine, well, nearly ten, as she is constantly reminding me! She lives for the chance to swim in the sea!”

Mrs. Cage pushed open the panelled door at the end of the long corridor.

“Sir Philip has a telephone call or two to make so if you wait in here I am sure he will come and find you shortly. Shall I send you in a cup of coffee?”

May declined the offer and was left alone. She sat down in a chair in the far corner. A powerful smell, a combination of freshness and spiciness, puzzled her until she spotted a neat line of hedgehog-like balls placed along the windowsill. She recognised them from the linen cupboard at home. Every Christmas she and Sam had punctured the pitted skins of oranges with little clove heads and tied a ribbon around the fruit from which the perfumed ball would hang and scent the sheets.

Books were piled on every surface, their multicoloured spines displayed on the shelves stretching from ceiling to floor on three sides, while on the remaining wall of the room the brick red wallpaper was obscured by two fraying tapestries of ancient wooded hunting scenes. Curtains made of rich dulled gold silk had the fullness of Cinderella’s gown. May tried to work out how long it would take to read every book in the room. A week, maybe a month for each volume? A year for each shelf? She gave up, giddy with the calculation. Abandoning the improvised fortune-telling cup, she shoved the handkerchief back in her pocket, closed her eyes and wished she felt less nervous.

The sound of the door opening startled her. A tall young man in spectacles burst into the room and flung himself onto the burlap-covered armchair opposite her, spread-eagling his legs. Evidently he thought he was on his own. He opened a yellow-jacketed book on which the words “Left Book Club” were stamped on the cover. In case he unexpectedly caught sight of her and suspected she had been deliberately hiding, May felt she should say something.

“Hallo.”

The young man looked up at her from his book. His hair was almost white, the colour of thick honey. Putting his finger to his lips he motioned to her to be quiet.

“I am escaping from the dreaded sister,” he hissed. For a moment he studied her closely. “I must say, you look awfully smart sitting inside with your hat on.”

“Oh,” May said, suddenly unsure. “Do you think I should take it off?”

“Well, it depends what you are planning to do next. If you were staying for lunch, I would definitely take it off. But if you have a head cold and are here to study branch formation of Elizabethan oak trees in the garden, then I suggest you leave the hat where it is.”

“I’m waiting for Sir Philip,” she explained defensively. “I am hoping he will ask me to be his driver.”

“Oh I see,” said the young man, examining her a bit more closely. “What fun! You are nothing like Cropper, although I hope there isn’t a small flask of whisky hidden under that hat.”

May looked puzzled.

“Oh dear. Sorry. I must learn to be a bit more discreet. Joan has a phrase for it. ‘PD,’ she always says to me. Pas devant, meaning ‘not in front of.’ It’s the Blunts’ private alert for discretion in front of the servants. Awful outmoded way of talking, isn’t it? I can’t bear it. And anyway I think there’s far too much secrecy in this world. Always tell the truth is what I say, no matter whom it is you are talking to. Did Hooch collect you from the station?”

May nodded. “Poor man,” she said. “Poor face, I mean.”

“Yes, I know,” the young man agreed, his earlier expression of curiosity suddenly replaced by one of deep seriousness. “We all think it’s amazing that Hooch still wants to get behind a wheel. He got those injuries when a fragment of shell hit him as he was driving a tank somewhere in the Somme. That’s twenty years ago now but he’ll have the scars for the rest of his life. He’s an inspiration, really.”

At that moment the door opened again.

“Ah, Julian, I see you have already met Miss Thomas.” An older man holding a box of matches was standing at the door. “I’m afraid you will have to continue your conversation another time. Miss Thomas is coming with me.”

And before May could say goodbye she was beckoned into the adjoining study. Just before the door closed behind her, a stage whisper floated through the open gap.

“I really hope you get the job.”

The older man turned round and smiled. He had heard the whisper too.

“How do you do,” he said to May, addressing her directly for the first time. “I’m Philip Blunt. Have you been offered some coffee? Good. Well, come in. And do take that hat off, you must be so hot under there!”

Sir Philip shook the box of matches in his hand but it was empty. Picking up a cigar that was lying half-smoked but extinguished in an ashtray on the desk, he tried unsuccessfully to blow it into life, pulled the Anglepoise lamp closer and ran a hand through surprisingly dense and unfashionably long hair that was the colour of a well-worn penny.

“Well, shall I kick off then?”

“Yes please,” May replied, trying not to squash Aunt Gladys’s hat as it lay in her lap.

Sir Philip outlined the responsibilities involved in the job with efficient economy. He explained that he was one of a handful of deputy chief whips in Stanley Baldwin’s Conservative government. He had formerly been a lawyer and still occasionally gave advice in that capacity.

“It certainly makes for varied and interesting work, but I need to keep my wits about me, and that is why I could do with a first-class secretary and chauffeur.”

He needed someone to drive him from appointment to appointment during the weekdays in London and to take him up and down from town to the country. When he was tied up in daylong parliamentary sessions, he liked the car to be available for his wife, Lady Joan, and occasionally for their two adult children. The job advertised came with free board and lodging with Mrs. Cage in the housekeeper’s house in the village. For the occasional overnight stay, especially during late-night sittings in the House, a small room next to the butler’s pantry in St. John’s Wood was on offer.

“And now it’s your turn,” Sir Philip said, puffing ineffectively at his lifeless cigar.

May described how she had come to live in England with her cousins after leaving behind her working life in Barbados. She explained how she was not only the daughter of the plantation owner but also had been his employee. At the age of seventeen, her father had taught her to drive the plantation car and she had discovered an unrivalled pleasure when the driver’s door was closed, the engine was cranked and the motor responded to her touch. She had spent long hours alone in the car, collecting the weekly account books from the office before driving to Speightstown to post letters at the post office, cash the workers’ wages cheque at the bank as well as being responsible for the maintenance of the old Rolls-Royce.

From the authority as well as the passion with which she spoke, Sir Philip could tell she knew more about automobiles than a male mechanic twice her age. He needed no more convincing that the right person for the job was sitting in front of him, twiddling her hair unselfconsciously as she told him how she had heard that the older models of the Rolls were so much more reliable than the later versions. He had heard of a special two-day practical course for advanced drivers that perhaps she might be interested in joining “if things work out.” May nodded enthusiastically at the prospect.

The second part of the position involved some secretarial work within the house.

“I have helped my father with the bookkeeping at the plantation since I was twelve,” she told him confidently. “We could not afford a proper secretary but I can type sixty words a minute, and before I left home I was getting even faster.”

Sir Philip looked impressed.

“There are four main qualities I require in my staff. The first three are flexibility, willingness, and sobriety,” he said.

May nodded at each of the conditions.

“And the fourth,” Sir Philip continued, “is probably the most important of the lot, and that is discretion. In my job I am entrusted with a lot of confidences, some of which I am compelled to share with my secretary, and some of which will by default become apparent to my chauffeur. Since you are applying to fill both of these roles I think you will understand why I labour the point a little?” He smiled at her. “And you are single, I hope? Not that I don’t approve of romance, you understand, but it tends to interfere with the working schedule.”

This time May shook her head, and then, in order to dispel the idea that she might have been disagreeing with him, she changed the shake to another nod. Despite her age, Sir Philip found something beguiling about the eagerness of this young woman with her flopping hair. She had no references for him to follow up and he had only her word. But his instincts led him to a quick decision. Stubbing out his still unlit cigar Sir Philip’s voice became persuasive.

“Well, Miss Thomas, it has been a pleasure to speak to you. I know it is rather short notice but do you think you could start the job at once? We have had a bit of trouble with the previous incumbent in the job, and he had to be asked to leave rather smart-ish,” he explained, “which is why we are in a bit of a pickle. We’ve even run out of matches, as you see! Anyway, perhaps you would like to telephone to your family. Do they have a telephone?”

Telephones are part of the British way of life, May thought to herself, realising how readily they and so many other things that she had not been used to at home were becoming part of her new existence. She hoped that Nat would still be in the workshop and that she might catch him if she hurried. Sir Philip had already mentioned making arrangements for her uniform. His tailor could make her something in a twinkling of an eye. Trousers or skirt? Any preference? Yes, yes, Sir Philip had agreed, trousers: far more practical. He certainly thought of everything.

The high-pitched hissing of the switchboard, announcing that her time was up, sounded in the earpiece before May could fully explain to Nat what had happened during the preceding hour but Nat had heard enough to shout to Sarah who was in the workshop that day.

“May’s landed the job! They didn’t even ask for references!” and May heard a distant but exultant “Hurrah for May!” before the operator told her that her time allowance had expired and she must replace the receiver.


Very early the following morning, before it was even light, May woke up in the tiny bedroom in Sussex that she was now entitled to call hers. She shook smooth the dark red and green paisley eiderdown, and pulled it up over her. The eiderdown had slithered off her bed during the night and landed in a heap on the floor, leaving behind just a thin sheet for covering and a blanket that was more holes than darning. The seams of the eiderdown were weak with age and curled up feathers had floated out all over the carpet. May could see from her raised position in bed that a few of them had attached themselves to the dark velvet of Aunt Gladys’s hat, which was lying on top of the chest of drawers.

The room appeared not to have been used for a while as a musty smell floated up from the dark carpet. May wished sometimes that her nose were not so sensitive. The clove-studded oranges in Sir Philip’s study had been delicious, the cigar smoke in Sir Philip’s study a little headache-inducing, but dampness smelt depressing. The floor-length soap-scented cotton nightdress, lent to her last night by Mrs. Cage, was covered in tiny pink roses and must have shrunk in the wash judging by the way it clung to her slim hips. May longed for a cup of sweet tea but did not dare go downstairs until it was light enough for her to see to get dressed in her day clothes. Mrs. Cage had promised her that the new trousers and jacket of her uniform would be ready in a day or two but meanwhile she would have to make do with the interview suit and a pair of stockings borrowed from Mrs. Cage. May had reluctantly accepted Mrs. Cage’s offer of a pair of old step-ins but the elastic had given way on the housekeeper’s intimate second-hand garments and were far too loose to stay in place round May’s slim waist. May hoped that her own underwear would have dried on the fender where she had laid it after a thorough rinsing the night before.

A thousand things were running through her mind and she wanted to get them all down in the blue diary as soon as it was light and before recent events crowded out the earlier ones from her mind. Pushing her long dark hair back from her forehead, she wondered if Bertha was missing her. She wondered if she would ever be warm. Was anyone looking after the car? And then she was unable to prevent the bigger questions from tumbling right into the forefront of her mind. Was her mother lonely? Had May made a terrible mistake by leaving her? For a moment a sense of panic overwhelmed her. Sitting bolt upright, by now painfully awake, she wondered if, in all the excitement of this new life, she was forgetting what it felt like to be a daughter?

She shifted back down in the bed and checked the catch of the bracelet of silver forget-me-nots that encircled her wrist to make sure it was secure. Another puffball of feathery curls escaped from the gap in the lining and floated into the air. She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep but at once she found herself thinking about Julian. She had been taken aback by the speed and the familiar ease with which he had teased her about her hat. Had he been flirting with her? She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. How did that sort of kiss work? Would he remove his glasses or would she have to duck beneath them to reach his mouth? Her lips puckered at the thought and she felt a flutter of curiosity. That experience, mouth-to-mouth kissing, that she had read about so often in books, seen so often in movies and watched so often when courting sugarcane workers who were unaware they were being observed, remained for May frustratingly mysterious.

A year ago her mother had spoken to her about the nature of happiness. One evening Edith had suggested that they sit on the terrace together and have what she called “a coming-of-age talk.” The conversation had assumed an air of finality about it as if Edith was making the most of a last chance to tell her daughter everything she held to be wise and precious.

“The first thing I want to say, my darling,” Edith began, taking her daughter’s delicate hands in hers, as she had done ever since May could remember, “is that there is no man on this earth who can fulfil all the requirements of a wife. A sense of humour and a passion for books are strong bonuses, I would suggest. There will always be a few tolerable minuses: snoring, or a lack of interest in flowers, for example.”

May smiled. She had lost count of the times she had heard her mother complain to her unresponsive husband about the roseintolerant earth of the West Indies. The whole family had grown used to Edith’s yearning for the sweet-smelling bushes that she had coaxed into growth against the odds in the small garden of her Scottish childhood home.

“But if one is lucky,” her mother had continued “one will find enveloping love, even if it is only for a short time. And if one is luckier still, one will find someone to cherish and be cherished by for a lifetime. Oh yes, and it is important to marry someone who listens, and of course you must listen too, not just hear. There is a big difference between the two. I want you to learn to listen so that you make choices about the way you lead your life rather than falling for any opportunity that presents itself.”

A knock at the door interrupted May’s thoughts. A child of about ten years old was standing in front of her using both unsteady hands to balance a cup and saucer from which steam was rising. A good part of the liquid had already slopped over the edge.

“Mum heard the floorboards creak and said you might like a cup of tea,” the freckled-nosed girl said, and continued without giving May a second to say anything. “So I said I would like to take it to the new lady driver. I am Florence and I wanted to have a look at you. Do you mind?”

“Of course I don’t mind,” May said, reaching out to take the wobbling liquid. “And a cup of tea is what I would like more than anything else in the world.”

Florence looked pleased.

“Have you been in the sun?”

“Yes, I certainly have,” replied May, a little surprised.

“I thought so,” said Florence. “You look browner than everyone else. I’m not allowed to go in the sun. Well, actually, there isn’t any at the moment but if there were I wouldn’t be allowed in it. I have to wear a hat even though I am nearly ten. My mother says my freckles are bad enough already and the sun would make me have even more.”

May was intrigued.

“Perhaps you could tell my mother the sun won’t hurt me? I’m always being made to do things I don’t want to do and,” and here Florence allowed her voice to become very low and quiet and ominous, “keep secrets that I’m not meant to tell.”

May tried to conceal her smile.

“I think your freckles are lovely.”

“No one else thinks so, except Mr. Hooch. Do you like Mr. Hooch? He comes to our school sometimes to tell us about the tigers and elephants he used to see when he was growing up in India. And he reads us stories by Mr. Kipling.”

Florence flipped her reddish gold plaits behind her so they hung down her back, stretching well below her shoulders. Two green ribbons, half-untied, trailed off the bottom of each plait.

“That sounds wonderful,” May replied, beginning to enjoy herself. “Mr. Kipling is one of my favourite storytellers too,” she said.

“I like Mr. Hooch much more than Vera.”

“Who is Vera?”

“Vera’s the gardener. She is called Vera Borchby and she wears dungarees all the time, never skirts or dresses, and she never lets me eat the raspberries from the cage in the summer. It’s really unfair because I really like raspberries. She says they have to be saved for the Big House.”

Florence looked downcast for a moment as her forehead wrinkled and her top row of teeth bit firmly onto her bottom lip before the round little face brightened as if a curtain had been suddenly drawn back and let in the daylight.

“Would you like to meet Mrs. Jenkins who runs the post office?” she asked. “I could introduce you. She sometimes smells of cheese. I don’t know why. Sometimes she tells the truth by accident. She doesn’t know she’s doing it. Mum says it’s a sort of illness. Anyway, I like her because not everyone tells the truth. And sometimes she swears by mistake too.”

“Yes, please. I would certainly like to meet Mrs. Jenkins,” May said. “Perhaps we could go and see her on a bike ride together?”

May was keen to get a bicycle as soon as possible. Back home, when she wasn’t driving the car, she had bicycled everywhere.

Florence was looking worried again.

“Haven’t you got a bike?” May asked her.

“No I haven’t because, well, because I don’t know how to ride one. Mum says she would love to teach me but she hasn’t got the time at the moment. You won’t tell anyone from school, will you? I have to keep it a secret or my friends will tease me.”

“I will teach you, if you like? Perhaps Mr. Hooch has a couple of old rusties in his shed and we could find a time to practise?”

Florence’s eyes shone as she jumped on the bed, kissed May on the cheek and was out of the room before May had time to say another word.