by Karen Harper
“So,” he said, gesturing toward the window on Bertie’s side, “only about fifty-five thousand Americans right now, but probably more than two million more to come, though not all to London. We already have, of course, the troops you’ve visited in Northern Ireland. The massive Eighth Air Force is getting settled in eastern England and is quite taking over there.”
“I’ve read the private papers on that,” Bertie put in, lighting a cigarette. I was tempted to help him with his new automatic lighter, but I didn’t want Brendan to think he needed help because his hands were shaking. He inhaled and blew out a long breath of smoke. “They’ve brought troops and supplies with them for runways, airfields, depots, and bases. Winston is grateful, and I am too. What a beehive of activity there and here!”
Our motorcar, of necessity, slowed in the thick traffic. Officers in sharp navy blue, dark brown, or green uniforms strode back and forth across the square between the American headquarters at 20 Grosvenor Square and the American embassy. We were soon in a line of drab green Army vehicles taking officers here and there, no doubt to the British War Office a few miles away. Messenger riders on motorcycles careened through clogged traffic.
“Needless to say,” Brendan put in when we started to inch along again, “our guests are keeping the once devastated stores and hotels in the area hopping. Never so many happy laundries, shoeshine boys, and tailors since the war began, at least around here.”
“We are to meet and host Commander General Eisenhower soon,” I said.
“I cannot wait to meet him,” Bertie added. “He’s done a fine job settling in with that initial press conference about teamwork and making himself available to reporters—ours and the internationals.”
“He may call himself a farm boy, but he handles the press like a city mayor,” Brendan said. “Besides, he looks and talks the part, and the P.M. loves that. Six feet tall, straight, broad shoulders. He looks people right in the eye.”
“I have a young photographer, a female friend, who is quite taken with his kindness,” I said, “so there are some women working for the press too.”
“So many women have stepped forward here on the home front, part of the team. And, oh, yes, General Eisenhower calls the reporters part of his team, and they eat that up. Some have started to copy his American slang with things like knowing the score, his superiors being big shots, and the like. And what’s amazing is that the P.M. says he’s socially shy.”
“Really?” I asked. “In what way?”
“To tell true, ma’am, he is what he says, a small-town farm boy, though he’s worked in Washington for years. I read a dossier on him that his childhood home had no running water or indoor sanitary ah—arrangements. Our society mavens here have asked him to dinners, but he’s not keen on that, told the P.M. he’s not here to run a brutal war over teacups. And when he spent a weekend at Chequers, the P.M. noted that ‘Ike,’ as he asked the P.M. to call him, smokes heavily, ah—four packs of Camel cigarettes a day.”
Brendan cleared his throat as Bertie flicked a silver snake of ash off the end of his cigarette into the ashtray he’d had installed in all our vehicles except the carriages.
“So, the general told the P.M.,” Brendan went on, “that he is most uncomfortable when he cannot have a smoke until the ‘To the king!’ toasts at the end of banquets. He’s even turned down a few invitations and put some noble noses out of joint, but of course, the P.M. loves him.”
“When we invite him to the palace, he will come,” I declared, “and we will have the toast early and put him at ease. A little sherry before the meal, then the toast, which Bertie will appreciate also.”
“Or skip the toast or at least include Roosevelt and Eisenhower in it too,” Bertie added. “It’s classified but he’s flying to Gibraltar soon to get a bit closer to the efforts in North Africa, but when he returns, we shall host him and help him in any way we can. We need this man.”
* * *
We were entertaining family and friends at the Balmoral dinner table in late August in wretched Scottish weather. It was raining outside and from time to time, thunder rumbled. I was annoyed that Bertie was called to the phone during dessert, for I feared it could be bad news about our troops in North Africa again. Mussolini, Hitler’s dreadful Italian ally, was pouring in troops to bolster the Germans there, and we needed to keep control of Egypt and the Suez Canal to ensure shipments of oil.
Besides, sometimes I felt I had a sixth sense about when a call would be about something dire. My goddaughter had joined the Wrens, our Women’s Royal Naval Service, the first of our three services to recruit women so that the men could serve at sea. We had all thought she would be safe, out of harm’s way in battle. But after a short stint, she died, not of war wounds but of meningitis. And I had a premonition it was to be terrible news when my secretary had come in to say I had an important telephone call.
Bertie might still tease me about being his favorite walkie-talkie, but I dreaded any sort of further tragedy. What if that call was from Winston with bad news?
While he was away, I nodded and responded, but I hardly listened. I nearly jumped from my seat when I saw Bertie return to the dining room. He was white as a ghost. A frown crunched his forehead and seemed to make his entire body slump. The chatter at the table faded even more. I saw only him. To my amazement, before he sat across from me, he handed me a note and looked away, but I saw grief and disaster written on him—and then the note.
I thought at first that Queen Mary must have died. In shaky cursive handwriting that did not seem his own, the note read,
Dearest, we must end dinner. I am afraid George has been killed flying to Iceland. He left Invergordon at 1.30 p.m. & hit a mountain near Wick.
I nearly cried aloud as I felt a punch to my belly. And to die here in my beloved Scotland . . . and in this weather!
At the table, the rustle of whispers began. Heads turned my way, then back toward Bertie.
I caught the eye of the Duchess of Gloucester and nodded toward the door, then stood. The ladies, then everyone, rose.
“Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?” I said, but did not budge as first the ladies, then the men filed out.
Bertie left the room immediately, heading into the back hall where the footmen had come in to serve. I found him there, leaning against the wall, his head down, his thumb and index finger pressed into the bridge of his nose.
“Is it solid information?” I asked. “Perhaps it is wrong. Perhaps there are survivors.”
“They were on a Sunderland flying boat,” he said quietly, his voice not his own. “It should not have taken off in this damned Scottish weather. It hit a hill on the Duke of Portland’s Langwell estate. Perhaps—probably—pilot error, but they say George wasn’t flying it this time.”
“Oh, my dearest,” I cried and embraced him. He stood stiffly in my arms for a moment then hugged me back, heaving huge sobs. A footman started down the hall with a tray, then spun back and hurried away.
“I’ll have to telephone Mama,” he choked out. “It will do her in, her dear George—and my dear George too. David will have to be told, but I’ll try to keep him from coming for the funeral.”
“Poor Marina and the children. And my poor Bertie, one of your worst fears. I must notify our guests what has happened and see them on their way, then break the news to Lilibet and Margot.”
I hugged him again and took a step away. He snatched me back.
“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice raspy, his lips against my forehead. “I don’t think I can get through this. Lost battles, yes. Bombings. But not losing George and seeing Mama suffer through it.”
“Yes, you—and we—will get through this. We must, just as others have. This terrible family loss. The war. Now, you go telephone Marina our condolences and I’m afraid we must begin to discuss her wishes for the funeral. I’ll be certain our guests get away despite this . . . this dreadful storm.”
* * *
We buried our dear George, RAF h
ero, Duke of Kent, four days later in the royal burial grounds at Frogmore near Windsor after his funeral in St. George’s Chapel. The burial site was not far from where Queen Victoria and her beloved Prince Albert lay in a round mausoleum encircled by a colonnade. It was beautiful on that day, no more brutal Scottish weather, but summer in the hushed gardens with the serpentine lake reflecting puffy clouds.
George’s widow Princess Marina was holding up well, if I may say so, beautiful, even in her stunned grief. I deeply regretted that I had resented her at first, so stylish and slender, for she had reminded me of Mrs. Simpson when my wounds were still raw. And I admired Marina for being a good wife to George, through thick and thin. And were his use of drugs and flagrant sexual liaisons the thick or the thin of their difficult marriage? Marina seemed to linger now, not wanting to leave the still-open grave.
“Marina, dearest,” I said to her when she finally walked a bit away, “did Bertie tell you of our suggestion that we bring your sister here to live with you for a while, just to have more family about?”
Her beautiful eyes looked flat, red-rimmed. “No, but he said he had an idea to help. It must have been that. I know he cared deeply for George—Mama too, of course,” she added with a glance over at Queen Mary, who, stoic though she was, had taken to dabbing under her eyes again with a black handkerchief. We were all in mourning black.
“Tell me then,” she said as the two of us walked a few steps away. I supposed we would never be really close because of our rocky beginning, but how much I wanted to comfort her now. “If you mean a visit from my sister Princess Olga, you do know that she has fled Yugoslavia for exile in South Africa with her husband Prince Paul—and that some regard him as a traitor who has collaborated with the Germans, which is most unfair.”
“Be that as it may, the king believes he can arrange for them to live with you and the children for a while, if you wish.”
“Oh, I do. And thank you both for arranging that.” She reached out her gloved hand to squeeze mine. Our eyes met and held. One problem from the past patched up a bit, I thought, glad I could be a walkie-talkie for Bertie today to reach out to her.
* * *
In the weeks after, with trips to Badminton, I tried to comfort Queen Mary in her loss, even though it hurt me to realize she had favored George, not Bertie. And then the day she produced a letter from David and told me much of what it said, it hurt me even more to try to buck her up. It was Bertie who needed her love and support now, not David, who had his wife and was well out of the way of our war effort.
Mama said to me, “Shortly after George died, I wrote David an eight-page letter to comfort him as he has me. And I ended the letter with ‘I send a kind message to your wife who will help you to bear your sorrow in George’s loss.’”
I actually bit my tongue to keep from saying something sharp. Now with George gone, was David her favorite son, not Bertie, who had tried so hard to keep the country and his mother well?
She said, “In the letter he sent me back, he said that but for dear Wallis’s love and comfort he would have felt very lost.”
I hadn’t spoken that woman’s name—even in my own thoughts—for so long, I startled.
Mama went on, “David goes on to say he believes this entire dreadful war could have been avoided. He has missed me terribly these six years since the abdication and longs to see me again, to bring Wallis here, of course, to visit or to live. He says their great love for each other has intensified in the five years they have been wed. I’m so happy for him—yes, for them.”
For once Bertie’s wife and queen, his “walkie-talkie” who could supposedly solve any family problem, was speechless, but obviously my feelings mattered not as she went on, clutching the letter, “I must tell you, dear Elizabeth, that David feels the king, our Bertie, has been rather harsh toward him. He wants me—and especially you, he writes here, for I have this letter nearly memorized—to know that Wallis is a most courageous and noble person and her not getting the Her Royal Highness title is but another bitter blow for her to bear. But now that George is gone and Bertie busy with the war, he asks me to tell Prime Minister Churchill that the HRH must be given to his wife.”
I felt as if I had sand in my throat. “But that has been all decided upon, by the P.M. and by the king—for the good of the country, and in these wretched times—George’s death—that . . . that is all settled and would cause upheaval to revisit it.”
“But you are speaking for the P.M. and the king, dear Elizabeth, and we queens must learn not to do that. Oh, I have no reason to want Wallis to have the HRH except to please and comfort David. You knew him well. You know how he is.”
“I did. I do, Mama. If you’ll excuse me now, I think I had best head back to Windsor, for Lilibet and Margot have been a bit restless lately.”
“Oh, dear, yes. You just send them over here to me if they need tending, especially Lilibet.”
I nodded and walked away in the beauty of the colorful autumn Badminton gardens, which had just become cold and dry. I suddenly felt sick, as if I had a throat so sore I could not speak. Each step exhausted me.
The next time Bertie teased me by saying I was his walkie-talkie queen, I would ask him never to say that again, for I had never been able to tell this woman that her son David, alias once King Edward, was not one bit lovable, only . . . well, flashy. I suddenly longed to hide away in my bed, hide away from the war of nations and the war in my heart.
Chapter Twenty
We’re Not in Kansas Anymore
After the Duke of Kent’s funeral, Bertie insisted I go to rest at Balmoral before coming back into the stress and debris of London. I would rather have gone to be with the girls at Windsor, but I quickly developed a cold, and my exhaustion nearly did me in.
With a minimal staff of two maids, my dresser, my private secretary Gladys, and, of course, Bessie, I hunkered down to rest. I did not want to chance a recurrence of the tonsillitis or the other physical problems that had occasionally laid me low over the years, especially when my spirits were down. Oh, yes, I knew my head and heart affected my body at times—and once, a terrible incident with David. I must admit, this was the first respite I’d had, the first peaceful, undemanding rest, since this war began.
In the past, personal, internal battles had put me down: Whether to marry Bertie when I had still loved his horrid brother who had led me on and mistreated me so. Fear that the Simpson woman would become queen or even Her Royal Highness. Tensions between me and Bertie when I left the marriage bed. And, as ever, like a monster that stalked me no matter how hard I tried to keep it locked behind walls and doors, the fact that my birth mother had been a French cook.
“Here it is, Your Majesty,” Bessie told me, knocking on my door and pushing a wheeled cart with the moving picture projector into my bedroom. “And the film Wizard of Oz. Had to send to London for it, Gladys did. I think you’ve watched it before, ma’am.”
I rolled over in bed and plumped up my pillow. I coughed into one of the several handkerchiefs I had at the ready. “I’ve seen it with the girls twice before,” I told her, sounding stuffed up. “My P. G. Wodehouse books cheer me, but I need more of a pick-me-up, and this should do it. I’m off to see the Wizard, even if he did turn out to be a sham.”
“You let the staff see it once, remember? But that song ‘Over the Rainbow’ is really sad, I mean, longing for things we can’t quite have.”
I sneezed, covering my mouth and nose. This would never do, so I must heal fast. Americans from generals to privates were already in London, and Bertie and I needed to have their commander, General Eisenhower—with a German last name, no less—to the palace for a welcome dinner, with toasts to the Americans.
Eleanor Roosevelt’s visit was finally coming up this month. All our important guests would simply have to understand that we went by strict food rations in the palace just as did our citizenry. It was one well-known way to support and unite with them, and Brendan Bracken and Rowena made certain the
press knew.
My secretary Gladys came in. “Your Majesty, I know you said to hold all calls unless it was the king, but just wanted to tell you that your art advisor, Sir Kenneth Clark, rang up and said he’d call back. Said he’d understand if you can’t come to the telephone, but he wanted you to know he’s insisting the paintings at Hampton Court need to be protected too.”
“Oh, yes. Well, his advice is important—and I shall take his call if he rings again. People safe first, but the heritage of England, including its art, second. Meanwhile, let’s run this movie. And do inform me straightaway if he calls again.”
It would be like Kenneth to do that, I thought, with a little thrill that was not a chill from my cold. He was both persistent and protective. He had guided me through my selection of art, my commission of artists, even the very modern John Piper, to do watercolor war paintings of Windsor Castle. How appropriate it was that the first ones he had done were dark and moody. Kenneth had praised me for my desire to support living London artists, even ones working in other mediums besides oil.
How kind he had been to take me hither and yon and instruct me in the heritage of England’s art and artists. From a wealthy family, he had an education and talents that had taken him to the heights as director of the National Gallery and Surveyor of the King’s Pictures. I had praised him to Bertie, who had knighted him as Commander of the Bath in 1938 at the age of thirty-five!
And to me, Kenneth had been especially solicitous, beyond the standard courtesy to one’s queen. Sometimes, I almost felt he were courting me as a gentleman would a desirable lady, had I not been married, had I not been queen. I knew that, though he was wed, he had rather the reputation of a lady’s man, and I could see why. He was quite handsome, masculine, muscular, and engaging, a brilliant conversationalist and speaker with a fine sense of humor.
