The Intrigues of Jennie Lee

by Alex Rosenberg

  “Hope not. If they know then it won’t be long before Dorothy knows.”

  “Did my going manage to cool her suspicion?”

  “Must have done. I’ve heard nothing about the matter for some time.” He fell silent. “Jennie, you shan’t want to hear this.” Again, a pause. “The two months you were away...it was an agony for me. I can’t see how I’ll deal with it now you’re back, except by—”

  “We’ve been over this ground, Frank.”

  “I’ve got to make a clean breast of it with Dorothy. She knows a divorce will harm her too—”

  Again Jennie broke in: “And me.”

  “It could be worse for her...Anyway, that’s what I’m going to try to convince her of. I’ll tell her everything. Get her to agree to let me live apart, without a divorce. She’ll have a position, no scandal...in public, things will go on as before.”

  “Would she accept it, Frank?”

  “Perhaps. She’s not really a Westminster wife. Perfectly happy up in Bucks with her causes and the younger two.”

  The steward knocked again, and they opened the door. Once the trunk was gone they both left the stateroom, and joined the file of passengers moving up to the debarkation deck.

  Waiting in the customs shed, Frank asked, “Well, where to? Your constituency, Cowdenbeath or London?”

  “It’s a bore, but I’ve missed a lot of sittings. Better get back to the House.” She smiled, put her hand through his arm, reached down into his coat pocket and took his hand. “London!”

  He nodded. “There’s a boat train to Euston from Liverpool Riverside. First class, my treat.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, they were well settled into a compartment facing one another. Watching through the window as the train gathered speed beyond Liverpool Lime Street station, both silently hoped no one would join them for the balance of the journey to London. As the ranks of workmen’s villas gave way to scrub along the rails, Jennie saw none of the “jungle camps” that dotted the tracks outside of cities in America. She understood why. Here, the unemployed had long ago given up any quest for jobs far from their homes. She turned to Frank.

  “Catch me up then.”

  “How closely were you able to follow things in North America?”

  “Not at all. But I had the benefit of ten weeks of The Economist on the Lancastria up to about a fortnight ago.”

  “Can’t believe much of what they write, not about Labour politics, at any rate.” Frank frowned.

  “Lots of news about Mosley.” Was it obvious to him that this would interest her most?

  Perhaps it was. Frank seemed to sigh slightly before going on.

  “There’s to be a by-election at Ashton-under-Lyne. Labour member, Bellamy, PPS to pensions minister, died just after you left. Anyway, his New Party—you know about that?” Jennie nodded. “They put up a candidate and Mosley was expelled from Labour.”

  “So, that’s why. Economist didn’t give the reason he was pushed out.” She had to ask, “Do they have a chance?”

  “Dunno...Mosley has fallen quite ill. Pleurisy and pneumonia. So he hasn’t been there to campaign. Left it to his wife, Lady Cynthia.”

  Jennie found herself not at all disquieted about Mosley’s condition. He was too powerful a personality to succumb to such illnesses. Instead she thought about his wife. Jennie knew Cimmie Mosley from Parliament, she’d won a seat for Labour in the House herself in the ’29 election.

  “She’ll do well.” Frank nodded his agreement.

  “Any more defections from Labour?”

  “You mean Bevan?” Frank had understood her question. She nodded. “It’s hard to tell actually.”

  “What do you mean? Either he resigned along with the others or he didn’t.”

  “He didn’t resign. But he did sign on to another of those Mosley manifesto pamphlets.”

  Frank stood and pulled down his trench coat from the luggage rack above the seats, reached into a pocket and pulled out a booklet. “I’ve got it here.”

  Jennie held out her hand.

  “Let me see.” He gave it to her and she read the tract quickly. “Nye signed on to this? Why didn’t they expel him along with Mosley?”

  “Too small a fish, I suspect. Labour can’t afford to lose seats in the Commons, can it? Mosley was expelled for putting up a candidate against Labour. If Nye doesn’t support his candidate... well, the whips will turn a blind eye.” He waited for a reply from Jennie. She was silent so he went on. “Maybe Nye Bevan’s regretting signing on anyway, now the millionaire Morris is backing Mosley...I suppose you read about that?” Again he looked at Jennie.

  She nodded. “Yes. It was in one of The Economists I read.”

  Frank grimaced. “Mosley is sounding more and more like Mussolini than he is like Lenin...”

  Jennie had to rebut. “That’s the Communist line on Mosley, isn’t it, Frank?”

  “Doesn’t make it wrong, you know.”

  How to put her dissent from Frank without a quarrel?

  “Can Labour afford not to make common cause, if this New Party of his catches on?”

  “Maybe not. But the Ashton by-election won’t be a real test for Mosley. It was a Tory seat before Bellamy won it in ’29. And with Mosley ill and not campaigning himself...” He didn’t finish the thought. “Look, Jennie, Mosley frightens me...worse than he did before you left.”

  Could she say what she thought? That Tom Mosley frightened her, and entranced her, not just by turns but at the very same time. She certainly could agree with Frank that he was dangerous.

  “I know what you mean, Frank. Listening to him is like putting your fingers to a mains wire. The moment’s shock should be enough to warn you off. But you keep doing it again...”

  Jennie stopped for a moment, arrested by her image. Then she took her argument up again.

  “But Frank, what’s the alternative to Mosley? More of Ramsay MacDonald’s pettifogging?”

  She could feel a despond increasing its bleak hold with every mile they closed on London. In her mind’s eye, she was already looking down from a back bench at Ramsay MacDonald—wing collar, frock coat, watch and fob, Labour prime minister exchanging niceties with Honourable members opposite, men who wouldn’t give a tuppence ha’penny for, or even to, the working man.

  “I’m ready to take the risk of a powerful drug if it stands a chance of curing the illness.” She reached into her purse for a fag, lit one and drew in long. “The government’s doing nothing. As it is, Labour will be blamed for the slump. The party doesn’t stand a chance without Mosley. If we can’t join him, we’ve got to get him back!”

  Frank was studious, drawing on his own cigarette and allowing the smoke to emerge from his nostrils like two beams in the dust motes of the carriage air. He said nothing for a few moments. Then he spoke.

  “When you get to the House tonight, you’ll hear the government is hiving off its responsibilities to a committee of financiers. It’s called the May Committee, after its head, president of the Prudential.” This was the largest insurance company in Britain. “MacDonald’s so frightened of making the wrong choice, he’s asking bankers to tell him what to do.”

  “But everyone knows what they’ll tell him: balance the budget, cut benefits, reduce policemen’s salaries...and teachers.” She stubbed out her fag. “Make things worse, and why?”

  “To please the City and the New York bankers who are buying the government’s debts so we can stay on Winston Churchill’s bloody gold standard.” He fairly spat the words and then lapsed into silence.

  * * *

  Frank had put down her case to push against the door to slide it open over the eight weeks’ welter of letters, left-wing mags, adverts and handbills that had been dropped through the mail slot in her door. As he carried the bag through to her bedroom, Jennie stooped to sweep up the post. The small, square, buff envelope with the royal franking and the palace return address stood out to her eye obvious and threatening, like a lett
er from Inland Revenue. She had to hope Frank hadn’t noticed it. Slipping it under the doormat, she rose with the rest clutched to her chest and dumped the mass on the side table, making something of a show out of beginning to sort through it.

  Frank took her case through to the bedroom, still wearing his trench coat and making no signs of doffing it. Jennie was relieved. She was not at all looking forward to opening the Duchess’s letter. But she had to, and she certainly couldn’t do it while Frank was with her. He came up behind her, leaned over kissing her neck as his arms encircled her.

  “So glad you’re back.”

  She turned and offered her mouth. When they could both feel the ardour rising, she pushed him towards the door.

  “I need a bath...See you in the House tonight?”

  Without another word, but with a smile and a nod, Frank opened the door and was gone.

  Jennie bent to the doormat and pulled out the envelope. It demanded to be opened by a letter knife, so she took it to the desk as uncluttered as the day she left but coated by what seemed to be fine coal dust.

  The envelope was handwritten, as was the letter. The Duchess had presumably addressed it herself in the hope, almost certainly vain, that her constitutional indiscretion would be undetected.

  Dear Jennie,

  I was worried to have lost touch with you after Christmas. I sent a few discreet notes to the House. They were returned. When I rang up they told me you’d gone away to America for a few months. That was a pity, as so much has happened and the Duke was eager to have you pass on his encouragement to Tom Mosley. He’s quite pleased about developments and especially the New Party. The Prince of Wales has come round to the same view, when he can be bothered to take any interest in public affairs. Anyhow, I hope you share our opinion, and we certainly don’t mind if you pass it on to Tom. Please ring me the moment you get home.

  The last sentence was double underlined, suggesting a royal command. But it was signed “Elizabeth B-L” instead of “Elizabeth—Duchess of York,” with a telephone number so Jennie would have no excuse.

  Jennie folded the letter back into its envelope. Somehow, she’d hoped that she’d been away long enough for the Duke and Duchess to find another connection to Tom Mosley. It was politically perilous. Given Frank’s position, it was personally dangerous. And it was that powerful drug she had tied herself to the mast of a transatlantic voyage to resist. She simply wouldn’t respond to this request, wouldn’t call, wouldn’t pass along any message of encouragement to Mosley.

  Then the phone rang. She answered with her number. The voice in the earpiece was unmistakable. “Tom Mosley here...”

  Jennie replied in a voice that she hoped suggested distance and formality. “Yes, Sir Oswald.”

  “Tom, please.”

  “I hear you’ve been ill.”

  “Much better now, thanks.” The voice became less conversational, slightly urgent. “I need a favour. I rather need you to see”—he paused, evidently searching for the right description—“your royal friend as soon as possible.”

  “Look...Tom.” She didn’t want to call him that, but she didn’t want to hear him insist on it, either. “I’m only just off the boat from America. Got into my flat 10 minutes ago.”

  “We...uh, I knew you’d been gone for some time. It makes the matter more urgent I fear. Can you see her in the next twenty-four hours?”

  “No. I can’t see her at all. I won’t do as you ask, Sir Oswald. It’s risky for me and improper too.” She wanted to tell him she’d left the country to avoid the entanglement.

  Before she could do so, Mosley interrupted. “Look, before you decide to burn this bridge from the palace to me, there’s something you need to know.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m at Ebury Street. Can you come round here?” Mosley instantly realised how Jennie would take the question. “No... it’s not like that. I’m too ill and weak for any of that...touch of pleurisy. It’s just I need to tell you something face to face, something important, that may change your mind about helping...” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Very well,” Jennie capitulated with a sigh.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Before she’d even paid the taxi, the door to 22b Ebury Street was opened, not by Mosley, as in the past, but a man whose formal dress bespoke service. As Jennie was led into Mosley’s bedroom, a nurse bustled out carrying a basin. The room was familiar to her but now neater and warm, very warm. Then Jennie noticed the electrical heaters on either side of the bed. Mosley was in the bed, covers drawn, wan, thinner, lying on his left side. He looked up, coughed and spoke.

  “Sorry to receive you like this. Have to lie on the left side... reduces the pain.”

  He winced slightly. Was this for effect? Jennie wondered before supressing the thought as unworthy. Still she said noting. Mosley looked up to the servant behind her.

  “That’ll be all, Booth.” The man quietly withdrew. “Take a pew, Jennie.” He indicated a wooden chair near the bed. “I’m no longer contagious, the quacks tell me.”

  Still Jennie was silent, not really trusting herself. Even abed, but holding her gaze, Mosley was having his effect.

  “Since you’re not asking what all this is about, I suppose I’ll have to begin.” With a nod, Jennie bid him begin. “It was only some time after you left for America that I’d realised you were gone. I was hoping to convince you to join the New Party. Perhaps even get you to bring Nye Bevan or your friend Frank Wise into the fold.”

  Jennie searched for innuendo in Mosley’s voice and face as he said Frank’s name. She couldn’t find it. Was he so fine an actor?

  “Frank and Nye have both declined,” she said. “Why should I have decided differently, Tom?” Suddenly Jennie was angry at herself. Why’d she called him that instead of Mosley? Was it was just that he seemed vulnerable, lying there weak, in evident pain.

  Mosley pushed his elbows underneath his body and rose to sit back against the bedstead.

  “Well, for you the decision to leave Labour might be rather more personal than theirs.” Before she could speak he waved his hand. “No, not our relationship, Jennie. We know what that’s about and it isn’t political. In fact it’s hardly personal.” He laughed. “And we both like it that way.” He waited for a signal of understanding. She gave it with a slight smile. “No, I think I can give you a better reason to leave Labour and join the New Party.”

  “Well?” Impatience showed on Jennie’s face. She took a cigarette from her bag and began to rummage for a match.

  “Please, no smoking. Not just yet.” Mosley coughed. “They say it’ll set back my progress.”

  She put the fag back in the packet and began tapping the floor with her foot.

  “Look, there’s no way to cushion this blow. I have to tell you straight out.” He paused before plunging further. “It will come as a shock, Jennie,” Again he paused. “Ramsay MacDonald is your father.” Under his breath Mosley muttered, “Runs in his family...” then he looked up at Jennie’s contorted face.

  Jennie didn’t hear this jape about MacDonald’s own acknowledged illegitimacy. She was asking herself why Mosley would say such farfetched rubbish. Jennie had to show him she wasn’t taking him at all seriously. He continued, seeking to convince her.

  “I’m sorry but I have the Prime Minister’s own admission, to me personally.” If this were a lie it would be easy to uncover. As if he were reading her thoughts, Mosley added, “Ask him if you like.”

  Jennie hardened. “Why would you make up such a preposterous lie, Mosley?” No ‘Tom,’ no ‘Sir Oswald, not even a Mr...just the contempt of the surname spat back at him.

  “I promise you, it’s the truth.”

  She could see sincerity in his eyes, but still Jennie resisted. “I suppose he just told you...for no reason at all, simply making polite conversation.”

  Mosley was calm. “I learned of it from someone else and confronted him.”

  Jennie absorbed this tho
ught. “So, someone is peddling scandal about the PM and dragging an insignificant back bencher into it?”

  “Actually, there’s a letter from MacDonald, to your mother, that proves it. You may want to ask her.”

  Ask her mother if she were a bastard? Ramsay MacDonald’s bastard? Impossible. But too easy a way of unmasking such a risible idea. That forced Jennie to contemplate the possibility. Mosley was going on, but she had ceased listening, absorbed only in the disclosure, trying to come to terms with it, fitting it into her own life, the family history she had lived, was still living. Trying it out to see if there was anything about her parents, her childhood, her upbringing, that this, this, this...allegation made sense of, was the missing piece to...Every way she turned it round the answer kept coming back, Rubbish.

  “You’re talking rot. Show me this letter!”

  “My dear Jennie, I don’t have it,” he lied without difficulty. “I haven’t seen it. The person who purloined it passed it on to... to one of our political opponents. Someone you know, actually.”

  “Don’t tell me who.” It was all she could think of as a riposte. She glared at Mosley.

  “I’d hoped that once you knew the truth you’d have enough reason to join the revolt against MacDonald, leave the Labour Party and help me openly.”

  Jennie wasn’t following Mosley’s train of thought. She couldn’t, wouldn’t think about what all this meant between her and her mother, her parents. It was too filthy a thought. It had to be stamped out, obliterated by another. But a dawning recognition made matters worse. If it comes out, no one will ever listen to another of your attacks on the government without thinking, ‘MacDonald’s bastard.’ You’ll be a laughing-stock, the butt of jokes. People will put your politics down to personal animosity. She realised that Mosley was right: at least if it came out, she could have nothing further to do with the Labour Party. You’d be a constant reminder, a badge of the leader’s misconduct. You’ll be a pariah in the House. You’re certain to be deselected in your puritanical Glasgow constituency. Never mind what happens to Ramsay Mac. The hard-political calculation was effective in driving the domestic shame, humiliation, disgrace from her thoughts. Mosley was right. If it came out she’d have no future in the Labour Party.