Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey

by The Countess of Carnarvon

  The Norwegian campaign was perceived as a disaster for Britain. It exposed radio networks that didn’t work, lack of intelligence information and a complete absence of command structure between the armed forces. It was to prove Chamberlain’s downfall. With confidence in his leadership failing, he offered his resignation to the King and advised him to appoint Churchill rather than Lord Halifax as Prime Minister. It was almost certainly Chamberlain’s clear-sighted judgement and generous endorsement of a man who had been his nemesis for years, combined with Halifax’s self-effacing refusal to push his own cause, that swung the decision in Churchill’s favour. He was not the first choice of either the Conservative Party or the War Cabinet, and for months after his appointment he delivered some of his most famous speeches to a very cool reception in the House of Commons.

  Churchill was sworn in on 10 May as the Norwegians battled on. Hitler ordered massive bombing raids on Rotterdam and the invasion of the Low Countries. The Allies were stunned. So were the Belgians and Dutch, who had hoped like the Finns and Norwegians before them to preserve their neutrality. They were occupied within a matter of days. As the German armies swept towards France, the Reich’s military leadership was scarcely less incredulous. They had never imagined their audacity would be so successful. Panic ensued at Allied Command as lines fell and the British Expeditionary Force and a large segment of the French Army was cut off in northern Belgium, fighting for its life without even any transport with which to retreat. Churchill stood up in the House of Commons on 13 May and told the House, ‘I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.’

  For the next two weeks the Allied armies were beaten back towards the English Channel and, despite heroic fighting along the way, it now seemed certain that they would be entirely overrun. The logistics and administrative corps were being shipped back across the Channel in desperate haste. The Germans were closing relentlessly in on the port of Dunkirk. The Allies put out the call for any and every seaworthy vessel to converge on the French port and bring the Allied armies back to safety. Between 26 May and 4 June, 930 civilian boats, barges, fishing trawlers and ferries answered the call. The flotilla of little ships was accompanied by 200 Navy vessels and defended by the Royal Air Force against the Luftwaffe, whose capabilities proved to be far less than they had promised the Führer. The seas were calm, which meant boats could be safely overloaded, and hundreds of them sailed back and forth between France and Britain until 338,226 British, French and Belgian soldiers had been rescued.

  Operation Dynamo was a heroic aversion of collapse, but it was a hollow victory. Stores, ammunition and transport had to be abandoned on the beaches, destroyed where possible to prevent them from falling into enemy hands. The French army lost 290,000 men. The Allies were still in the war, but only just.

  Hitler was triumphant. The French were fatally weakened; now he confidently expected that a chastened British government would see sense. But even as the Germans swept on into France, heading for Paris, Churchill made the nation’s defiance plain. ‘We shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end … We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender!’

  The rhetoric might have been unsurpassable, but the reality was grim. On 10 June, Mussolini threw in his lot with Nazi Germany and declared war on the Allies. As mainland Europe fell to the Nazis and Britain adjusted to the fact that it had escaped a similar fate by the skin of its teeth, the battle off the coast of Norway continued. Geoffrey had been assigned his mission. HMT Juniper was to be part of Operation Alphabet, another evacuation of Allied troops. The final British attempt to aid the Norwegians was over and the two forces, as well as the Norwegian royal family and government, needed to be transported back to Britain.

  On 18 May Geoffrey sent an upbeat cable to Catherine telling her that he was ‘busy but doing nothing dangerous … I am flourishing and do hope you are well and cheerful, my precious.’ He told her that he had just heard they were to be deployed and so he would not be able to write for perhaps a fortnight. ‘You mustn’t worry, darling. The old mother country seems to be in a bit of a mess at present and obviously everyone must pull their weight. But I hope I shall get a week’s leave in about a month or so.’ He also wrote to his housekeeper, Miss Thorn, at Ovington Square, asking her to ‘look after Mrs G. and to keep her busy!’

  On 24 May, HMT Juniper docked in Tromsø. Geoffrey took the opportunity to write again to Catherine, looking forward to meeting her in London, fretting about rumours that there had been air raids over southeast England, sending her all his love. He also enclosed a letter that Henry had sent him, which had touched him very much. Catherine’s son had written with several pages of news about the family’s Easter holiday and to say that ‘Mama was marvellously well, busy with Navy League work, but missing you terribly.’ He included a rather charming sketch of ‘Uncle’ Geoffrey on the bridge of HMT Juniper, which resembles in Henry’s depiction nothing so much as a rowing boat made for one.

  Commander Grenfell was in actual fact in charge of a mostly inexperienced thirty-nine-man crew and a ship that was deeply uncomfortable in bad weather. While his officers and wireless operator were more seasoned sailors, most of his new recruits had had to learn as they went along. The North Sea has always been challenging, even for old hands, so Commander Grenfell’s humour, confidence and decisive judgement were key to encouraging the crew in rough seas. Their work was made more difficult by the fact that Juniper rode the waves, rather than driving a path through them, as did larger vessels. The simplest of tasks became almost impossible in a heavy swell.

  Geoffrey and his men awaited orders to evacuate from Tromsø. The British were expecting to transport the Norwegian government into exile and to escort the ships of the Norwegian Navy, then the fourth largest in the world, to safety. King Haakon was only very reluctantly persuaded to flee, by the British ambassador Sir Cecil Dormer. Under protest, he agreed, but he was adamant that, though he might leave Norway, the Crown jewels should never depart Norwegian soil. He enlisted Sir Cecil to help him bury the treasure in a cave that the two of them came across just outside Tromsø, for safekeeping. On 7 June he boarded HMS Devonshire, along with his family, his cabinet ministers and the country’s entire reserve funds of gold. Haakon wasn’t in the slightest bit sentimental about that. He didn’t want the Nazis to get hold of it, and he knew his nation would need it later, when their territory was finally restored to them.

  With King, government in exile, Allied troops and gold all safely loaded, the convoy set off, pulling out of the fjords as quickly as possible. The Germans were patrolling, on the lookout for their rich prize.

  Juniper had been assigned to escort the 5,600-ton tanker, Oil Pioneer. At dawn the next day, Commander Grenfell and his party were 300 miles west of Narvik when, to his dismay, he realised that they had been sighted by at least three heavy German warships. He sent urgent wireless signals reporting the development before radioing to the Oil Pioneer to sail independently. As a diversion, Juniper hoisted her battle flags and bravely sailed in to challenge the German ships. Commander Grenfell ordered Juniper’s twelve-pounder guns to fire on the Admiral Hipper, putting the enemy’s fore turret out of action and inflicting some damage on the deck. The warship replied with a heavy salvo that tore through the bridge and superstructure of HMT Juniper. The British trawler was hopelessly stricken. Just four survivors were picked up later that day, one of whom was seriously injured. They were taken to a prisoner-of-war camp in Oslo. HMS Devonshire was luckier. The King, his ministers and his country’s wealth made it to London after a top-speed race across the North Sea.

  Catherine was oblivious to what had happened. The media’s focus was on the ‘miracle of deliverance’, as Churchill described Dunkirk and, in any case, Juniper was a small vessel, the sort whose loss would not make front-page news. Catherine was no more anxious than usual. Geoffrey had told her that he would not
be able to contact her until his return to Scotland, so she told herself she simply had to wait.

  On 18 June, her waiting took on a terrible new dimension. Catherine received an official cable informing her that Geoffrey was ‘missing in action, possibly a prisoner of war.’ She had expected to tear open a letter from her husband, to read his typically positive account of events and to know for sure when she would next see him, on leave, in London. Instead, the brief words chilled her soul. She clung to the slim hope that Geoffrey was among the few survivors, but now every postal delivery, every knock at the door was a torture to her.

  The phoney war was well and truly over. Churchill’s most pressing concern was to re-equip the armed forces in the wake of the losses in northern France. Industrial production focused on munitions and, particularly, just five types of fighter planes. At Elliots of Newbury, a firm local to Highclere, a largely female workforce made components for Spitfires, De Havilland Mosquitoes and Tiger Moths. Nationwide the results were extraordinarily good. Output soared, rising from 256 planes in April 1940 to 467 in September. Remarkably, the RAF had more fighter planes at the end of the Battle of Britain than it did at the beginning. But this focus on aircraft manufacture meant that there were shortages of other arms. The British military turned to American firms to fulfil additional orders.

  As the Battle for France unfolded just a few miles across the Channel from where they were stationed at Shorncliffe, a sombre mood fell upon the 7th Hussars. Robert Taylor and Jack Gibbins gave up on their flits to Highclere, and Porchey and Colonel Breitmeyer were poised to respond to the battle orders they expected any day. Tilly was petrified by the news of the German forces closing in relentlessly on the Channel ports, and Porchey had to devote a lot of time to reassuring her that as soon as he knew what was expected of the regiment, they could make plans for her to move.

  The decision came soon enough, in the person of the Prime Minister himself. One of Churchill’s first acts in office was to get out from behind his desk and go to inspect the troops. He was, after all, a career soldier and a veteran of the Boer War long before he was a politician, and he did not wish to rely on his generals for information.

  Lord Carnarvon recalled the PM’s comment as the 7th Hussars lined up for inspection, in his memoirs. It was entirely in keeping with the tone of all Porchey’s exchanges with Winston. Churchill growled at the assembled men, pointedly directing his remarks at the commanding officer and his adjutant. ‘Of all the ridiculous locations to be training a cavalry unit, I cannot imagine. You are right next to the aerodrome and if bombs fell among your horses they would stampede like the Gadarene swine and gallop over the cliffs into the sea. I shall have you moved immediately.’ Within three days they were en route to Sherwood Forest in Nottingham, where they were to be billeted under canvas. Robert Taylor packed up. He and Gibbins and the bedsteads accompanied Lord Carnarvon in the Vauxhall, while Monsieur Pascal returned to Highclere.

  It was all too much for Tilly. She refused point-blank to accompany Porchey and went instead to stay with her great friend Adele Astaire, now Lady Charles Cavendish, at Lismore Castle in Ireland. Porchey was relieved. He hoped that being far out of harm’s way would calm Tilly’s nerves. In fact, the distance gave her a clearer perspective from which to contemplate the fact that Britain’s prospects looked a hundred times worse than they had when she had fled the country the previous November.

  In early July, Tilly returned to London and the Carnarvons’ usual suite at the Ritz. She asked her husband to meet her there so they could talk. The steel-framed hotel was promoting itself as a safer place to spend one’s time as the city braced for the ferocious air battle that was daily expected to begin in the skies over southern England. The bar had become an air-raid shelter and at night it buzzed with rumour and conspiracy, defiance and conjecture. King Zog of Albania, who had fled Mussolini’s invading forces in April 1939, had taken up residence at the hotel and was supposed to pay his bills in gold bullion. The atmosphere was febrile; it was hardly likely to calm Tilly down.

  Porchey thought she looked radiant when he walked into her bedroom. She seemed delighted to see him, and for a moment he allowed himself to hope. But over dinner she produced a cable for him to read and he felt a familiar sensation, brought on by this repetition of a scene they had lived once before. The cable contained the offer of a part in a play on Broadway. Tilly had clearly spent the time at Lismore on the telephone to America. Porchey pleaded with her not to disappear from him for another six months. With everything hanging in the balance and the war certain to drag on indefinitely, she might not be able to return for years.

  ‘You must let me go, darling. Look at what’s happened in France. What if the Germans land here? You would be fine, but what about me, with my Jewish blood?’

  Porchey tried to humour her but he only made her angry. ‘Look, Porchey, I believe the Germans will win this war. You can’t beat them, that’s very clear now.’

  Stung by her words, he flared up immediately. ‘Nonsense. Things may not be too good at the moment, but you can be sure we’ll defeat them, somehow.’

  Tilly was unmoved. The Germans would be landing soon, it was only a matter of time; and she was convinced that, when they did, she would be targeted.

  Completely depressed, Porchey went to see his sister and his mother to canvas their views on what he should be saying to Tilly. Porchey felt that his chance of married happiness was slipping away. Almina, as usual, was to the point. She expressed the family view: Tilly had made it more than plain that she would not stay and now she had to go.

  It was infinitely harder to arrange a passage for her than it had been nine months previously. Porchey went to the Passport Office to try to procure a visa and found hordes of people attempting the same thing. Tilly was obviously not the most pressing case, but Lord Carnarvon managed to persuade the official. Ever resourceful, he slipped some banknotes into her passport and secured the necessary stamp. Tilly was a picture of radiant happiness when he returned, mission accomplished, to the Ritz hotel. Porchey, by contrast, was struggling to contain his sadness at the suspicion that his marriage was failing. This leave-taking had an air of finality.

  The Countess of Carnarvon set sail on the liner Duke of Atholl, arriving in Canada after nine days at sea. The crossing was not without risk, but the Battle of the Atlantic had not yet quite entered its critical phase. From late July onwards, the ferocious fight to protect the convoys, which were bringing the imported goods on which Britain was dependent, stepped up a gear. The battle at sea, which lasted the duration of the conflict, underpinned the whole war effort, and the nation’s survival. Blockade and counter-blockade: both sides knew the war would be won or lost at sea and so it eventually proved. But Britain’s victory came at a huge price: 3,500 merchant ships and 175 warships were sunk, compared to just 783 German U-boats lost. Tilly was fortunate to travel when she did.

  Despite the fact that the crossing passed off without incident, they were an anxious few days. People were fleeing in circumstances that forced them to wonder whether they would see their loved ones again. Like most of the other passengers, Tilly was in charge of a party of small children sent to Canada for their safety by worried parents. Having handed her charges over to the authorities on arrival, she travelled down to New York and reinstalled herself in the life she had left six months before. She continued with her rounds of fundraising, in between theatre performances, and maintained to Porchey that if all went as well as he claimed to believe it would, she would be back at Highclere in the spring once her contract finished.

  Porchey was increasingly resigned to whatever might happen. In the meantime, he had barely returned to Sherwood Forest when he received two pieces of news. The 7th Hussars were to be disbanded. The matter had been settled: there was no role for the cavalry. With a heavy heart, he set about the business of winding up the regiment’s administration and writing once more to everyone he could think of in search of something useful to do. Then, he heard f
rom Catherine. She wanted to settle the question of their daughter’s future. It seemed that she felt it was time to take up her American relatives on their offer of sanctuary. Porchey had just secured a passage for his wife to travel to the States. Now Catherine wanted him to help her make arrangements for Penelope to make the same crossing.

  Catherine’s cousin Arthur Wendell, who lived in Rahway, New Jersey, had written to them both back in May, offering to do whatever he could to help. He and the rest of the family would find houses for them all in the States and schools for the children, though he was at pains to say, ‘Please don’t think any of us have lost faith in the ultimate outcome of this struggle.’ Catherine and Porchey had discussed it and decided to ask Arthur to look into a school for Pen. Arthur wrote to Porchey some weeks later about an ‘outstanding American school near Marian’s [Gar’s] cousins—hunting country. It has splendid equipment, capable teachers, two of Penelope’s friends already there.’ The school was Foxcroft, in Virginia. Catherine had sent Pen the prospectus.

  Neither of them wanted to send Penelope so far away, but now that the threat to Britain was closer, they felt they must. Catherine was suffering the agonising wait for news of Geoffrey, with every day sapping her reserves of hope. She dreaded the prospect of being without her daughter, and without Doll—she had asked her if she would accompany Pen. But her personal sense of the encroaching dangers had been sharpened to an almost unbearable point. She would have to find a way to bear the separation. With the Battle of Britain raging in the skies above southern England, her mind was made up. Porchey agreed. They must act now, before it became too dangerous to travel.

  On 24 July, as the Battle of the Atlantic entered its first critical phase, Pen, Doll and her beloved dog Baba left from Southampton. Catherine had said goodbye to her daughter at home in Ovington Square. She couldn’t bear to leave for fear that the cable would arrive with news of her husband while she was away. It was Porchey who once again made the sad trek to wave from the dockside.