Past Caring

by Robert Goddard

  “It is not why I have come, so let us say no more of it. What has brought me here this afternoon is the state of the Conference about which I had such doubts but which I am doing my best to make a go of.”

  “As are we all.”

  “I think not. I have recently become aware that a member of our own delegation may be pursuing schismatic objectives under the cover of negotiations with the Conservatives.”

  Again, there was no visible reaction from Asquith. “Be so good as to explain.”

  “Secret negotiations have commenced geared towards replacing this government with a coalition in which those party to the negotiations would have their reward and from which others – including yourself – would be excluded.”

  “And you accuse one of our delegation of this clandestine negotiation?”

  “I do.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “The Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

  “I see.” There followed only silence.

  “After Monday’s session, L.G. asked me if I would be interested in such a proposal, if I would cooperate with him in agreeing terms with Balfour and support them against you when the time came.”

  “And how did you reply?”

  “I refused. That is why I am telling you now, as I felt to be my duty.”

  “Then I’m obliged to you.”

  “I thought you might wish to …”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself to continue. I think you have said enough.”

  “But what will you do?”

  “Nothing.” His inertness of pose confirmed his reply.

  “Prime Minister, I don’t think I understand.”

  “Very well, I will specify that which I had hoped to spare you.” There was a visible summoning of effort. “What you say may or may not be true. I find it entirely credible that Lloyd George should engage in such activities – have long known him to be utterly unscrupulous. But I must weigh against that possibility the known fact that you oppose the Conference. I included you in our delegation against my better judgement, because I thought that, as Home Secretary, you had a right to take part in discussions concerning parliamentary reform. Yet I know that, for personal reasons, you feel frustrated by this method of proceedings and might therefore have an interest in undermining my faith in the Conference and panicking me into an election to forestall the backstairs intriguing of which you now carry tales. No doubt you suppose that, following an election, you could marry in the knowledge that any scandal associated with it would have dissipated by the time you had to face your constituents again.”

  My avuncular premier had gone too far. “You may think what you like, Prime Minister. As I see it, there is no scandal associated with my proposed marriage to Miss Latimer. You originally cited your own embarrassment as the objection. It is true that I consider the Conference to be a waste of time, but it is now acquiring sinister connotations and, if you wish to ignore the threat it may pose to your own position, that is your privilege. I would advise you to take it more seriously. As for myself, you are mistaken if you impute dishonourable motives to me. I have always sought to deal properly in this matter, whilst others have delayed and dissembled. You confess to doubts about the probity of some of your colleagues. I believe those doubts are now handicapping the execution of the government’s duties. I will therefore have to review my part in that government.”

  I rose to leave, but Asquith held up his hand in a gesture that was more conciliatory than his words had so far been. “Stay a moment, Edwin. I may have spoken hastily and have no wish to impugn your honour. I confess that there has been so much duplicitous dealing since the election that I sometimes distrust even the trustworthy. I hope you will see why I cannot afford to act on what you have said. As for your own position, I urge you to remain. Your talents are much needed, your candour hardly less so. There is, I fear, no inducement that I can or will offer in the present circumstances. Stay if you will, go if you must. But do not set terms for staying which I cannot meet.”

  “Thank you for saying that.” I rose a second time. “Let us say no more for the present. I will consider what to do for the best.”

  Asquith also rose. “Consider well, Edwin. But remember – we have need of such as you.”

  “I will.”

  Spontaneously, I shook his hand, then left quickly. He had, I noted, wrenched some decent sentiments from his soul, but this seemed to require more effort than had once been the case. By his lights a good man, he appeared to me to have withered beneath his load of responsibility, a worthy advocate worn down by advancing too many dubious arguments in the service of causes he only half-believed in. He had never lied to me, only misrepresented; never promised, only hoped; never acted, only reacted.

  I made my way to the Embankment and walked west beside mother Thames, in need of its breezes to clear my thoughts. I felt not outraged by Asquith’s indecision but saddened that he should have so little grasp on events. Anger was reserved for myself, for having allowed him to deceive me with his pious hopes, for having thought there would be some end to his procrastination. Now I knew there never would be and that Elizabeth and I were waiting upon his instinct for infinite delay. He might have believed my report of Lloyd George, but I knew now that he would do nothing about it, as he had himself admitted. Rather he would ignore it – and any other problem – until the moment when a crisis was forced by hands other than his. Elizabeth and I were in no position to impose a crisis, which left us only one recourse.

  At Battersea Bridge, I turned inland from the river and made my way home, where I knew that solitude awaited me in which to decide what to do next. The Prideaux had gone down to Devon for their annual fortnight with their daughter’s family in Bideford. So there had been nobody to admit the figure I saw standing by my door as I came along the street. Drawing closer, my heart leapt at the realization that it was my beloved Elizabeth. She was clad soberly in grey, as when once she had come there with a housebrick concealed in her reticule, gazing about her now quite as anxiously as she had that day. But, at my approach, she smiled and waved a gloved hand. I joined her at the door and snatched a kiss.

  “This is very forward of you, Mr Strafford,” she said with a laugh. “To kiss me in the street.”

  “May I not so greet my fiancée?”

  “Of course. It was only that …”

  “We have endeavoured to be cautious in our displays of affection. But I hope such circumspection can now end, Elizabeth. Come inside and I will explain.”

  I showed her into the drawing room and took her cape, explaining the Prideaux’ absence as I went to hang it up. She in turn explained her presence on my doorstep, although I had sought no reason for such a happy manifestation.

  “I walked up from Putney this afternoon half-hoping to find you in. I wondered whether I had given you sound advice yesterday.”

  “Don’t doubt it,” I said, returning to the room. “We have discharged our obligations in exemplary fashion. Would that others had.”

  “Such as the Prime Minister?”

  “Such as he indeed.” I sat her down on the sofa next to me. “I have just returned from seeing him.”

  “What happened?”

  “I told him of Lloyd George’s proposition and how I thought the Conference would be undermined by his activities.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that he could not act upon such information, even if he believed it, which he was inclined not to do because he thought that I had a vested interest in wrecking the Conference. When I challenged him on the point, he backed down, but not with sufficient conviction to warrant my reconsidering my next move.”

  “Which is?”

  “To resign … and marry you as soon as possible.”

  Elizabeth’s mouth broadened into a smile, then she as suddenly looked down. “Oh Edwin, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. To marry you is all I want to do, but not at the expense of your career.”

  I took her b
y the hand. “Elizabeth, my career is not worth that much, especially not in this tainted administration. We have waited too long as it is and should wait no longer.”

  “But …”

  “No buts, please, my darling. We took oaths of love last Michaelmas which should now be honoured. I should never have asked you to indulge in the charade of recent months. And be assured: it was a charade. The day Asquith has long spoken of, when he is prepared to tolerate the embarrassment of our union, will never come. He will always advance a plausible reason for its delay. Now I will save him the trouble. Let him cope with Lloyd George unaided. Let Lloyd George forward his own grubby schemes without my assistance or opposition. I will leave them all to it and devote myself to making you happy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as my love for you.” I drew her to me and kissed her. “Marry me, Elizabeth.”

  “I will, Edwin, I will.”

  “The sooner the better now. I will resign tomorrow and apply for a special licence.”

  “If you are to sacrifice high office, I will relinquish what paltry political career of my own I have. I will resign from the WSPU and sunder all links with the suffragist movement.”

  “I do not require that of you.”

  “Just as I do not require anything of you, Edwin, except your love and your hand. But permit me a small sacrifice to stand beside your far greater one.”

  “Very well.”

  “What will you do without politics?”

  “I will remain an M.P. for a little longer yet and consider my options. Business, journalism – who knows? Let it all be a grand adventure, starting with our wedding.”

  I poured two glasses of sherry, the best libation I could muster, and we toasted our mutually assured happiness, infecting each other with a sudden release of nervous gaiety. To know that all the waiting was at an end was to know that a better, brighter day would dawn now for both of us. We stood by the window, arm in arm, looking out at the few passers-by, all of them unaware of our joy, then turned away to look at each other.

  “Nobody out there will be able to say that our action is unsuitable for people in our positions because we will have abandoned those positions to take up far happier ones.”

  “Like any good politician, Edwin, you convince me”

  “But unlike many politicians, Elizabeth, you can believe this one.”

  “I will always trust in you.”

  We touched glasses and drank again in the summer sun shafting through the new glass of the window, then kissed and returned to the sofa.

  “A glass of sherry in a house shorn of servants is no way to celebrate our decision,” I said. “Might you be free for dinner, Miss Latimer?”

  “With my future husband, always, though I am hardly dressed for the occasion.”

  “If I can abandon a conference, cannot you abandon convention for an evening?”

  And, of course, she did. We summoned a cab and proceeded at once to The Baron for dinner at what had by now become our usual table. If less gorgeously dressed than usual for such an occasion, Elizabeth was certainly more radiant than normal, her eyes forever on mine as we drank and ate and talked, with a kind of feverish relief, of the rest of our lives together. For once, and, as it seemed, forever, we forgot the Liberal party and the suffragist movement and thought only of ourselves. The months of anxiety and suspense were at an end and, in their wake, came all the pleasure in each other which we had so long suppressed. The beautiful young woman who was soon to become my wife shared my delight with all the wholeheartedness I could have hoped for.

  Around ten o’clock, we left The Baron and I summoned a cab to take Elizabeth home to Putney.

  “It seems a pity,” I said as the cab drew up, “that our homes lie apart.”

  “I no longer feel that they do,” said Elizabeth.

  “Nor I. On such a balmy night, would you like to walk with me back to what will soon be your home as well as mine? I could drive you out to Putney in my car.” At this stage, I was merely reluctant for us to part so soon and so early, as was, I think, Elizabeth. So we walked slowly and happily, arm in arm, through quiet residential roads back to Mallard Street. As a chill crept into the night, I put my arm round Elizabeth’s shoulder, reflecting with slight but pleasurable dismay that we had hitherto punctiliously avoided such intimate proximity. My beautiful bride-to-be yielded to my caress as we went and, by the time we arrived at my door, it seemed not so much intolerable as wonderfully unnecessary for us to part for the night.

  We went into the drawing room and I poured a nightcap.

  “Thank you for the happiest evening of my life,” Elizabeth said.

  “And thank you for mine,” I replied. “Just think: it is the first of many more. There is a sense in which our marriage begins tonight.”

  “I feel that too, Edwin.” I was uncertain how far I had been speaking metaphorically and Elizabeth’s response did not suggest she was any clearer on the point. I walked over to hand her a glass, but instead set it down on a table and took her in my arms.

  “Stay with me, Elizabeth.”

  “Forever, Edwin.”

  “And tonight?”

  She paused for a moment to look at me, then spoke. “I am yours.”

  I cradled her in my arms and carried her upstairs to the bedroom, in a progression that seemed the most natural thing in all the world. There we celebrated in the flesh our marriage of the mind. For the first time, we were each other’s in the fullest sense, unaware in our ecstasy that this was not he glorious beginning of our life together but its poignant end.

  So it was that, when the rays of morning crept across the room, I awoke with Elizabeth asleep against me, seeing only bright promise in the day ahead. I slipped out of bed and made some tea. When I returned, Elizabeth had donned a dressing gown of mine and was sitting up in bed, bashful and discomposed, but not unhappy. I sat down beside her with the tray.

  “Without the Prideaux, we must shift for ourselves,” I said. “Would you care to risk some tea brewed by me?”

  “It is as well the Prideaux are not here, Edwin. They would be scandalized.”

  “No doubt, but there is no scandal, my love. All such thoughts are behind us. By the time the Prideaux get back, we will have fixed a date for you to become Mrs Strafford. In all but the formal sense, you already are.”

  Elizabeth took my arm. “Let it be soon.”

  “It will be, never fear.”

  I now prevailed upon Elizabeth to try some of my tea, but, before she had finished the cup, she began to fret about Mercy, who was bound to be concerned about her whereabouts. The least censorious of ladies, Mercy would nevertheless be worried, so then we hurried, which helped besides to cover some of our embarrassment. I left Elizabeth to dress and busied myself downstairs.

  Soon it was time to go, only Elizabeth’s expressive look conveying that this was a different young girl in grey to the one who had come to my door the day before.

  “I’ll call a cab to take you to Putney,” I said. “I’ll walk to the Home Office and …”

  “When will I see you again?”

  “Before the day is out. There is a Cabinet meeting at eleven, where I’ll hand my letter of resignation to Asquith. Afterwards, I’ll come straight to Putney and take you to the Court of Faculties, so that we can apply for a special licence.”

  “Come as soon as you can. It will seem an age however soon it is.”

  “Are you worried about Mercy?”

  “Only because she will be worried. My return will put her mind at rest.”

  “Then we had better arrange it in short order.”

  We went outside and I hailed a cab. Elizabeth lingered by my front door as the cab drew up.

  “Are you not anxious to return to Putney?”

  “Of course, but, somehow, this parting now seems wrong.”

  “A brief but necessary one, I promise, whilst I perform the obsequies in Downing Street and you settle your aunt’s nerves. It w
ill only be a few hours before we are re-united.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry to be so silly.”

  “Never silly, Elizabeth, only lovely. Go now and remember, I will love you forever.”

  We kissed as lingeringly as we could with a cabbie on hand, then Elizabeth climbed aboard and they clopped off along Mallard Street, I waving after her. “Look out for me this afternoon,” I cried.

  “I will,” I heard her faintly call‚ words I thought soon to hear her use in more ceremonial setting – but never did.

  I returned to the house to pack what official papers I had into a valise, then set off for the Home Office. There, Meres was his usual efficient self, unaware that my only task that morning was to write one letter. It was swiftly done – an unadorned one-sentence notification of my immediate departure from office. I sealed the envelope and, with it, my fate and walked smartly round to Downing Street to join my fellow-ministers at number 10.

  The Cabinet meeting was unremarkable. I said nothing, not even when the matter arose of the bill to enfranchise female occupiers. It came as no surprise to me that Lloyd George spoke in favour of giving it a second reading, nor that Asquith quietly acquiesced in this. I cast a last ritual vote against, but finished in the minority.

  As the meeting was breaking up, I drew Asquith aside and handed him my letter.

  “I’d be obliged if you found an early opportunity to read this, Prime Minister,” I said.

  “Of course, Edwin, of course,” Asquith muttered, but his attention was on a conversation with the Foreign Secretary. I slipped quietly away, content to go without further ado.

  I lunched at the House of Commons, then strolled down to the Embankment and, so fine was the afternoon, decided to walk all the way upriver to Putney.

  I arrived at about four o’clock in the orderly precincts of Mercy’s house and knocked at the door, expecting it to be opened either by Elizabeth or their maid. Instead, a stranger appeared before me – a stockily built young man with a querulous set to his expression.

  “Can I help you?” he said, with no hint that he meant to.