A Brief History of the House of Windsor

by Michael Paterson

  Once Edward had left the throne, humiliation on humiliation was piled upon him. The financial arrangements for his future life, worked out with the Palace, were altered to become less generous, more punitive and more hedged about by conditions, one of which was that he might never return to live in the United Kingdom. His wife would not be accorded the same royal status as he himself was to retain, and no offspring from their marriage would have this style either. No member of the family accepted an invitation to his wedding – which took place the following May at a château outside Paris – including Louis Mountbatten, who had previously agreed to act as best man. It was as if, now that he was safely out of the country and no longer in a position of influence, there was no further need to waste any politeness on him.

  In the years that followed, Edward continued to be deprived of any useful role. He might be in exile but he could still embarrass his country, and he made a spectacular gaffe by accepting an invitation to visit Nazi Germany with his wife in 1937. She in particular was fawned upon by the leadership there. ‘What a queen she would have made!’ Hitler supposedly sighed after meeting the duchess. Their journey was featured in British cinema newsreels, where Edward was seen behaving much as he had at home when king – smiling, shaking hands, inspecting troops. His visit to a coal mine evoked memories of South Wales. Not only was the visit politically ill advised, it also reminded his former subjects of the better side of his nature, the things he had done so much more gracefully than his tongue-tied younger brother. He was thus further damned in the eyes of his family and of the British government. The visit also wrecked, for the time being, the Windsors’ relations with America. They had intended to go on there, but had to cancel because of the public odium they had earned through being seen with Hitler. Two years later, when the expected European war broke out, the duke and duchess were evacuated to Britain. Edward asked his brother for some useful war work. He was briefly appointed to the British military mission in France, and held a General’s rank, but when that country was overrun he immediately fled to Portugal.

  He was eventually got rid of with an appointment as Governor of the Bahamas, a lilliputian territory for an ex-king to rule, far removed from great events or from any chance to do more useful work. The Windsors remained there until the return of peace, and then moved once again to France. Provided with a house by the City of Paris, they lived there for the rest of their lives, a sybaritic existence that contained little other than golf and dinner parties, gardening and travel to the resorts of Europe and America. There was no full-scale reconciliation with their relatives in Britain (the Queen Mother would not have allowed this, it is believed), although they did return briefly to London in 1953 – not for the coronation, to which they were not invited, but for the unveiling of a memorial to Edward’s mother, who died that year. When he himself followed her – he passed away nineteen years later – he was at last brought back to his former realm. He lay in state at Windsor, where hundreds queued to see his coffin. (One of them, a woman interviewed by the BBC, was asked why she was there. She thought for a moment and answered: ‘He stuck to his convictions.’ There will always, perhaps, be a few romantics who insist on seeing him as a hero.) He was interred in the royal burial ground at Frogmore.

  It is worth remembering that Edward lived until 1972. His reign could therefore have lasted thirty-six years. It is very unlikely, however, that he would ever have seen out his life as king. He was such a disaster, and for so many reasons, that had his marriage not caused him to go, something else most probably would have done. It is not difficult to identify another problematic aspect of his life. His Nazi sympathies – unless they could have been played down sufficiently or he had done something to redeem himself – would have made him useless as a British wartime figurehead, and he might even have had to be interned. His Household would, in any case, have been impossible to run, or to rely on, for a head of state who would impulsively cancel long-standing commitments would swiftly have lost any credibility and caused complaints from those taxpayers who had been promised his time and his attention. He would quite likely have made any number of indiscreet, offensive public pronouncements that, reported in the press, would have further undermined respect for the monarchy – and perhaps fatally destroyed its reputation for impartiality. He would have antagonized every prime minister with whom he dealt (including the long-suffering Winston Churchill, who supported him in 1936), with his hectoring and abrasive manner as well as a marked inability to pay attention to official tasks. His occasional words of sympathy for the unemployed might have continued, but unaccompanied by any practical gestures, respect for him would have dwindled further.

  While he was Prince of Wales, the flaws in his nature could just about be covered up or explained away. As king, with his every move observed and reported, he would have been exposed before long as the man he was, and would have been widely disliked. Even had his wife been able to win over public opinion and find acceptance – and that is extremely unlikely, given her own nature – the couple would have attracted odium for their lack of seriousness, their vulgar friends, their expensive tastes, their patent selfishness, and perhaps most importantly for their inability to have children (a fact that was of course not known to the public at the time of their marriage). Had his reign lasted much longer, Edward VIII would have been booed in the streets, savaged in the press, scorned by his own subjects and ridiculed by other nations. The worst and most unpopular monarch since King John, he would almost certainly have abandoned the throne – or perhaps been forced from it by a coup d’état, such as had occurred in 1688. His brother George would, in all probability, have had to replace him within a few years, and history would then have proceeded much as it in fact did. It is unlikely, at any rate, that Queen Elizabeth II would have had to wait a further twenty years to ascend the throne.

  4

  GEORGE VI, ‘BERTIE’, 1936–52

  ‘How I hate being king! Sometimes at ceremonies I want to stand up and scream and scream.’

  George VI, shortly after ascending the throne

  Perhaps the most unlikely candidate for kingship of any country in the twentieth century – though one of the most-loved monarchs Britain has had – was Prince Albert, the younger brother of the charismatic but flawed Edward VIII. He became king on the abdication of his brother a few days before his forty-first birthday, and remained on the throne for just over fifteen years until his death at fifty-six. ‘Bertie’, as he was known to his family, had none of his brother’s advantages. Excruciatingly shy, and modest to the point of invisibility, he grew up with a profound feeling of inadequacy. He suffered from a stammer that afflicted him, as all the world learned from the film The King’s Speech, well into adult life. He was deeply unpromising as a youth, showing little aptitude as a cadet in the Royal Navy (though the time he spent in the Service gave him wide experience of people and places), but unlike his elder brother he saw wartime action. He was also a founder member of the Royal Air Force.

  In a technical Service, there was no opportunity to avoid unpleasant chores or daunting responsibilities. A contemporary photograph shows Bertie, blackened from head to foot, during the filthy but vital process of ‘coaling’, when his ship took on fuel. The Navy also forced him to live at close quarters with others. This was highly useful training in dealing with all sorts and conditions of men. He was helped by an excellent memory for names and faces. Decades after his active career had ended, he was still able to recall former shipmates when he met them, not only among officers but ratings and stokers too.

  He was aware of the power of monarchy to cast a spell over its subjects. He had seen Edward VII and George V, as well as his elder brother, exercise their different forms of charisma, and he knew that, whatever his own personal shortcomings, the institution he represented would exert its usual magic. He was to tell his daughter Elizabeth that whoever met her would remember the experience for the rest of their life. He expected others to recall meeting him and could become
furious (his bad temper and sudden rages, like those of his father, were legendary) if they did not. During the Second World War, when visiting the theatre of operations in North Africa, he shook hands with a number of Generals. He asked one of them: ‘Have we met before?’ ‘I don’t remember,’ was the reply. The king exploded, his stammer returning: ‘Well, you b-b-b-bloody-well ought to remember!’

  Bertie did not have academic intelligence – a characteristic he shared with his father and his brother David – but he possessed in full the sense of duty in which Edward had been lacking. What he would also bring to the role of king was a thorough, transparent decency that was to win over a number of those, such as left-wing politicians, or the leaders of independence movements, who had no reason to feel warmly either toward the monarchy or to Britain. He was naturally obliging and conscientious: or ‘dutiful, and rather dull’ as he was summed up. This was one of the kinder things said about him. He was variously dismissed as a ‘nitwit’ (Lloyd George), a ‘dull dog’ (R. A. Butler), ‘a weak character and certainly a stupid one’ (Oliver Hardy), a ‘very stupid man’ (Kenneth Clark), and a ‘moron’ (Deladier, the French prime minister).

  The empire did not need a man of great intelligence or even vision, however. Politicians can provide those things. A monarch needs patience, enthusiasm, and an ability at least to feign interest in what is around them; above all, perhaps, a proper appreciation of history and of their place in it. A sovereign cannot be too imaginative, for the job involves numbing monotony, endless repetition and ceaseless formality. They must also avoid having controversial, publicly expressed views on anything. Prince Albert, when he succeeded to the throne as King George VI, was able to summon these qualities. He sought to model his reign on that of his father. Though in many ways their natures were very different they had a certain amount in common, including the passion for shooting that was almost compulsory among the upper class of that time. Their handwriting was virtually identical, a reassuring symbol for those who yearned for continuity. Such people were not to be disappointed for the new sovereign copied, or simply manifested, the same dedication to duty, tolerance of protocol and irreproachable integrity that George V had done. To his subjects, his accession must have represented a return to reason after the short, turbulent rule of Edward VIII. The new King George was to prove that even a man whose personality and gifts seem unpromising can become an effective and respected sovereign if supported by able officials and sound advice and goodwill.

  George VI began his reign in the glow of public favour. People were aware that he did not relish his new role. They knew he had not been trained for it and that he did not feel suited to it by nature. Though he was not regarded as a very exciting individual, the majority sympathized with him and wished him well. The press deliberately built up a positive image of the new king, and helped him further by not giving coverage to his elder brother, who was now beginning a peripatetic life of exile abroad. That George was a family man, married to an eminently suitable wife and with children who at once secured the succession, helped considerably. After months of Edward VIII’s furtive love life and his betrayal of his destiny, this wholesome and straightforward family seemed a particular blessing. Its female members – his personable wife and photogenic daughters – provided any glamour that was necessary. Otherwise, his subjects were relieved to have a sovereign who was lacklustre and dutiful.

  With his accession there appeared on the national stage someone who was to be more responsible than any other individual for a new era of popularity for the monarchy. This was the new queen, Elizabeth. Her outgoing nature and matchless ability to make small talk hid a will of iron. She would not only bring up her eldest daughter to be a paragon among sovereigns but would make the utmost of the gentle nature and willingness to do his duty that characterized her husband. Her ability to manage what would now be called ‘public relations’ was unarguable. She presented the world, through the photographs and articles that she allowed visiting journalists to produce, with the image of a devoted, close-knit family, dressed simply and given to uncomplicated pleasures – riding, bicycling, gardening, picnicking. There was no pretence about any of this. The family members were precisely as they were shown. Queen Elizabeth succeeded in presenting them as the nation’s first family even before her husband had attained the throne.

  At first it seemed Bertie had not been designed by nature to be either a monarch or a wartime figurehead. Born on 14 December 1895 at York Cottage in Sandringham, he was christened Albert Frederick Arthur George (during Queen Victoria’s lifetime the name Albert appeared with unrelenting regularity among the Christian names of her male descendants). From the beginning he lived in the shadow of his more promising, charming, outgoing elder brother. Bertie was not only delicate but ill throughout his childhood. He had gastritis in infancy and it was to plague him again once he entered the Navy. He was also prone to knock knees, a family trait that is noticeable in pictures of George V, and was obliged to wear splints to correct this tendency.

  At the age of eight he developed his famous stammer. It has been accounted for by the fact that he was naturally left-handed but was forced to use his right. His father, who was affectionate but impatient and certainly not inclined to mollycoddle, would shout at him: ‘Get it out!’ if the boy suddenly became stuck over a word, and this naturally made him worse. There is no question that the royal family of that era provided a generally supportive environment in which to grow up. Its members were genuinely fond of each other and, with a few exceptions, demonstratively so when out of the public eye. It was also true, however, that the children were treated with exemplary firmness from the beginning. The boys must be accustomed to strictness so that they could cope with serving in the Navy. They could not be indulged, given the lives of duty they would go on to lead. This, as much as natural impatience, led their father to shout at them when occasion demanded. Between the brothers there was a very strong bond, as might have been expected with those who had little chance to meet others of their age (Bertie’s daughters, Elizabeth and Margaret, were to have the same close relationship). The common experience of growing up in a unique family united them, as it tends to do with every generation of royalty.

  Like Eddy and George before them, Bertie and his brother David were put into the Royal Navy at an early age. As with the previous generation, it was assumed that this would give them a sound education. When in 1936 Bertie suddenly found himself king, he would exclaim anxiously to his cousin, Louis Mountbatten: ‘Dickie, this is absolutely terrible. I’m only a naval officer. It’s the only thing I know about!’ Mountbatten was to reply smoothly that: ‘There is no finer training for a king.’ This pronouncement was treated as received wisdom, but it was in fact highly unrealistic. The Service undoubtedly taught some important traits: responsibility, punctuality, respect for authority, and familiarity with the wider world. Yet a naval gunroom was also a place of smug and insular philistinism. The only knowledge required in the Navy was technical. There was no opportunity to develop imagination, creativity or original thought. Character was developed at the expense of individuality or intellectual enquiry, and though some officers might possess these things, they would be seen as odd in an environment where the ‘norm’ was a bluff distrust of intelligence. The Navy left both princes hopelessly unlettered and uncultured, and with a puerile sense of humour that stayed with them for life. Nevertheless, they both retained a personal loyalty to it, looking back with affection on their time as officers, and they both had a great rapport with servicemen and veterans that served them well as sovereigns.

  Since their father’s time, a naval school had been set up in the grounds of Osborne House, Queen Victoria’s summer home on the Isle of Wight. David, Bertie and their cousin Louis Mountbatten all attended this before going on to Dartmouth. Bertie’s performance at the school was dismal. He came 68th out of 68 cadets in order of merit. When he passed out of Dartmouth he managed to stay off the bottom of the class, but here too his performance wa
s unimpressive: 61st out of 67. His career at both establishments was ordinary enough. At the former he was nicknamed ‘Bat-lugs’ for his protruding ears. At the latter he was punished for horseplay. He became a midshipman in 1913, a member of the world’s largest and most powerful navy. He had entered a Service that, at that time, had permanent fleets based in the Mediterranean, the Indian Ocean, and the Far East, and which would thus have enabled him to serve in every part of the globe.

  He was to spend four years in the Navy. During that time he was treated like any other junior officer, and was to look back with appreciation on this interlude. He enjoyed life at sea, with its lack of protocol and its frequent challenges. He liked living, on terms of complete equality, with other young men who shared his interests. He appreciated the chance to meet and work with the ratings and petty officers – his only close encounter with the working class, and one that must have exerted a certain fascination. Like his father – and indeed the great Lord Nelson – he became seasick, but this did not prevent him from revelling in his new life. He went on a training voyage to the Caribbean and, because his presence aboard ship was known, crowds gathered in the ports to stare at him. Such was his shyness – and irritation with all this attention – that he got a fellow midshipman of similar build to act as his double.

  The era of peace between Britain and the Continental powers, which had lasted almost a hundred years, was about to end with frightening suddenness in the outbreak of the First World War. Bertie was aboard HMS Collingwood during the first days of August when the Fleet awaited the opening of hostilities, and stood watch on deck to await conflict. Yet his war was to start badly for him. Within a few weeks appendicitis had put him on an operating table. His recovery was slow, and he chafed at the enforced idleness. A further illness put him out of action for months, though at least during that time he was able to make a visit to France with the Prince of Wales, and to see there the horrific conditions in which the soldiers lived and fought. He rejoined his ship in May 1916, only a few weeks before the showdown with the German Fleet for which the Royal Navy had been waiting throughout almost two years of war. This was to be the clash between two of the world’s naval giants, equipped almost equally with state-of-the-art warships – an encounter that in its scale, its weaponry and its consequences would surely be the greatest naval battle of all time. It took place on the afternoon of 31 May 1916, when the German Fleet sailed out of Kiel into the North Sea and met their opponents off the coast of Denmark.