by D. J. Taylor
Staring out of the window as they trundled back—uphill, with the shooting brake’s gears grinding like giants’ teeth—she was startled to find the landscape completely transformed. With the light taken out of them, the trees dwindled into nothing. The fields turned grey and anonymous. Here and there birds foraged over the stubble. Captain Ramsay, who seemed to be observing all this keenly, said, ‘This reminds me of that poem of Lang’s. You know the one.
Bring me here, Life’s tired-out guest,
To the blest
Bed that waits the weary rover,—
Here should failure be confest;
Ends my quest,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!’
And Cynthia thought: So he is human after all. The rest of the journey passed in silence.
Curiously, the rest of the weekend brought two more surprises.
The first was the discovery, outside her bedroom door, quite early the next morning, of a solitary red rose in a china pot. The rose had clearly come from the Ashburton hot-house, but there was no clue as to who had left it there. The second came when, looking through an ancient photograph album with Hermione, she discovered that a tiny figure on the edge of a tennis party, with shingled hair gathered up under a cloche hat, was her mother. For some reason she did not draw this fact to Hermione’s attention, but said merely, ‘How long have our parents known each other?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Hermione said. She was in a better mood, and trying to secure the edges of a photograph taken of her at a dance, which had been so over-exposed that the man she was standing next to looked as if his head had been blown off. ‘Forever, I should think. Wasn’t your mother brought out at the same time as mine? Just be an angel, would you, and give me that packet of corners.’
And then, all of a sudden, it was Sunday afternoon and, quite gravid with all the food she had eaten, she was standing on the front steps saying goodbye to the Bannisters and hearing them insist that she should come and see them again. That was three people who wanted to see her, she thought grimly to herself: first Tyler Kent and now Mr and Mrs Bannister.
Then, quite unexpectedly, just as the Bannisters’ Daimler turned in the drive, there was a fourth, for Hermione came bouncing out of the house, caught her in a grip that was more tense than affectionate, and said, all in a rush: ‘It’s been so nice having you. Father didn’t want you, you know, but I said we must. And guess what? I shall be staying in Bruton Street next month. Mother’s said I can go to classes at the Tate. So we shall have to have lunch and things.’
Two minutes later the car swung out of the drive in the direction of Arundel Station. It was the same chauffeur, but this time she kept her half-crowns to herself.
When she got back to Bayswater, it was to discover that Mr Kirkpatrick had suffered a slight stroke. He had been getting out of the bath, begun to dry himself, and then found his left leg frozen to the bath mat. Mrs Kirkpatrick’s discomfiture at finding him there, some minutes later, could only be imagined. She had decided not to telephone to the Bannisters on the grounds of ‘not wanting Cynthia to be alarmed.’
Though appalled and disgusted by illness, Mrs Kirkpatrick was a practised comforter of the sick. She brought soup bowls of beef tea and administered it to her husband—now confined to bed but talkative—spoonful by spoonful.
Chapter 5
Beverley Nichols’s Diary I
18 October 1939
Woke up at 6 a.m.—alone, mercifully—in one of those dreadful hotels around the back of Victoria Station. All unspeakably sordid: literally cockroaches in the bath and Levantine-looking gentlemen gossiping on the staircase. Breakfast brought in by, of all people, a coal-black Negro who looked as if he had just escaped from one of Cochran’s revues. Left as soon as I decently could (why does one do these things?) and took a cab back to Hampstead, where I slunk into the house trying to avoid Gaskin’s wintry eye. On these occasions Gaskin always looks exactly like the butler in the Punch cartoon, who, on being told by a rough-looking man that the revolution has arrived, tells him to take it round to the tradesman’s entrance.
Morning papers all wondering why there is so little war news. Well, I could tell them that. It is because no one, apart from a few belligerent old men in the Cabinet, actually wants a war. For some reason this fact has not yet impressed itself on the newspapers.
Was just telling myself that I would never go anywhere near that hotel in Victoria again, and certainly not with x, when Gaskin came in, looking much less disapproving, to say that Captain Ramsay had called, and would I care to telephone him at the House. This is all a consequence of my article in the Chronicle last Sunday saying that our war aims should not be victory at any cost but peace at almost any price.
Ramsay not there when I telephoned, but made an appointment to see him this afternoon. Then, thinking that life must go on, even if we are engaged in a futile and unnecessary conflict, I made some notes for the India book, which Cape says he wants to bring out next year—that is, if there are any shops left to sell books, and any people left to buy them. A report in the Telegraph that Mosley has had dinner with the King. Don’t believe this for a moment, knowing Tom, or indeed HM, but interested to see. Then, in mid-morning post, an income tax demand for £982. This is simply outrageous—it is all to pay for charabancs for ugly little children who ought to be compelled to walk to school, and I shall write and tell them so.
Later. To see Ramsay at the House. All very mysterious—great show of fastening his office door, telling clerk he must not be disturbed, &c.—but I suppose a little secrecy is necessary in the circumstances. We were interrupted several times by telephone calls which he said he simply must take. Ramsay a tall, courteous, rather stammering man, with that nervous look one knows so well (he was badly wounded in the war, I think). Rather a professional Old Etonian—a card from the Eton–Harrow match still on the desk, tho’ the match was played three months ago, Rambler tie, &c.—but mercifully not in the way Victor Cazalet is, always going on about ‘m’ tutor’ and the wretched Wall Game. Said he had read the Chronicle article, hoped there would be others like it, believed I could make myself ‘very useful’ if I cared to. I said, what I firmly believe, that for ten years I have been obsessed with the idea of war, and the only really unselfish work I did in my life was in the cause of peace. Now all that is shattered, and there is a temptation to think it is shattered forever.
Ramsay, who seems very well informed, knew about this. Said: ‘You see, we have had you in our sights for some time, Mr Nichols.’ Nice to be esteemed in this way, of course, but flatter myself that it is really only one’s due. After all, one was making these points in 1930, when everyone else was dashing around in fancy dress to ‘smart’ parties.
As for Ramsay’s scheme, it is exactly as I had imagined, which is to canvass sympathisers in all walks of life—parliament, the army, the civil service—and report back to Ramsay’s committee, with the aim of bringing about a negotiated peace. There are apparently several hundred of them. Ramsay says he has signed up nearly a hundred Conservative MPs, and also one or two Socialists, which I rather doubt. Also that ‘Ironside is with us’—impressive if true, Ironside being Chief of the Imperial General Staff. ‘What about the King?’ I asked, this being the one topic that everyone has been talking about for the past month. The King was a difficulty, Ramsay said. Naturally opposed to the war (apparently he sent a telegram to Berlin as late as the 24th of August!) but terrified of exceeding his constitutional powers. Would not see Ramsay, or anyone associated with him, even in private.
Much talk of ‘Tom’ Mosley and the Viscount Lymington—an unbalanced little man who left the Tory Party to found some obscure ginger group—which made me wonder if the whole business was simply a magnet for cranks. Ramsay seemed aware of this danger. Said he could not be held personally responsible for everything done in his name: one had to trust people’s judgement. Stressed the need f
or absolute discretion: believes the Secret Services are listening to his telephone. Asked: would I be able to attend meetings and if necessary report on them? I said I should be delighted to do this. And undertake liaison work? I said I would do this too. He had seen the newspaper report about Mosley dining with the King. It was all lies, he said. ‘The King never dines with anyone.’ In fact I know two or three people the King has dined with recently, but merely smiled and nodded agreement.
Back at Hampstead I decided to cover myself by ringing up Victor and getting his opinion of Ramsay. Victor surprisingly non-committal. Said Ramsay loyal, patriotic, and unquestionably sincere. Had done nothing much in the House—a place on the Scottish Food Board the limit of his ambition—but that everyone liked him. Was almost deranged about the Jews, though, and thought that they made up most of the Soviet politburo. Activities on behalf of the ‘Faction’ (Ramsay did not use this word, but apparently that is how his organisation is referred to) well known in the House, and regarded with varying degrees of suspicion/amusement/respect.
I asked Victor point-blank: was he involved? He said no, he had no objection to Ramsay wanting peace, but had worked with him over the United Christian Front business (I dimly remember this—something to do with a free-thinkers’ conference that Ramsay opposed) and didn’t wish to repeat the experience. Plus there was a danger of the whole thing getting out of hand. People always say this, I notice, whenever anyone looks as if they may genuinely do something. Anyway, wrote to Ramsay saying I had the highest opinion of the work he was trying to do and placed myself unreservedly at his disposal.
Later. Dinner with Mary Ridgely Carter at 41 Portman Square. A rather tiresome American who is apparently in love with me. She had collected the Duke of Marlborough, Lady Cummings, and Mrs Spencer Elmleigh. Talk, inevitably, about the war. Lady Cummings said her son, serving in the Fleet Air Arm, reported great dissatisfaction among the men, belief that the whole thing could have been avoided, &c. This confirms my conviction that Ramsay is absolutely right in what he is doing.
Came back to find letter from x asking for £10 by return of post ‘to be going on with,’ whatever that may mean, and containing insinuations amounting to blackmail. Really! When one thinks of all one has done for him, picking him almost from the street and showering him with expensive presents, not to mention overlooking several little failings that a more fastidious man might have complained about, this kind of treatment beggars belief.
24 October 1939
Found a solitary grey hair just above my right temple. I expect it is all the worry I have been subject to recently, not least with x. Shocking to think that one is 41. It seems only yesterday that Willie Maugham was twitting me with being a ‘coming young man.’ No word from Ramsay. I expect he is ‘taking soundings,’ as the saying goes. In this case, I suppose, going to White’s and asking the men sitting on the fender ‘Do you know Beverley Nichols?’
Let us hope they say nice things!
Later. Trouble with Drawbell over my Chronicle article. Wanted to write a piece saying that the only honourable thing the Government can do is to call for a negotiated settlement, but Drawbell said he didn’t think the readers would stand for it. Of course, he goes to stay at Chartwell so I expect that Winston has interfered, in that infuriating way of his. In the end I decided to write about Stokes, that nice Labour MP, and his Peace Aims Group, which went down well.
Somebody who knows Chamberlain says that of the 2,900 letters received by Downing Street, more than three-quarters were in favour of stopping the war. Of course, no newspaper will print this information.
Distressed to see in The Times a photograph of Chantleigh Hall, where I used to stay with Jimmy Chantleigh, now being requisitioned for a training camp or some other abomination. I knew those ‘stately homes’ and although they weren’t my cup of tea I think they played a part in civilising the world, and they had their moments of beauty. And now the shutters are drawn, the music is silenced, and the lovely lawns are ploughed up to grow potatoes. It is all desperately sad.
27 October 1939
Still no word from Ramsay. I expect he has been busy in the House. There was a report in The Times today of his asking in Parliament whether the Home Secretary was aware that a street orator at Finsbury Park who stated that this was a capitalists’ war was not arrested by the police, whereas another speaker nearby, who declared that it was a Jewish financiers’ war, was taken into custody.
Talked some more to Victor about R. He said—something I did not know—that he has a son in the army, so there can be no question about his patriotism.
Everything is very quiet. The literary world quite dead, of course. I daresay that if Hugh Walpole arrived at his publishers with a new manuscript under his arm he would be turned away. All ‘the writers’ are scrabbling for jobs in government ministries. Well, let them scrabble! Desmond Rafferty, whom I saw in Piccadilly, has started a new magazine, to be called Duration. I expect it will be full of photographs of abstract painting and bad poetry.
For some reason I found myself thinking of all the time I had spent in Germany. Berlin in 1936 with Peter K., sunbathing with Hans that day at Wannsee and watching the Games from the press seats, which happened to be directly behind the Führer’s box. It seems an eternity away, like medieval knights at a joust. And now when everything is blown to pieces we are still blaming other people for something which is fundamentally our fault. It is simply no use, for example, pretending that the Versailles Treaty wasn’t thoroughly unfair, or that if Britain, with the resources of the Empire behind her, could not solve her problems and raise the spirits of her people in the way that Germany has, there isn’t something inherently wrong with our system.
The essential problem about Hitler, surely—whatever one thinks about him privately—is that he feels he has been badly treated.
Another letter from x saying that, after careful consideration, he intends to ‘do his bit against Fascism’ and join the Merchant Navy. This was so preposterous that I forbore to reply.
29 October 1939
Ramsay writes, apologising profusely for the short notice, and asking would I care to come to a meeting in South Kensington tonight to discuss what he called ‘a matter of grave national interest’? I telegraphed instantly to say that I would go—or rather sent Gaskin to do so—spent the afternoon writing my Chronicle article (as critical of Winston/Admiralty as I could make it) and then hurried off in a taxi to the address Ramsay had given, rather intrigued as to what I might find.
Private house in Onslow Square; butler to open the door; about 20 persons present, one or two of them rather picturesque. Admiral Domvile I recognised from his picture in the papers. Bryant, the historian, one has come across from time to time. Lady Pearson, who is, I think, the BUF candidate for Canterbury. An extraordinary woman who calls herself ‘Commandant Allen’—Commandant of what, I wonder?—tiny, mannish, and dressed in a severe black uniform, of whom Ramsay spoke with the greatest respect. Ramsay’s intimates, I note, refer to him as ‘Jock.’ Two full colonels in service dress.
Ramsay explained that the meeting’s purpose was to co-ordinate activities of various groups opposed to the war which had been driven more or less underground. Some of these one had heard of—Nordic League, the Link, &c.—others deeply obscure. Air of fanaticism inevitable at such gatherings, I suppose, but struck by anti-Semitic feeling. A speech by A. K. Chesterton to the Nordic League, which proposed that using the lamp-posts was the only way to deal with the Jews, quoted several times.
All this intensely depressing. Indeed, apart from the resentment, one might have been at a meeting of a rural district council. Reassured, though, by conversation with Domvile. Small, rather supercilious little man. Says he is in constant touch with the War Cabinet (through whom, I wonder?) which is hopelessly divided—one half wanting to fight, the other ready to parley. Also that there is a definite attempt on the part of the Germans to bring f
orward peace proposals. This is to be done through embassy in Dublin, the offer then being conveyed to Halifax.
I suppose I must have seemed sceptical, for Domvile grinned at me—he looks exactly like Mr Punch on these occasions—and said: ‘I assure you, Mr Nichols, that these negotiations are being conducted at the highest level.’ It occurred to me that a meeting of this kind might very well be subject to some kind of official surveillance. Mentioned this to Domvile, who said they had two or three very reliable ‘men’ in Jermyn Street who kept them abreast of developments.
As ever on occasions of this kind, scarcely anything decided. I was left with a confused impression of old ladies arguing. Ramsay surprisingly tolerant of all this. Went home thinking that if I was to be of any use, it would not be by attending meetings in South Kensington. Item on the evening news saying that Expeditionary army to be reinforced by further 50,000 men. Interestingly, Domvile had told me about this. A last-ditch effort by Churchill and co. in the War Cabinet to impose their views? We shall see.
31 October 1939
Several newspapers carrying photographs of the King inspecting troops. Does not look well: thin, desiccated, and the rather startled boyishness that served him so well in youth now makes him seem petulant. To make matters worse, the troops he was reviewing were all Grenadiers at least six inches taller than himself. Victor said he had a blazing row with Chamberlain over the conduct of the war last week, complains that he is not kept informed, critical of at least half the War Cabinet, thinks Ironside manifestly unsuitable, &c.
Rather a shock to think that one has been reading about, I should say the King, but it is very hard to get out of the habit of calling him the Prince these past twenty years. I have a memory of him, in a tail-coat and decorations, ascending a great staircase in Mayfair and then shaking hands with Maurice Baring and Diana Cooper who came to greet him at the top. And then staying with Sir Sidney Greville at St James’s Palace—this must have been in 1921—he seemed to be constantly on the telephone. Could do nothing, apparently, without consulting his comptroller. When should he wear a dinner jacket as opposed to tails? Could he be seen in an open car without a hat? Who should be placed next to whom at dinner? What he needed, of course, and never got, was a male friend he could trust and who would stand up to him. This paragon never presenting itself, he was easy prey for Lady Furness, the dreadful late Mrs S, &c.
