Abdication: A Novel (42 page)

Look after Joan, won’t you? You know I think of her as a mother. And give Florence a kiss from me
.

I am going to miss you more than you know
.

With love from

Julian

May read the letter twice and the final two sentences three times. After a moment or two she realised Mr. Hooch was still standing in the corner of the kitchen.

“I am going back to Polegate now to collect Miss Nettlefold from the ten o’clock from Victoria. Would you like to come with me? I would welcome the company,” he said.

Mr. Hooch did not have to explain an invitation that May knew was kindness of the best sort. But she declined the offer and went to her desk intending to immerse herself in her work, the certainties of life unravelling around her. She remembered how as a child at home in Barbados she would sometimes wake in a panic in the middle of the night, fearful that she had built her sandcastle too close to the shoreline,
and that in the morning she would find it had melted clean away in the waves. Just as the foundation stones of the pavements around Oak Street had been forcibly uprooted in the East End only a month ago, so the way of life and the friendships that she had begun to trust in over the last ten months no longer seemed so secure.

Sir Philip was waiting for her in the study.

“I have got to go to London tomorrow for a meeting at Downing Street with the prime minister, Sunday or no Sunday. Things are truly coming to a head. Can you get Lord Beaverbrook on the telephone for me right away?”

Half an hour later the sound of the dogs barking in the big hall confirmed that Miss Nettlefold had arrived but May did not actually see her until she spotted the fur-clad figure, outside on the lawn with Loafer. May watched the pair of them through the window. Loafer was limping along behind his temporary mistress with the gait of an animal dragging itself through life. May turned back to her desk where the telephone was ringing for what seemed like the dozenth time in as many minutes.

At teatime Miss Nettelfold came looking for May. The small study felt dreadfully cramped as the large woman eased her abundant form past the desk and sat down, her overtight skirt revealing fleshy knees that merged together as one.

“Have you left Loafer outside?” May asked. “Because I know Sir Philip wouldn’t mind if she came in here for a moment.”

But Loafer was having a snooze on the bed upstairs, Miss Nettlefold explained, and did not wish to be disturbed. In fact, Miss Nettlefold had been asked to return the dog to the Fort in a couple of days’ time and May was to drive them both there. And she and May were to spend the day together tomorrow as well, Miss Nettlefold announced with a theatrical clap of her hands. The day of the wireless recording with Sir John Reith, about which Miss Nettlefold had confided to May some
weeks ago, had almost arrived. Miss Nettlefold had some appointments in the morning in Mayfair and was expected at the recording studio in Crystal Palace in the south of London by noon. May nodded, trying not to think about Julian’s letter and to share in Miss Nettlefold’s excitement. Miss Nettlefold was certainly in a very ebullient mood.

“Things have been going well for me, May, I am delighted to report. Some people choose to reject one in life, but I have found that another door always opens, especially when you are least expecting it!” And off she went, praising the British and especially the Scottish, whom she had recently discovered to be among the most loyal of friends. “Loyalty, May, that’s the quality I put at the top of the tree. That’s why I like you, May.” And with a generous smile she wanted to hear how May was doing. “How is that nice young brother of yours? Going to go far that Sam, I know it. Trust me. Oh, and by the way Hooch tells me Julian Richardson has gone off to Spain.”

“Yes,” May replied. “He left rather suddenly this morning.”

“Well. Forgive me May if I use an English phrase when I say ‘a jolly good riddance’ to him. Now, don’t think I hadn’t noticed you developing a certain, shall we say ‘interest’ in him, although personally I can’t think what anyone could ever see in glasses and albino hair. And there’s more to life than swimming, believe me. Interested in everything and nothing he is. Never could make his mind up, dithering about all over the place, in politics and in friends. Poor Lottie. No wonder she decided she would be better off with Rupert. Anyway, perhaps the sights in Spain will knock some sense into
young
Mr. Richardson.” She pronounced the word “young” with contempt.

May turned back to her typewriter. Tears blurred the typed words in front of her but she managed to mumble what sounded like an agreement before Miss Nettlefold went to see if tea had yet arrived in the drawing room.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
WO

S
hortly after leaving London, Evangeline heard May flick the double switch on the walnut dashboard, illuminating first the sidelights followed by the headlamps. Evangeline was surprised that darkness had already fallen even though it was barely teatime. She was staring up at the roof of the car, stretched out across the backseat, her elegant lace-up boots protruding from the edge of the tartan rug that covered her. She felt incapable of rousing herself to look out of the window. There was nothing to see in the dark anyway. Loafer was equally comatose, slumped across his proxy mistress’s stomach, rising and falling with Evangeline’s breaths as if he was sleeping on top of a live anthill. Evangeline was aware of the slothful impression she must be making on May, especially compared with her upbeat mood of the beginning of the day before. But Evangeline was beyond caring. In fact she had barely spoken a word to May for the entire journey.

The humiliation that she had experienced yesterday at Crystal Palace in the secret wireless recording studio was worse even than anything she had suffered at the hand of her mother. With hindsight she kicked herself for her stupidity at thinking such an apparently simple plan would work, and for allowing her contempt for and disappointment in Wallis to get the better of her. Of course she had convinced herself that the motivation for what she was doing lay in a desire to tell
the truth, just as Sir John himself had advocated at dinner. But the real truth was that Evangeline’s plan was borne out of jealousy and hurt at Wallis’s rejection of her.

Everything had begun so well. She had told no one but May of the honour of being chosen for Sir John Reith’s experimental broadcast. She wanted the whole thing to be a surprise. A coolness had developed between herself and May during these past few weeks as Evangeline found it impossible to ignore Julian’s obvious affection for the young chauffeur. Now he was safely out of the way Evangeline wanted to mend any differences between herself and May. Evangeline had explained how, by the miraculous medium of the wireless, a handful of individuals of different nationalities were to bring insights from their own countries right into the heart of British homes. Sir John had decided America would be the best place to begin, given that country’s close links with Britain. Evangeline, with what Sir John Reith had called her “beautiful velvety voice,” was to be the first of his foreign broadcasters. The only detail of the plan that she withheld from May was the existence of two handwritten pages that she had been working on in secret for several days.

The buildup to the recording had been thrilling. Evangeline had spent the morning in Mayfair, first with the manicurist at Elizabeth Arden and then in Antoine’s hairdressing salon having her wig adjusted in a private room. She had taken particular trouble with her clothes. Although Evangeline had not a drop of Scottish blood in her, she was glad she had indulged herself in a new tartan suit with deep pockets, especially when Sir John commented on how well the dark blue and green checks became her. She was gratified that Sir John had appreciated her little gesture to his own country.

From the moment May dropped Evangeline off at the side entrance to the Crystal Palace, Sir John had treated her as if she was nothing less than royalty. Agreeing to Evangeline’s request that her broadcast
be kept as a surprise for her compatriot friend Wallis Simpson, he had personally ushered Evangeline through the corridors and down in the lift to the basement, and everyone they passed had doffed their cap and made a little bow not only to him but to Evangeline too. They were used to seeing what the technicians referred to as “eminent personages” visiting the television studios, particularly as the broadcasting of the first television pictures to a few affluent private homes had only begun a month earlier. But a visit from the head of the BBC wireless service to the discreet studios reserved for broadcasts that for one reason or another had to be conducted in secret was a particularly great honour.

Once they reached the studio Sir John introduced Evangeline to George Barnes, the BBC’s senior producer for “special talks.” Mr. Barnes, a friendly-looking man with a wide-open face, short haircut and most reassuring manner, ran through the practical details with Evangeline. He reminded her of how she should speak slowly and clearly, pausing if she encountered a problem; the recording technician would be only too pleased to begin again if she made a mistake. As the programme was not going to be broadcast live, there would be every opportunity to correct any small hesitancies, he assured her with a warm smile.

Mr. Barnes made sure Evangeline was comfortable in the capacious schoolroom chair, sending off for a cushion from one of the television prop rooms to soften the wooden seat. The technician settled a pair of headphones over her newly lacquered wig. The typed script, already approved in every detail by herself and Sir John, was placed on the table in front of her and they were ready to start.

As instructed, Evangeline began reading as soon as the green light on the fist-size microphone began to shine red. Looking up briefly, she could see Sir John’s tall figure on the other side of the glass screen nodding at her encouragingly, with Mr. Barnes full of reassurance bedside him.

The first minute was taken up by Evangeline expressing the pleasure she felt at speaking to a British audience about the land of her birth.
None of the three men on the other side of the glass noticed as Evangeline discreetly slipped the two pages of handwritten notes out of her pocket. After completing a vivid description of how the skyscrapers in New York were now dominated by the six-year-old Chrysler Building and the even newer and taller Empire State Building, Evangeline cleared her throat and placed her handwritten pages on the table.

“But tonight as an American who loves your country, I feel it is my duty to let you in on the world’s worst-kept secret,” she began.

Sir John was frowning on the other side of the glass, looking across at George Barnes for clarification.

“And by that,” Evangeline continued, “I mean the object of your own king’s affections. The British press may be an exemplary institution but during this past year they have been operating a censorship programme that has left their foreign counterparts astonished.” She took the next part extra slowly. “I believe that the British have a right to know that Edward VIII is in love with a twice-divorced American woman.”

Evangeline looked up. The expressions on the three faces in front of her reflected their mutual shock. Evangeline went on with her surprise.

“You should also know that the king intends to give the British people a new queen. This woman with whom he is currently conducting a very romantic relationship is named Wallis Simpson, and when Wallis Simpson marries Edward VIII, Queen Wallis will join him on the throne.”

When Sir John burst through the door of the studio a moment later the microphone light had once again turned green. Evangeline could see the technician frantically pushing buttons on the control panel as Mr. Barnes mouthed urgently at him.

“How
dare
you abuse my time?” Sir John said, lifting Evangeline’s headphones off her head with some roughness. “You stupid, stupid woman. Sir Philip warned me that you were unpredictable. No wonder! I kick myself for not listening to him.”

“I was only telling the truth, like you said to,” Evangeline replied angrily and full of reproach, conscious that in the hasty removal of the headphones her wig had slipped sideways. “If you don’t want to listen to the truth, then I give up on this goddamn hypocritical country.”