Any Human Heart (28 page)

Initially Freya and Stella went to stay with the Deverells in Cheshire but, as the foreseen mass bombing of London never occurred, they moved back in early 1940. Peter Scabius volunteered to serve in the Auxiliary Fire Brigade. Ben Leeping and his family left Paris in October 1939 and he set up a small gallery (still Leeping Frères) off Duke Street in St James’s. The keeping of a diary during wartime by serving men and officers was forbidden. LMS seems to have been aware of this and the narrative flow is often interrupted until something of genuine interest happened to him.

I took Faustino’s Mirós into Ben’s gallery today and laid them out on the floor of his viewing room. He practically had to grab a chair to stop himself falling over. ‘Have you any idea what a collection like this means?’ he said. I explained their strange provenance. ‘Well, I suppose possession is nine tenths of the law,’ Ben said. ‘You’ve no idea who they belonged to?’ I told him it was a mystery, but such aspects of the story that could be established would be vouched for by Ernest Hemingway.

Ben seemed all a-quiver, as if his brain were working too fast. He kept saying that this was the sort of thing that happened once or twice in a dealer’s lifetime. I said I was short of money, that they’d sat in a cupboard in my house for three years and something had to be done. In the end Ben paid me £300 for them but said he would sell the biggest one on my behalf — when, he wasn’t sure: he would wait until the market was right or the perfect buyer or buyers came around. He was almost overpoweringly grateful to me but not so grateful that he couldn’t spot a bargain. Paul Klee
¹
is very ill, he said, and offered me an extra hundred pounds for my little Klee. I said I’d hold on to it for the moment, thank you very much.

Lunched in a restaurant by the BBC — liver sausage and salad. Is rationing beginning to bite already? Did my talk on Joyce with Geoffrey Grigson (prickly, chippy man), but I was very complimentary about
Horizon
²
and he was mollified, somewhat
.

One of our new commanders in NID turns out to be James Vanderpoel
³
— who I was at school with. Still the same powerful stocky figure but now with a pointed ginger beard. A navy man through and through and, I think, a little discomfited to find me amongst his underlings. We went for a walk in Green Park and reminisced about Abbey. He told me some news about my coevals and I realized I’d lost all interest in them. Telephone call from Dick Hodge this evening. Great excitement: he’s joined the Royal Marines. I told him I was in the Wavy Navy. Doing what, he asked? Very hush-hush, I said. How wonderful to be able to use that expression in all seriousness.

Godfrey and Fleming called me and Vanderpoel in and asked if either of us knew Lisbon. I said, yes; Vanderpoel, no. ‘At least one of you does,’ Godfrey said. ‘Anyway, that’s where you’re heading.’ I inquired why. The Duke of Windsor has arrived there, Godfrey said, in flight from his house in France and the advancing German and Italian armies, and we need to keep an eye on him. Can’t the embassy do that? Vanderpoel said (I sensed he was reluctant to go). Apparently the ambassador is a bundle of nerves and the MI 6 man there is a dipsomaniac and hated by all the staff. The position of the Duke was very delicate, Godfrey went on: he can’t come back here (because of the family) and we can’t risk him falling into the hands of the Nazis. I said: ‘I met him once, in Biarritz, 1934.’ Fleming looked at Godfrey as if he’d just won a bet. ‘I told you Mountstuart was our man,’ he said mysteriously.

I went back to Freya to relay the news. I said I’d be in no danger — but, because it was Lisbon, she didn’t seem to mind so much. ‘Will you go to our restaurant?’ she said. I told her I’d drink an entire bottle of wine to us both.

Lisbon. Vanderpoel and I flew out in a Coastal Command Sunderland flying boat from Poole Harbour. Smooth, trouble-free flight. Lisbon seemed crammed with well-off refugees, all the riff-raff of Europe looking for safe passage out. For the first time I felt strangely aware of Lisbon and Portugal being on the very edge of the Old World. Here at its extremities the terrified transients gathered, gazing out at the vast refulgent ocean for some sign of security.

We reported to the embassy, where we were coolly received by a man called Stopford — the so-called ‘Financial Attaché’ but actually the head of mi6 in Portugal — and were grudgingly briefed. The Duke and Duchess had fled their villa near Antibes on the 19th of June as the collapse of France gathered pace and had travelled by road with their staff and some consular officials to Madrid. There, they had spent nine days being wined and dined before coming on to Portugal. They were living in the house of a Portuguese millionaire called Ricardo Espirito Santo in Cascais, about an hour’s drive from the city. ‘I don’t know what NID think they can do that we can’t,’ Stopford said nastily. ‘We’ve got our people in the house, the grounds are hotching with Portuguese police. He can’t fart without us hearing about it.’

As we left, I said to Vanderpoel: ‘What a boozer, very comforting.’ ‘I thought he seemed very decent,’ Vanderpoel said. I don’t think our Vanderpoel’s cut out for intelligence, somehow. We went back to our seedy hotel, which was all we could find, aptly called the London Pension, and Vanderpoel took to his bed saying he thought he was coming down with flu.

Vanderpoel running a temperature. This evening I went to a drinks party at the embassy and met a man called Eccles
⁴
who seems to be some kind of
éminence grise
out here — very much in the know; highly sceptical about the abilities of the embassy staff. He sees the Duke regularly and I gained the impression things were not going well. The Duke won’t leave until he has his future sorted out and certain guarantees have been delivered about his and the Duchess’s status. ‘All very petty,’ Eccles said, ‘given the appalling situation we’re in.’
⁵
I repeated my old line about meeting the Duke in Biarritz and Eccles practically embraced me. He immediately invited me out to dinner at the villa tomorrow night. ‘It was a very fleeting encounter,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t matter less,’ Eccles said. ‘He’s surrounded by dubious financiers who’re all talking to the Germans. You’ll be a breath of fresh air.’

Just popped in to see Vanderpoel to tell him the latest development. He’s outraged and has forbidden me to go. I said only Godfrey had that kind of authority. Wrote to Freya and told her I was to dine with David and Wallis. That should be some story to tell.

To reach the Duke’s villa — the Boca do Inferno — you drive almost to the furthest western point of Europe, or so it seems. He’s staying in a big pink stucco house on a rocky promontory surrounded by pine trees. Ahead stretches the whole Atlantic Ocean. We passed through Belém and Estoril and followed the coast road to Cascais. Approaching Cascais (set back on a hill above the villa) we were stopped twice by police. They are clearly well guarded. As we drove through the gates Eccles reminded me that a ‘bow from the neck’ was suitable for the Duke but the Duchess should receive nothing more than a smile and a handshake. On no account was I to refer to her as ‘Her Royal Highness’. I said I understood.

The villa itself sits behind high stone walls and is large and comfortable with a swimming pool. Ricardo Espírito Santo and his wife Mary greeted us on the terrace, where we were served drinks. There was another couple there by the name of Asseca. Then we waited. And waited. There was a lot of covert watch-glancing and Mary Espírito Santo kept disappearing to whisper to the staff until eventually the Duke and Duchess of Windsor came down from their room.

First impressions. They were both immaculately dressed. The Duke looked like a miniature American film star, slim and dapper, with his grey-blond hair swept back, a perfectly cut dinner suit, a cigarette casually poised in hand. The Duchess, who must be in her mid forties, was equally petite. A beautifully matched porcelain couple. You wanted to put them on your mantelpiece. I towered over them both. The Duchess was heavily made-up and heavily bejewelled. She has an expressionless, mask-like face and a rather protuberant mole on her chin. Eccles introduced me when my turn came and mentioned Biarritz.

‘We met on the golf course, sir.’

‘You’re a golfer, thank God.’ He turned to the Duchess. ‘Darling, Mr — um — this dear fellow — was at Biarritz in ‘34. Do you remember that holiday? Wasn’t it fun?’

‘I adore Biarritz,’ she said.

‘So do I,’ I said, ‘In fact I think — ’

‘And he’s a golfer,’ said the Duke.

‘David, don’t butt in like that. Mr… Mr?’

‘Mountstuart.’

‘Mr Mountstuart was going to tell us something fascinating about Biarritz.’

Then we were interrupted and ushered into dinner. I sat beside Senhora Asseca and Mary Espírito Santo (who was rather attractive in that cold, hard way certain rich European women have). Senhora Asseca spoke Spanish and broken French. Mary E.S. was fluent in English. Eccles and the Duchess laughed together a lot: they seemed very gay. I thought at the time: store this one away, Logan — he Duke and Duchess of Windsor, a lovely house on the sea, hot-and-cold running servants, good food and wine. The world at war.

As we were leaving the Duke came up to me and asked if I was free for golf tomorrow afternoon at the Estoril Golf Club. I said indeed I was, many thanks, etc. He lingered a bit and I said it was good to see him in such fine form after his epic drive across Europe. His face slumped, sulkily, and he lowered his voice: ‘I’m a virtual prisoner here,’ he said. ‘Nothing but blocking on all sides and mountains of red tape.’ I commiserated and we agreed to meet at the club tomorrow at 3 o’clock.

On the drive back to Lisbon, Eccles was intrigued to learn of the appointment. He thought for a while and said, ‘I’d appreciate it, Logan, if you’d let me know anything that goes back to NID.’ Of course, I said, then added: ‘You haven’t any idea where I can lay my hands on a set of golf clubs, have you?’

His Majesty’s Government has generously procured me a new set of golf clubs, which is very decent of it (them?) and thus equipped I set out to the Estoril Golf Club for my game. The Duke, Espirito Santo and another man called Brito e Cunha turned up half an hour late and with them were about a dozen Portuguese detectives. The Duke said he would prefer to play a two-ball with me and urged the other two to tee off first. The day was warm with a slight breeze from the sea. The course was baked hard and the grass burnt tinder-dry. My first drive leapt along the fairway as if it were bouncing on concrete for practically 300 yards. But the greens were watered and played well, if fast.

The Duke was a twelve handicap and played a sober and risk-free game. At the third tee we stopped for a cigarette as Espírito Santo and Cunha played on. I bounced my ball on the ground and it made a crack like a marble on asphalt. ‘I’m told this is what golf’s like in the tropics,’ I said.

‘Well, I’ll get plenty of practice soon enough,’ the Duke said glumly.

‘I don’t understand, sir.’

‘They’re sending me to the Bahamas. I’m going to be governor.’

‘Bahamas? Should be wonderful.’

‘D’ you think they said that to Napoleon when they packed him off to St Helena?’

The Duke was in a bad mood but was playing good golf — and I was careful not to challenge his early two-hole lead. As his golf improved so did his demeanour and his indiscretions. I sensed his relief at talking to a fellow Englishman and golfer.

Some of the things he said.

His brother, the King, was an amiable fool completely dominated by his wife. It was the Queen who was preventing him and the Duchess returning to Britain. ‘Doesn’t want us there,’ he said. ‘Thinks we’ll steal their thunder. Very jealous of Wallis.’

He was sick to death of Portugal and longing to leave but would only go ‘on my conditions’.

Two problems appeared to preoccupy him more than anything else. One was the recovery of certain possessions left at their houses in Antibes and Paris (clothes, linen), and the second was the refusal of the British government to release his soldier servant from active service so he could become his valet in the Bahamas.

‘Do you have a valet?’

‘Alas, no,’ I said.

‘You should get one. People don’t understand that someone like me just can’t function without a valet. I want Fletcher,
⁶
and I won’t leave till I have him.’

I said, without really thinking, ‘Perhaps I might be able to help.’

He turned to me and grabbed my arm. ‘Believe me, Mountfield, if you could do anything — ’

‘Mountstuart, sir.’

‘Mountstuart. I’d be most grateful.’

‘Why don’t I see what I can do.’

After golf (the Duke won, three and two, and I wrote him a cheque for £3) I went straight to the embassy and had a cable encrypted and sent to Godfrey at NID. I said that if Piper Alistair Fletcher could be released from active service I felt sure that the Duke would become far more amenable to all suggestions.

Vanderpoel running a temperature of 103 degrees. He still managed to dress me down for sending a cable without his permission.
‘I’m
your senior officer,’ he coughed. I have a feeling Vanderpoel will soon attain CAUC status if he carries on in this way.

Drinks with Eccles. He’s a smooth, plumply handsome man, who apparently made a fortune from Spanish railways before the war. I told him about our day on the golf course and the Fletcher moan.

‘It seems to be bothering him more than going to the Bahamas,’ I said. ‘If we could get him Fletcher and his trunks from Antibes he’d be putty in our — in your hands.’