CHAPTER VII
N the outer suburbs, milkmen, postmen, and boys delivering newspapers, were moving from door to door, in the quiet streets of villas. The tramcars, and later the buses, which the car caught up, and passed, were crowded with workmen, being carried at "Workmen's Fares." The shop fronts, in the inner suburbs, gay in the early morning sunlight, with their Coronation flags and decorations, were still all shuttered; but a thin trickle of men and women in the streets, moving in the direction of the railway stations, gave promise already of the impending rush of the business crowd. Coronation Day had come, and gone. The public holiday was over. Now there was work toward.
At the far end of Tottenham Court Road, by which broad thoroughfare he approached, as he had escaped from, the town, the King deliberately varied the route which he had followed the night before. Heading the car straight on down Charing Cross Road, through Trafalgar Square, and so into Whitehall, he turned, at last, into Victoria Street. It was by the side streets, in the vicinity of Victoria Station, that he ultimately approached the palace, and ran out into Lower Grosvenor Place. He did this to avoid the neighbourhood of the parks, and possible recognition by early morning riders, on their way to and from Rotten Row.
Lower Grosvenor Place proved, as usual, deserted. In the secluded, shut-in mews, behind the tall houses, no one, as yet, was stirring. In a very few minutes, the King had successfully garaged the car. Then he slipped hurriedly back across Grosvenor Place. The road was happily still empty, and he reached the small, green, wooden door in the palace garden wall, without encountering anything more formidable than a stray black cat. A black cat which shared his taste for night walking. A purring black cat, which rubbed its head against his legs. A black cat for luck!
Unlocking, and opening, the door, the King slipped into the palace garden.
The door swung to behind him.
All need for anxiety, for haste, and for precaution was now at an end.
It was only just eight o'clock.
Sauntering leisurely through the garden, the King reached the palace without meeting any one, on the way. Sometimes, on these occasions, he ran into gardeners, early at work, a policeman, patrolling the walks, or some member of the household staff; but such encounters never caused him any anxiety. Why should not the King take a stroll in the garden, before breakfast? Had he not been known to dive into the garden lake for an early morning swim, and had not the fact been duly recorded in all the newspapers?
He entered the palace by the door through which he had escaped the night before, and so, mounting the private staircase, which led up to his own suite of rooms, regained his dressing room, unchallenged.
The creation of a certain amount of necessary disorder in his bedroom, and a partial undressing, were the work of only a few minutes.
Then he rang his bell, for which, he was well aware, a number of the palace servants would be, already anxiously listening.
It was Smith, as the King had been at some pains to arrange, who answered this, the first summons of the official, Royal day.
"Breakfast in the garden, in half an hour, Smith," the King ordered. "See about that, at once. Then you can come back, and get my bath ready, and lay out the clothes."
Another bath was welcome, and refreshing, after the dust, and the excitement of the motor run. Smith's choice of clothes was a new, grey, lounge suit, of most satisfactory cut, and finish. At the end of the half hour which he had allowed himself, the King left the dressing room, and passed down the private staircase, out into the sunlit garden, with an excellent appetite for his second breakfast.
The breakfast table had been placed on one of the lawns, in the green shade thrown by a magnificent sycamore tree. A couple of gorgeously clad footmen were responsible for the service of the meal but they soon withdrew to a discreet distance. The unpretentious domestic life, traditional for so many years, in the palace, had made it comparatively easy for the King to reduce to a minimum the distasteful ceremony which the presence of servants adds to the simplest meal.
A few personal letters, extracted by some early rising member of his secretarial staff, from the avalanche of correspondence in the Royal post bags, had been placed, in readiness for the King, on the breakfast table. One of these letters bore the Sandringham postmark, and proved to be from his youngest sister, the Princess Elizabeth, who was still, officially, a school girl. It was a charming letter. With a frank and fearless affection, a spontaneous naïveté, that pleased the King, the young Princess wrote to offer him her congratulations on his Coronation, congratulations which, she confessed, she had been too shy to voice in public, the day before. The letter touched the King. He read it through twice, allowing his eggs and bacon, and coffee, to grow cold, while he did so. There was a note of sincere feeling, of genuine affection, of sisterly pride in him, mingled with anxiety for his welfare, in the letter, which afforded a very agreeable contrast to the subservience of the Family in general, which had so jarred upon him, at the state banquet, the night before. This sister of his seemed likely to grow up into a true woman, a loyal and affectionate woman. She reminded him, in some odd way, of Judith.
What would the future bring to this fresh, unspoilt, sister of his? "A woman, a woman with a heart, at the head of the procession." Another of Uncle Bond's phrases! What an insight the little man had into the possibilities of positions, and situations, which he could only have known in imagination, in the imagination which he wasted on the construction of his grotesquely improbable tales! He must do what he could for this fresh, unspoilt sister of his. That would be little enough in all conscience! Meanwhile he could write to her, and thank her for her letter. That was an attention which would please her.
Producing a small, morocco bound, memorandum tablet, which he always carried about with him, in his waistcoat pocket, the King made a note to remind him to write to the Princess, in one of the intervals of his busy official day.
"Write to Betty."
Then he resumed his attack on his eggs and bacon, and coffee. He did not notice that they were cold. This letter of his sister's had turned his thoughts to—the Family!
He was the Head of the Family now. Somehow, he had hardly realized the fact before. In the circumstances, it really behoved him, it would be absolutely necessary for him, to try to get to know something about the various members of the Family. His early distaste for Court life, his absorption in his own chosen profession, his frequent absences at sea, had made him, of course, little better than a stranger to the rest of the Family. And, if they knew little or nothing about him, he knew less than nothing about them. The Prince had been the only member of the Family with whom he had had any real intimacy, since the far off nursery days they had all shared together, the only link between him and the others. And now the Prince was dead.
This fresh, unspoilt sister of his would probably be worth knowing. Any girl, who recalled Judith, must be well worth knowing. And there was Lancaster! Lancaster was now, and was likely to remain, Heir Apparent. And William? William had looked a very bright, and engaging youngster, in his naval cadet's uniform, the day before. The others? The others did not matter. But Lancaster, and William, and Betty, he must get to know. And now, at the outset of their new relationship, he had a favourable opportunity to take steps in the matter, which would not recur. He could let them know that he was their brother, as well as—the King! No doubt, they had their problems, and difficulties, just as he had his. He would do what he could, to make life easy for them. After all, it was quite enough that one member of the Family, at a time, should be condemned to the intolerable isolation, and the dreary, treadmill round of the palace.
Might he not usefully begin, at once, with Lancaster? He could send a message to Lancaster, asking him to join him, at his informal lunch, at the palace, at noon. Lancaster had always seemed, to him, a dull, rather heavy, conventional, commonplace person; but there might be something human in him, after all. Perhaps, at an informal intimate encounter, he might be able to establish some contact with him, and get him to talk a little about himself. That would be interesting, and useful. Yes. Lancaster should provide his first experiment in Family research.
Picking up his memorandum tablet again, from where he had dropped it on the breakfast table, the King made another note, to remind him to send the necessary message to Lancaster during the morning.
"Send message to Lancaster."
The fact that he was not sure whether Lancaster, or even William, would still be in town, emphasized, in his own mind, his ignorance of the Family.
At this point, the gorgeously clad footmen approached the table. One of them removed the used dishes and plates. The other placed a stand of fresh fruit in front of the King.
The King selected an apple, and proceeded to munch it like any schoolboy.
It was a good apple.
After all, life had its compensations!
And, he suddenly realized now, he was beginning to take hold of his job, at last. This decision of his to tackle the Family, to get to know them personally, was his own decision. It was an expression of his own individuality, the exercise of his own will. The thought gave him a little thrill of pride, and pleasure. Perhaps, after all, there was going to be some scope, some freedom, for his own personality, in his place in the procession, more scope, more freedom than he had been inclined to think. His own shoulders, directed by his own brain, might make a difference in the jostling in the market-place. If the opportunity arose, he would put his weight into the scrimmage.
The King finished his apple, and then filled and lit his pipe.
The footmen cleared away the breakfast things.
Soothed by tobacco, and cheered by the bright morning sunlight, the King leant back in his chair.
It was another wonderful summer day. Overhead the sky was a luminous, cloudless blue. The sunlight lay golden on the green of the trees, and on the more vivid green of the lawn. The garden flower beds were gay with masses of brilliant hued blossoms. One or two birds whistled pleasantly from the neighbouring trees and bushes. A fat starling strutted about the lawn, digging for worms.
A sense of general well-being stirred in the King, a sense of well-being which surprised him, for a moment, but only for a moment. It was always so, when he had been in Paradise, with Judith. Always he returned to the palace refreshed, and strengthened, with a new zest for, with a new appreciation of, the joy of mere living. Somehow, he must see to it, that his—promotion—did not interfere with his visits to Judith, and to Uncle Bond. He must see to it—in the interest of the State! He smiled as the words occurred to him. In the interest of the State? What would his fellow victims of the State, of the people, the old Duke of Northborough, for example, say to that, if they knew? But the words were justified. It was to the interest of the State that he, the King, should obtain, from time to time, the refreshment, the renewed strength, the zest, the sense of general well-being, of which he was so pleasantly conscious now.
But, meanwhile, in the interest of the State, he must not, he could not afford to, waste any more of these golden, summer morning moments, idling here in the garden. The avalanche of correspondence in the post bags, and the official documents, and dispatches, which had accumulated, during the last day or two, owing to the special demands on his time made by the Coronation, were awaiting him in the palace. Long hours of desk work lay before him. The thought did not displease him. He was in the mood for work. Here was something he could put his weight into. Here was an opportunity for individual action, and self-expression, an opportunity for the exercise of his own judgment, driving power, decision.
Knocking out his pipe, the King stood up abruptly.
Then, whistling gaily, an indication of cheerfulness which had grown very rare with him, of late, he crossed the lawn, and re-entered the palace, on his way back to duty.