Motherland (57 page)

‘That is Nancy Astor,’ said Bundy with crisp authority.

‘But she’s beautiful!’ exclaimed Troyanovsky. He stood
back to appreciate her, evidently as a woman rather than
as a work of art.

‘She was younger then, of course.’

Rupert was puzzled by the painting. The pose was
unusual: a slight forward tilt from the waist, as if she was
on the point of running away.

Bundy examined the waiting tea. There was fruitcake
topped with marzipan. A silver dish with a lid stood warming
on a spirit lamp. He lifted the lid to discover a nest of small
scones.

‘What do we have to do to deserve this?’

‘We could link arms and perform a dance,’ said
Troyanovsky gravely. It took the others a moment to realise
he was making fun. ‘Or perhaps we could sing together,
to represent the harmony of the Alliance.’

They grinned at that.

‘And youth,’ said Rupert. ‘We’re here to represent youth.’

‘I’m not young,’ said Bundy. ‘Who wants to be young?
I want to be a grown man, in charge of my own destiny.’

‘Only an American could say that,’ said Troyanovsky.
‘We who come from older civilisations know that we will
never be in charge of our own destinies.’

He looked to Rupert as he spoke, his heavy brow wrinkling.

Rupert nodded to be friendly, unsure whether or
not he agreed.

‘But you know what?’ said Bundy. ‘I’m all for this idea
of us singing together.’

He started to croon the current hit by the Andrews Sisters,
making small hand movements before him in the air.

A door opened, and he fell silent. In swept a small tornado
of a woman, followed a few paces behind by a young girl.

Oh my God! They’re here already! Make yourselves at
home, boys! Which one of you is Bundy?’

Mac Bundy presented himself.

‘I knew your father, I knew your mother, I warned them not to marry, and if they had to marry, not to produce any
children. Bound to be morons. Are you a moron?’

‘No, Lady Astor,’ said Bundy, smoothly unperturbed. ‘I
don’t believe I am.’

‘Humph. We’ll see about that.’

She was in her mid-sixties, her face now bony, but her
bright blue eyes as brilliant as in the portrait. She held her
head high, and moved in hops and starts, as if unable to
contain the energy within her. Her voice was thin and
crackly, half American, half English.

‘This is just an informal get-together. No need to stand
on ceremony.’

The three young officers were introduced to the young
girl, who turned out to be Princess Elizabeth. She was even
smaller than Lady Astor, and had wavy dark-brown hair,
and very white skin. Her modest knee-length white dress,
patterned with pink flowers, could not disguise the fact that
she was, as Bundy had put it, ‘all there’.

‘Come along, Lilibet,’ said Lady Astor. ‘You sit here. You
know no one can sit down until you’ve sat down. God,
what a country! How I’ve stood it all these years I’ll never
know.’

They sat down. Their hostess poured out tea, talking as
she did so.

‘I’ve told Lilibet that family of hers keeps her far too
shut away, she never meets anyone at all, so I promised her
some young men, and here you are. You must help yourselves
to the scones. It was Lilibet’s idea to invite our allies,
and a very good idea if I may say so. You three’ – teapot in mid-air, piercing blue eyes fixed on the young men –
‘you are the future of the world. You must make a better
job of it than we have.’

‘With Her Royal Highness’s help,’ said Bundy, leaning his
upper body forward as if attempting a bow while sitting down.

‘Oh, the royals can’t do a thing,’ said Lady Astor. ‘No
one pays the slightest attention to a word they say. Of
course, everyone loves them, but only in the way you love
a family pet.’ She reached out one hand to pat the shy young
princess. ‘Do you mind me going on like this, darling? Are
you shocked?’

‘Not at all,’ said the princess in a small clear voice. ‘But
I’d like to hear what the gentlemen have to say.’

So she wasn’t such a little girl after all.

‘That’s telling me,’ said Lady Astor. ‘What have you got
to say, boys?’

There followed a brief silence.

‘Well, ma’am,’ said Bundy. ‘I think we all agree that this
war will be over sometime next year.’

‘Oh, I do hope so,’ said the princess. ‘That’s what the
officers at Windsor tell me too.’

Rupert was looking at the princess’s hands. Her hands
were so delicate, the nails varnished a very pale pink. She
was interlacing her fingers in her lap, nervously squeezing
them.

‘I’m so bored by the war,’ said Lady Astor. ‘Can’t we
talk about something else?’

‘I’m not sure I would say I was bored exactly,’ said the
princess.

Her enunciation was so clear that everything she said
sounded carefully considered. Her earnest gaze fell on
Rupert, as if inviting him to complete her thought.

‘It’s a hard feeling to describe,’ said Rupert. ‘One feels
bored and frightened at the same time. And then beneath
it all there’s this feeling that one’s real life is waiting to
begin.’

The princess looked at him in surprise.

‘Yes,’ she said.

Then she smiled. Rupert realised for the first time that
she was pretty.

‘It’s all right for you young people,’ said Lady Astor with
a grunt. ‘Some of us are waiting for our life to end.’

‘Not for many years yet, I hope,’ said Bundy.

‘Look at that!’ She pointed at the portrait hanging by
the fireplace. ‘I have that staring at me every day, reminding
me how old I am.’

‘But it’s a wonderful portrait,’ said Troyanovsky. ‘I have
been admiring it.’

‘Don’t you think I’m standing in an odd way? It’s because
Sargent had this idea of painting me with my little boy on
my back.’ She stood up and assumed the same pose as in
the painting, hands clasped behind her back. ‘But Bill was
only one year old at the time, and he just wouldn’t keep
still, so Sargent painted him out.’

‘It is a very fine portrait,’ said the princess, gazing at it.

‘I can’t look at it any more,’ said Lady Astor. ‘Don’t
grow old, my dear. It’s too tiresome.’

‘I would like to be a little older,’ said the princess.

As she spoke she glanced at Rupert. This gave him an
odd feeling. It was as if some secret understanding had
sprung up between the two of them.

The princess turned to Troyanovsky.

‘Tell me about Russia,’ she said. ‘I know so little about
your country.’

‘Well, ma’am,’ said Troyanovsky, ‘if I’m to tell you about
my country I must speak about the war. We have been
fighting a life and death battle.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said the princess. ‘We all so admire Mr
Stalin.’

‘Humph!’ said Lady Astor. ‘I met Joe Stalin.’

‘Did you?’ said Troyanovsky, much surprised. ‘When was
that?’

‘1931. I went to Russia with George Bernard Shaw. We
were both introduced to Uncle Joe. Shaw was all over him,
of course. When it came to my turn, I said, “Mr Stalin,
why have you slaughtered so many of your own people?”’

The Russian’s teacup froze halfway to his lips.

‘What did he reply?’

‘Some nonsense about defending the revolution. What
could he say? The man’s a mass murderer.’

Troyanovsky was silent. The groove deepened between
his eyebrows.

‘The Russians are fighting like lions,’ said Bundy. ‘We
owe them a great debt.’

‘The revolution is still young,’ Troyanovsky said.

‘I hope,’ said the princess, speaking earnestly, ‘that after
the war we can all go on being friends.’

‘I believe our nations can and must be friends, ma’am,’
said Bundy. ‘I think we’ve all had our fill of hatred. We
may not always see things the same way, but I believe we
can agree to disagree.’

‘I expect you’ll think I’m very naive,’ said the princess,
‘but I do so much want this to be the last war we ever have
to fight.’

‘There will always be war,’ declared Troyanovsky.

‘But why?’

‘Human nature, ma’am.’

‘I disagree,’ said Bundy. ‘I believe we have the power to
control our impulses.’ Quite suddenly he became vehement.
‘There’s evil in all of us, no doubt about that, but we must
grow up, and accept it, and manage it. We have to live with
our imperfections. You people’ – this was to the Russian
– ‘you’re perfectionists. You believe you’re creating the
perfect society. I think that’s dangerous. It permits your
leaders to take extreme measures.’

‘War is an extreme measure, I think.’ The Russian nodded
his big head, frowning. ‘In the West, you are pragmatists.
We are idealists. But you know, in spite of this, we want
much the same as you. To eat. To sleep safe in our beds.
To go dancing. To talk late into the night about the wrongs
of the world.’

‘So after the war,’ said the princess, ‘when we who are
young now are old enough to influence the affairs of the
world, let’s agree that we’ll have no more wars.’

‘Hear, hear!’ said the young officers, raising their teacups.

Rupert was touched by the young princess’s gentle diplomacy. He sensed that it was more than good manners,
that she was genuinely distressed by conflict. What a curious
mixture she was, he thought. Scrupulous in the performance
of her duty; her face so serious, but still lit by the
lingering innocence of childhood.

Lady Astor now rose. This was the cue for the gentlemen
to rise.

‘I must show our guests the view from the terrace,’ she
said.

The princess rose, smoothing her dress down as she did
so. Lady Astor led the way across the adjoining library and
out through French windows.

Rupert found the princess was by his side.

‘So you feel your real life is waiting to begin,’ she said
to him, speaking softly.

‘I do, ma’am,’ he said.

‘And what will it be, this real life?’

‘I wish I could tell you it’ll be a life of honourable service
to my country,’ said Rupert. ‘But I’m afraid all I mean is
love.’

‘Ah, love.’

They came out onto the terrace.

‘There it is,’ said Lady Astor with a sweep of one arm.
‘England. The land we’re fighting for.’

The view was indeed spectacular. Below the terrace
stretched a long formal lawn, laid out in two parterres. To
the east rose a wooded hill. The river flowed round the
foot of this hill, concealed by trees, here and there glinting
into view. Beyond the river the land stretched for miles to the south, to Maidenhead and beyond. Above it all rose a
peaceful late-afternoon sky.

‘Did you know,’ said Lady Astor, ‘that the first ever
performance of “Rule Britannia” took place right here?
Two hundred years ago, at a big party down there, given
by the Prince of Wales.’

She pointed at the long lawn below them.

‘So beautiful, so untouched by war,’ said Troyanovsky.
‘Hitler could have marched his armies up this valley. Instead
he turned them on my homeland.’

They strolled slowly down the length of the terrace.
Once again Rupert found himself by the princess’s side.

‘So you’re not married, Captain Blundell?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘That is a happiness still to come.’

A conventional enough remark, but there was a wistfulness
to her tone.

‘I hope so, ma’am.’

She then turned to make conversation with Bundy, and
Rupert was left with his thoughts.

‘There’s someone for everyone, Rupert,’ his mother used
to tell him. But all you had to do was look around you to
know this was not true. Add together the solitary young,
the unmarried, the divorced, the widowed and the solitary
old, and it was hard not to conclude that loneliness was the
natural condition of humanity.

It was now time for the princess to return to Windsor
Castle. Her detective appeared as if by magic.

‘I’m ready, Mr Giles,’ she said.

She shook hands with each of the young officers.

‘Remember,’ she said. ‘No more wars.’

Lady Astor accompanied the princess to her car. Left
alone, the young men relaxed. They stood looking out over
the great view, reluctant to leave.

‘So where do you go next, Rupert?’ said Bundy.

‘India. Mountbatten’s taking command out there.’

‘Me, I’m in London until the second front.’

‘Pray it may come soon,’ said the Russian.

‘My dad says one more year,’ said Bundy, ‘and it’ll all
be over.’

Troyanovsky took out a pack of cigarettes and offered
them to the others. They both declined. He lit up, and
inhaled deeply.

‘Your princess,’ he said to Rupert, ‘she is charming.’

‘I agree,’ said Rupert. ‘I thought she was lovely.’

‘No life for a girl, though,’ said Bundy. ‘She should be
out every night dancing, not fretting over the future of the
world.’

‘Leave that to Lady Astor,’ said Rupert.

They laughed at that. Then the Russian shook his head.

‘What she said to Stalin, that I find it hard to believe.’

‘But she’s right,’ said Bundy.

Troyanovsky puffed on his cigarette, frowning.

‘The day will come,’ he said slowly, ‘when you will ask
yourself not what is right, but what is possible.’

‘Who’s the pragmatist now?’ said Bundy.

‘I think I can claim that honour,’ said Rupert, peacemaking.
‘We British have a long history of calling a spade a spade, and then getting some other fellow to do the
digging.’

Bundy smiled his smile at that.

‘But your princess,’ said Troyanovsky, ‘what she said to
us, that was good. No more wars.’

‘We’re all with you there,’ said Bundy.

‘So we must make it be so,’ said the Russian. ‘We three.’

He put out one large hand. Rupert understood his
meaning, and clasped it. After a moment Bundy put his
hand on top of theirs.