Past Caring (15 page)

“Nothing. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for what you’ve done.” I was and that was all I’d meant to say till Alec had tried to deny the part he’d obviously played. But his unease reminded me 84

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of a conflict of interest that wouldn’t go away. Now that we were far away from the Quinta, I could at least see whether Alec would find it embarrassing.

“Sorry, Martin, I didn’t mean to bridle. It must be the heat.”

It was certainly hot, and about to get hotter. A Maritimo forward fell over in a tackle and everyone in the ground except the referee awarded a penalty. Shouts, threats and fruit hailed onto the pitch.

“That referee will need a police escort afterwards. A riot would really boost circulation.” Alec was to be disappointed. It was too hot even for the Maritimo fans.

When the match lapsed back into torpor, I broached the burning question. “Obviously, I’m grateful for what promises to be a fascinating—and well-paid—assignment. But I can’t deny there’s something holding me back—something I can’t afford to have Leo hear about.”

“You can trust me, Martin. God knows you could tell Leo things which might spoil my image as the white knight of journalism.”

“It’s nothing like that. It’s a delicate matter of declaring an interest. You see, I’m related to someone in the Memoir.”

“How?”

“By marriage. Helen’s grandparents, the Couchmans, knew Strafford. They’re central figures in the story.”

“Really? Well now, that is odd.”

“It’s more than odd—it’s bloody awkward. How can I pose as the dispassionate researcher while knocking on my ex-in-laws’

doors asking embarrassing questions about their past?”

“Surely it won’t be quite like that?”

“Maybe not. But shouldn’t I tell Leo?”

“What’s stopping you?”

“The thought that, if I do, he might withdraw the offer.”

“Then don’t. It’s your problem, not his. Besides, aren’t there . . . compensations?”

“If you mean antagonizing Helen’s family, I’m past that. And anyway, I’m in no position to bear grudges.”

“Maybe not, but doesn’t it . . . well, add to the fun?” He grinned at me and I found myself grinning back. Yes, there was something to be relished in delving into the secret past of a fam-

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ily which had never hidden its distaste for me. I’d disgraced them, but maybe not as much as I’d been made to feel. I hadn’t sought revenge, but if it flavoured what I was about to do in the pursuit of truth, history and gainful employment, who was I to resist?

“Coincidence is a strange thing,” I said at last.

“Don’t fight it. After all, if I hadn’t known you, Leo might be offering this job to somebody else.”

“That’s true. And I can’t afford not to take it.” With that, I disposed of the last of my doubts. What I’d wanted—and received—from Alec was confirmation. However much he might have oversold my talents, I felt I could do the job as well as anyone—maybe better. Besides, I wanted to do it for its own sake.

Like Sellick, I wanted to know the truth about Edwin Strafford.

Next day, Alec took the Memoir off to photocopy it. Left with a free morning, I set off for an extensive exploration of the by-ways of Funchal. As I might have known, it was a tiring, unsatisfactory experience, which merely increased my impatience to return to the England of 1910.

I was pleased and relieved to find Alec waiting for me when I got back to the house.

“There you are, Martin,” he said, pointing to a pile of photocopied sheets standing by the Memoir on a table.

“Great. Thanks, Alec.” I leafed through the copies. It was suddenly odd to see the old marbled tome reduced by modern technology to a stack of new white paper.

“We’ll parcel that up for you to take away and I’ll return the original to Leo on Friday.”

“Fine.”

“Well, I’ve got to see my printer at two-thirty. If I don’t keep after him, the magazine will fall behind schedule. Do you want to come with me?”

“Thanks, but no. Now the Memoir’s back”—I patted its leather cover—“I think I’ll catch up on my reading.”

After lunch, Alec set off for his appointment and I chose the most comfortable camp chair to sit on in the garden, in the shade of a palm tree. Bees buzzed in the afternoon heat, but the high walls kept out the noise of Funchal, preserving the peace and my concentration. I returned to the Memoir.

1910

T he qualified optimism with which I returned from
Barrowteign in January 1910 did not long endure. I had supposed that Elizabeth and I would not have to separate our lives for
many more months, but I was sadly wrong. My error, however, did
not lie in the causes for pessimism then apparent. These were the
disagreement within the Cabinet about the nature of the proposed
Parliamentary reform and the delicate negotiations with the Irish
Nationalists necessary to secure their support for both this and the
outstanding Budget, upon which we were rendered dependent by
the narrowness of our majority. Both these difficulties were, as it
transpired, disposed of with some ease.

The intractability of my own position did not become clear until an announcement by the Prime Minister to the Commons on
February 21st, the content of which surprised many of his own
party and dumbfounded one, namely his own Home Secretary.

What Asquith said that famous evening was that, so far from having secured the King’s agreement before the election to create sufficient peers to force the necessary legislation through the Lords, he
had not even asked for it and that the King had subsequently indicated that there would have to be a second election before he felt under an obligation so to do. I must have blanched visibly in my seat
alongside Asquith and my dismay might have been noticed had
there not been so many backbenchers on hand to express astonishment at this revelation. They had been led to believe that suitable
guarantees by the King existed and now found themselves commit-

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ted to another general election , a scarcely relishable prospect in
view of the ambiguous outcome of the first. But whilst many condemned Asquith for improvidence, I had to hold my tongue before
a far greater injustice. The figure standing beside me, orating upon
the legal and procedural complexities in which the government now
found itself, had deceived me. In the moment of that rounded pronouncement, I felt only the blackest outrage. Had he so soon forgotten his undertakings to me of the previous autumn? And if he had
not, why had he left me so long to trust in a course and speed of
events which could now no longer come to pass? It seemed to me that
there could only be one answer: because it suited his purpose. The
man whom I had come to regard as Lloyd George’s dupe had now
duped me.

Try as I might, I was unable to confront Asquith that night. I
returned home to think long and hard about how this left Elizabeth
and me. I had no wish to tell her of the implications of the announcement: firstly that the constitutional crisis would not be resolved that spring, secondly that our marriage would not be deemed
politic until well after a second general election , whenever that
might be. It was unthinkable, after all our self-denial and patience,
to wait again , who knew how long. I could not sleep for fury at
Asquith, paced the empty streets that night and presented myself at
10 Downing Street the following morning at an early hour determined to see him.

In a typically Asquithian gesture the Prime Minister made no
difficulty about seeing me. I found him alone, still at his breakfast,
and he offered me tea and toast, which I abruptly declined.

“Sit down , Edwin ,” he said appeasingly. “I do apologise for
greeting you thus, but after a late sitting I am up surprisingly
early.”

“It is about last night’s sitting that I wish to speak.”

“I thought it might be. My announcement must have discomposed you somewhat.”

“Prime Minister, you understate the case greatly. I was
shocked. May I remind you that . . .”

“Last autumn ,” he interrupted, “we discussed your marital
ambitions and agreed they were better deferred until our present
difficulty with the Lords is settled.”

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“And you promised that, if we won the election , it would be settled this spring, which it cannot now be.”

“I promised nothing, Edwin. I expressed certain hopes to you in
good faith. I hoped to have suitable guarantees from the King
that . . .”

“But you said you had not even sought them.”

“That was to avoid embarrassment to the Crown , which is my
duty. Of course I asked the King, in December, after dissolving
Parliament. He said that he could not resort to the creation of peers
unless two successive elections confirmed our mandate.”

“You did not tell me that.”

“How could I? Think of the damage it might have done party
morale, not to mention our popular support if it had then been
known that two elections would have to be endured if we were to
have our way.”

“I said that you did not tell me.”

“I judged it inappropriate at that stage.”

“After the election?”

“I hoped to sway the King to consent without a second election.

Had our victory been clear, I might have succeeded.”

This, I felt sure, was a lie. The King was not of a temperament
to budge on such issues, as Asquith knew better than most. He had
merely been trailing me on a string. What was I to do?

“I think you might have forewarned me of your announcement.”

“I regret that I could not. Relations between an elected leader
and his monarch are essentially delicate. They rely upon complete
confidentiality.”

“If you say so, Prime Minister. The point is: how does this leave
me placed?”

“Not as badly as you may have feared, Edwin. Let me explain.

We need to present the Lords with the Budget and a Parliament Bill
to remove their veto. I think the latter will frighten them into passing the former. But they will jib at the bill and we will go to
the country on it. If we win again , the King will be obliged to support us.”

“When?”

“Timing is difficult. The Cabinet needs to agree the terms of a

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Parliament Bill; I hope you will assist me there. Then we need to secure the Irish votes to pass such a bill through the Commons, and
you know how slippery they can be. Whatever the form of the legislation , I have little doubt that the Lords will reject it outright.”

“And then?”

“We will dissolve Parliament, knowing this time that success is
assured if we win.”

“I cannot see that being resolved before the end of this year.”

“Neither can I.”

“Then you are extending the term of our agreement substantially. I am not sure Miss Latimer and I can wait that long.”

“Say not that I am extending anything, Edwin, rather that we
are all the victims of circumstance. I can only repeat what I told you
last October: that I need your support, that the party and the country need it to secure historic reform. Does delaying your marriage
until next year really seem an unacceptable hardship in the light of
that?”

“I can only say that I will consult my fiancée and decide with
her what to do.”

“Then I pray you reach the right decision—for all of us.”

He had me, as he knew, caught on any number of snares. If he
had deceived me once, he could deceive me again. Yet what he said
was superficially true. This was no time for what would seem to the
ignorant a light-hearted indulgence of my whim. I cared deeply
about what the government was striving to achieve, as Elizabeth
cared deeply for the suffragist cause. The events then unfolding
might serve both aims. Following the election , an all-party conciliation committee had set about drafting a bill for limited female enfranchisement which, along with several other just reforms, might
come into being in the wake of a Parliament Act. Neither Elizabeth
nor I wished to be responsible for so prejudicing the outcome of an
election as to risk all that. And Asquith had laced his high-principled call for personal sacrifice with a hint of venal reward for
those who stood by him. If he could not persuade me, he would seek
to buy me. That, and his persistent duplicity, told against his argument. Yet what could tell against the facts of the matter, standing as
they did beyond his control and mine?