The Viceroy's Daughters (43 page)

Nor was Buckingham Palace immune; here a five-inch “hot-water line” had been painted around bathtubs and, as Halifax informed Baba: “I got a letter from the King last week, who ended with a P.S. to the effect that they were getting rather short of a certain class of paper; generally sold in packets of 500 and beginning with B.
*
Signed G.R. I think that would make an interesting footnote for future historians!”

“Carrying on” had become the great British virtue, covering everything from growing vegetables and keeping livestock, making wedding dresses from parachute silk and painting cardboard wedding “cakes” to attempting to stick as closely as possible to known patterns of life—for Irene, this meant taking her niece Vivien to the annual Queen Charlotte's Ball, still featuring the pulling of a giant “cake” and a procession of debutantes and giving a Dorchester luncheon for the grand duchess of Luxembourg.

Once again, Irene's drinking had become a problem. She was reasonably good at handling it, usually withdrawing to her room at the Dorchester when she realized she had had more than was good for her. But several times recently she had been so drunk in public that Vivien was seriously worried. Not only did she often take Viv and her friends to parties or restaurants where there was dancing; she was shortly giving a twenty-first birthday party for her—and Vivien was terrified that her aunt might become embarrassingly tipsy.

Not daring to tackle Irene about it herself, Vivien told Baba, who had no such reservations and was in any case extremely scornful of her sister's weakness. “I simply can't understand why Irene just can't stop,” she would say. Now she wrote Irene a severe letter about her “failure.” Chastened, Irene replied that she was giving up alcohol for Lent. A week later she was able to write with satisfaction that “my dinner for Vivien's 21st went off beautifully. Baba had decorated the cake with sugar roses, candles and a silver key. Viv cut it half way through the evening. When they had all gone Baba and I had a most helpful and non-critical chat about my failings and sadnesses and she was really quite human.”

Irene's summer began with a visit to Victor Cazalet at Great Swifts. It was looking marvelous, its walls clad with wisteria above beds of wallflowers and forget-me-nots and rhododendrons in full bloom. Except for the damage to the park by tanks, and the troops under canvas in the woods, it would have been easy to forget the war, but as Victor pointed out, it was better than having the Germans there.

Halifax's letters now contained the constant theme of his return. “It was nice to hear you speaking of the end of June, which is only a short way off,” he wrote at the end of May. “Do you remember our dripping walk together, back from Harold Nicolson's odd tea party?” And on June 4, “We have just been having a large Fourth of June dinner here and I have slipped away from it on plea of work to write to you. One didn't feel very much like a riotous 4 June dinner as you may guess with this Libyan fighting in full swing.
*

“The Windsors have descended on us—really on Dorothy—for a night on Monday. They are very silly I think to keep on showing up here. Much wiser for them to give everybody ample time to forget. Goodnight my dearest Baba, I can't tell you how I look forward to seeing you.”

 

Irene spent much of June traveling around Wales, Plymouth and Swansea, talking at meetings on behalf of the Anglican Church, speaking at a youth rally at the Congregational church in Pontypridd, and even giving sermons. She returned to London on June 13, saw Micky (“my loved one came up from St. Ronan's with Nanny and had tea with me in Victor Cazalet's sitting room he kindly lent us”) and went with Victor to an Allies Club reception. At Sibyl Colefax's dinner the next day she met the usual literary and political figures—the novelist L. P. Hartley, the Gladwyn Jebbs, Roger Makins—and “a badly burned pilot, Hillary, who has written a much talked of book.”
*

One June evening came an unsettling hint of more family trouble. Walter Monckton, who knew everything, ran into Irene in the hall of the Dorchester as she returned from an outing. He told her that he had had bad news of Fruity in Cairo—the actual words he used were “he's up to no good.” For the moment, Irene kept this item of news to herself—in any event, all Baba's attention was focused on the imminent arrival of the Halifaxes. They arrived by air on July 5, 1942, to be met by Baba, who spent the evening with them in their suite at the Dorchester, which only occasional other visitors were allowed to use.

Irene found it hard to stifle her envy of a sister who effortlessly had a central place in the affections of one of the most distinguished and influential men of the age. So when, ten days later, Victor Cazalet gave a big dinner for the Halifaxes, she was delighted to be seated in the place of honor between Halifax and Ed Morrow (“a position I fear coveted by Baba”). But when Baba began to talk of the coming weekend, which she was to spend with Victor Cazalet and Halifax, Irene was disturbed: as well as more unworthy feelings, she was genuinely worried about her sister's reputation. “This going round with Edward H. I don't like it.”

For the moment, the worry of Fruity put it out of her mind. In Cairo, it appeared that he was drinking too much; Halifax had heard that he often had to be carried home. Baba, who could not bear the thought of scandal, was anguished. With Irene, she discussed three possibilities: that he should be encouraged to return to some kind of life in London or nearby, warned in solemn terms by letter of the consequences of his excessive drinking—or left to suffer the consequences.

Never one to be borne along passively by the current of events, Baba acted decisively. She first sought the helpful advice of Fruity's sister Muriel, after which she wrote a long letter of warning to Fruity. Then, feeling slightly sick at the speed of events, she took the plunge of sending the twins to boarding school before going to stay with the Halifaxes at Garrowby. Here she spent much of the time walking and going for long rides with Edward. “I feel more than ever dependent on him and he seems even fonder of me and is touching in his wish and longing to help,” records her diary on August 3. “But what can help:
nothing
! Irene rang up in the evening and broke my only thread of hope.”

Irene had telephoned because Louis Greig had told her that Fruity was being sent home to receive his dismissal from Sir Archibald Sinclair, the air minister. Baba left Garrowby at once. Back in London, she wrote to Sir Archibald, whom she knew, and as she informed Irene a few days later, “had a most odious conversation about Fruity with Louis G at Air Ministry.” Louis had been inadequate and offhand on the telephone: he had said, she reported, that from the first Fruity's commanding officer had found him hopeless. Baba's reaction was instantly to leap to the defense of her husband against what she described to Irene as “unjust attacks.”

Greig, aware that Baba had rejected everything he had said outright, came to see Irene at the Dorchester on August 11. To her he explained that Fruity had only been taken on in the Cairo job because of his, Louis's, influence and that he could not help him anymore. Nor could Archie Sinclair, at the Air Ministry, interfere.

But for Baba all was not doom and gloom. One of her admirers, the American general Cliff H. Lee, in charge of all service supplies for the American army, told her that he could put in for Little Compton as a leave and rest center for American officers if it helped her. Baba agreed gratefully: this constant, well-paid supply of up to half a dozen presentable young officers at a time requiring accommodation meant that she could keep on not only her butler, cook and lady's maid but also employ a parlor maid and housemaids—a staff almost unheard of in wartime.

A few days later came another boost to Baba's morale. Jock Whitney, the rich and glamorous American she had contemplated marrying, arrived in England as intelligence officer to the Eagle Squadron.
*
Jock had recently remarried, but his wife, the former Betsey Roosevelt, was in America so it was not long before Jock, too, was one of the men circling her.

Halifax, now back in Washington, gave Baba what comfort he could, as well as his usual avowal of undying affection. “It is not at all nice having to begin this writing business again,” he wrote on August 26. “It is a poor substitute for the other. And I long hungrily for the first of yours. One other thing, I want you to send a telegram when anything definite occurs about Fruity's return or dates. I would like to be with you in thought at the time.”

At the beginning of September the duke of Kent, who had been another ardent admirer of Baba's—so much so that marriage had been in the air—was killed in a plane crash in Scotland. “Your account of Marina [the duke of Kent's wife] is very shattering,” wrote Halifax. “The bed business sounds like Queen Victoria and Albert. Poor woman. Is it really the fact that his head was cut off? Who told you that? And how do they know about the plane hitting, bouncing, etc.? Has the solitary survivor been able to tell them much? They will never know I suppose why they were there at all.”

Fruity arrived home at the end of September and Baba's first action was to wire this news to the Halifaxes. Edward responded immediately, writing on October 10, 1942:

I can't tell you, darling one, how great a relief your letter was saying the first 48 hours had at least gone off smoothly. The important thing you have got to do if things get difficult is to harden yourself against minding what is said from the other side, discounting it in advance, so that when and if it comes its hitting power is diminished.

And secondly, keep your own temper under very firm control. No one can work up a successful quarrel if the other party won't play! You know, I think, my dearest, how much love surrounds you as a kind of moral armour plate protection and there is much more to be called into service as you need . . .

34

Sisterly Jealousy

That autumn the Halifaxes needed all their strength to survive two devastating blows. The first was the news that their second son, Peter Wood, had been killed on November 1, 1942, in the Battle of El Alamein. Halifax wrote to Baba on the day this news was received. “I can't write you a proper letter because I'm so snowed under with letters from kind people about Peter.”

El Alamein had seen the defeat of Rommel and the tide of war turning—up to 40 percent of the Axis shipping between Italy and North Africa was being sunk (leaving Rommel's Afrika Korps desperately short of supplies), Tobruk had been recaptured, and the Soviets had begun their counterblow at Stalingrad. But for the Halifaxes there was another tragedy.

On December 30, 1942, their youngest son, Richard, who had only just joined his regiment in the Middle East, lost both his legs in an attack by a Stuka dive-bomber.

 

At first, Fruity's arrival at Little Compton went well. But coming back to England must have been a desperate disappointment to him—as Cairo itself had been, despite his high hopes. No turn of events could have underlined more forcefully just how completely his life had been derailed.

Wartime Cairo was a fashionable place to be. In neutral Egypt, it suffered few if any of the privations endured by countries actively waging the war. It was a focal point for young officers on leave as well as for the women who wanted to follow their men as close to the theater of battle as possible. In the bars and nightclubs a spirit of frenetic gaiety prevailed among those who would, perhaps the next morning, return to the dangerous and dirty business of war. Everyone who had business in the Near East passed through the city, spies as well as soldiers, and it was the headquarters of command operations in the vicinity.

The most famous hostess in wartime Cairo when Fruity had arrived there in November 1941 was Maud (“Momo”) Marriott, the rich, elegant American wife of Brigadier John Marriott. She entertained constantly, presiding over a wartime salon that drew everyone of interest. As she was a great friend of Baba's, Fruity naturally expected at least to be invited there on a fairly regular basis, if not to become one of the habitués of the house. But Momo made it clear that he was not important enough. He was a humble flight lieutenant whereas every other man of his age wore crowns, pips or wings; and he was being cold-shouldered by the very people from whom he could have expected friendship.

Fruity must often have reflected on the decline from the bright fulfillment of his younger days, from being the beloved husband of a well-known society beauty to deceived spouse, from chosen companion and devoted servant of a prince to this position on the sidelines, from a promising career in the Indian army to a junior rank in a service he had come to hate.

It was hardly surprising, in a man formerly so convivial, that the drink to which he turned for solace now tightened its grip; and that, by now set in his ways, he made few concessions to changed wartime circumstances. When he arrived back at Little Compton the servants to whom he had been accustomed all his adult life, first in India and then during his marriage to Baba, were still there; his wardrobe was still intact; and rationing had made little impact on him. With nothing to do, almost a visitor in a house in every respect run by his wife, there was no real pattern to his life. General Lee, as good as his word, produced an unending supply of American officers so that the Little Compton household ran on oiled wheels, much as it had done before the war, except for the new emphasis on vegetables and livestock. The ducks survived, but Baba soon gave up her attempts at rabbit breeding.

By the end of January 1943 Fruity had found a job, working for Filipo del Guidice, owner and founder of Two Cities Films, in the public relations department, living at the Grosvenor House Hotel during the week and coming down to Little Compton on weekends.

The Halifaxes were looking forward to a visit from Victor Cazalet; more important, their son Richard was reported to be steadily improving. “We had a long letter from him last week—very cheerful—coming here perhaps to get fitted up and then all home together,” wrote Halifax on January 25. For the next two months, his letters consisted largely of news on Richard's progress.

Irene, in her mid-forties aware that her “chances” were slipping away and that the children she had looked after for so long would soon be leading independent lives, had a fit of misery and regret when Victor took her down to spend the weekend at Great Swifts. Looking out of her window at the dazzling display of yellow crocuses on his lawn she tortured herself for her haste in turning down Victor's offer of marriage—“and yet I cannot!” She cheered up later when two other guests arrived, Victor produced champagne, sloe gin and brandy and they had some good bridge after dinner.

At Little Compton—now the only real center of Curzon family life—she listened while Baba read out to her and Charles Peake and his wife two letters that were so intimate that they showed perhaps more than anything else how strongly Halifax felt about her. One was from Peter, the son who had been killed, and the other from Richard, describing how his legs had been amputated in a small tent in the middle of the desert. Irene could not restrain her tears. “The heroism and cheerfulness of it was fantastic,” she wrote that night. “As if he had had a small scratch—full of jokes. Oh! the gallantry of these young men. Then I was shown Peter Wood's letter to his parents in case he was killed (which he always felt he would be).”

Despite his bereavement, Halifax's flow of letters to Baba continued unabated. Many featured the sort of intimate political gossip she loved, such as Anthony Eden's suggestion that he, Halifax, should go to India as viceroy after the war—presumably to preside over partition. “Whatever else might be said, I'm sure I would be in an impossible position with Winston as P.M., whatever assurances he might feel like giving.” He was also anxious that she keep some part of their correspondence secret: “Let Victor see my diaries but not any PSs.”

In April Irene listened avidly while Nick, on leave from France, where he was an officer in the Rifle Brigade, told her about his regiment, his men, his reactions to fighting and his talks with his father, whom he now visited in prison as regularly as he could. She was glad when Nick told her that he found Tom's company encouraging and inspiring and delighted that although his men knew he was Oswald Mosley's son, no one attempted to take it out on him in any way.

Back at the Dorch, Victor reappeared. Yet again, he proposed to Irene. “But if I could not stand him round me when I am ill,” she wrote reasonably, “it is certain he would still get on my nerves as a husband and permanency.”

 

On May 11, 1943, Churchill arrived in Washington for talks with Roosevelt. Winston's visit, Halifax told Baba, was exhausting but very worthwhile because he was getting to know the president well. “Your account of Tom Mosley is grim,” he added. “I wonder whether he will ever find his movement reviving after the war.”

He went on to revert to the question of absorbing interest to them both. Baba, the daughter of the man who had been arguably India's greatest viceroy, and Halifax, a former holder of the same great office, enjoyed speculating as to who would become India's first postwar viceroy, with all that the position entailed in terms of the delicate political negotiation required in the run-up to independence, straightforward organization and “image.”

India is causing Winston a lot of worry [Halifax wrote on May 27]. And I gather he has been and is quite seriously considering Anthony for it and that A is quite seriously considering it for himself. Not necessarily to be a peer and therefore ineligible for future leadership. But it would leave the Pooh still less controlled than at present. For Heaven's sake keep all this to yourself. With all his faults of egocentricity, total lack of the right sort of humility and utter inconsiderateness for anybody but himself I do take off my hat to the sheer confidence, vitality and vigour of the man. There is nothing artificial about it and the stream seems quite inexhaustible. It's that that impresses people here.

 

One morning at the beginning of June, Lady Mosley telephoned Irene to tell her that Tom was so ill his doctors said he would die if he was forced to remain in Holloway. In Baba's absence, Irene left a message with the Little Compton butler and dashed off to the House of Commons, largely to hear the prime minister report on his American visit but also to lobby whatever influential friends she saw there about Tom's desperate situation.

Baba was insistent that only the prime minister could order Tom's release and that it would carry more weight if Irene appealed to him rather than her, as everyone knew how much Irene disliked Tom. She added that Tom had said he was not interested in Micky and that Irene could keep him. Far from feeling relieved that her loved one would not be taken from her, Irene was again deeply shocked by Tom's parental indifference.

A few days later the Mosley family doctor, Dr. Kirkwood, telephoned to say that Lady Mosley had got everything out of proportion: he had never said that Tom's life was in danger—although he would certainly be better out of Holloway.

The question of the new viceroy continued to exercise both Baba and Halifax.

I think you can allay your anxieties about India [he wrote to her on June 6], but Dickie Mountbatten is certainly a new idea. Pooh I guess is thinking rather more about some super-Minister of State to heat up the war effort there, and recognise Burma, than about trying to govern India and find a way out of the log-jam.

If this is his idea I think he is wrong, for the Viceroy is going to have to make an awful lot of difference to the war against Japan, whereas he ought to be able to do quite a lot for better or worse on the political side. If I were dictator I might try somebody like Peter Fleming—though Freya Stark would be good!

 

Ten days later Halifax, though delighted at the prospect of a visit from his former private secretary Charles Peake, was writing sadly: “A telegram came last night telling me of Wavell as Viceroy. How your father would have spat. And I cannot help thinking, though perhaps for different reasons, that he'd have been right. I think between ourselves W is a bad choice, tantamount to saying: ‘We don't care a d—n about the political side.' Still, I'm glad it isn't John Anderson, or Anthony or Duff Cooper—and still more that it isn't me.”

When Irene ran into Chaim Weizmann in the lobby of the Dorchester on July 4, he gave some news that desolated her. Both Victor Cazalet and General Sikorski had been killed in a plane crash on leaving Gibraltar.
*
Irene was so stunned she scarcely knew what to do. In a daze she allowed the friends who were taking her to lunch at the Bagatelle to carry her off, thinking that perhaps the best thing was to control herself and carry on.

After lunch she rushed back to her hotel room to telephone Baba with the news, then thoughtfully rang Victor's household at Great Swifts, thinking that the shock would be terrible for them if they first heard it on the evening news bulletins. Later on she went to a cocktail party but could not face the chattering crowds, so she walked back with someone who understood how she felt—the banker Henry Tiarks, who had just lost his baby son.

Upstairs in her room, she finally broke down and wept bitterly, her sobbing intensified by the sympathetic friends who telephoned her to express their sorrow. She found it difficult to come to terms with this sudden, arbitrary tragedy. “Dear Victor only did good in this sad world even though I failed him in not being able to marry him and it was the last thing he said to me—he would hope again when he returned.”

She felt battered and alone. Louis Greig told her the details of the accident: the big Liberator had only just taken off when all four engines apparently failed and it crashed three hundred yards out from the Rock, with everyone still waving farewell. Of the seventeen passengers and crew the only survivor was the Czech pilot.

“Victor's loss comes very close to us all, doesn't it?” wrote Halifax on July 8. “We laughed a lot [at him]—but there was solid virtue behind what we laughed at. And he was such a good friend, loyal, devoted, unselfish, humorous.”

As July wore on, Halifax's thoughts were turning increasingly toward home. From Portland, Oregon, he wrote to Baba on July 19 with another reference to the mysterious “PSs”—“I loved your PS and only distance and the uncertainty of how long this letter will take to get to you prevents me answering like with like!”—before discussing holiday plans, the prospect of a night or two in London, and how he could time his stay in Garrowby for a date when Baba would be free to come up there. “If you don't meet us (as I dream constantly with prayers that you will), leave full instructions at the Dorch for us to make contact at the earliest possible. I think of little else.”

At Little Compton, Irene's underlying resentment of Baba had resurfaced as a result of her sister's attitude to her struggle against alcohol. Victor's loss, with all that it implied, had no doubt hit her harder than she realized, for her drinking had since become more persistent. Although Irene despised her own weakness, even more did she loathe Baba's strictures. When she received a long letter of reproof she replied that Baba's constant surveillance had a worse effect on her than anything; what she, Irene, needed, was cheerful cooperation in her attempt to break her habit.

Fruity's presence, however, altered the balance of the sisters' emotional equation, providing a focus for their joint annoyance, with his silences, his view that rationing was for others and, almost the worst crime in those days of desperate fuel shortage, his hogging of the hot water. In spite of the water shortage, Simpson (the butler, who also acted as Fruity's valet) would run deep baths for Fruity. Furiously Irene tackled him about this, to which Simpson replied that if he had demurred Fruity would have paid no attention and done it himself. “How I got through dinner I do not know.”