Page 99 of The Gathering Storm

The final blow came when the New York longshoremen announced that they would refuse to unload the Bremen when it came in, if the Duke and Duchess were on board. They referred to them as ‘National Socialist bedfellows’.

James was in the suite at the Meurice when the final flurry of telephone calls was taking place, and overheard enough to understand the situation. Lindsay told of the weight of public opinion against the Windsors in America; Bullitt, the US ambassador to France, said the Duke should go ahead with the tour, but without Bedaux, who was unpopular with American unions. And Sir Eric Phipps, the British ambassador to Germany, said he should definitely not go – the very success of their German tour would play against them in the USA.

In the end, James believed it was the potential snub to Wally that changed the Duke’s mind. After the royal welcome she had had in Germany, he didn’t want to expose her to slights in the New World. He issued a statement to the press the next day, saying they had decided to ‘postpone’ the trip. The statement also announced that they would soon be making a trip to the Soviet Union.

James for once overstepped his role, and addressed the Duke on the subject. ‘Sir, that’s most unwise,’ he said. The Duke scowled, and James hurried on, ‘Sir, I’ve been there, I know how dangerous it is. You’ve always said the Soviets are a bigger threat than the Fascists.’

‘Ah,’ said the Duke, looking cunning, ‘but, you see, after all this nonsense about my German tour, a tour of Russia will balance it out.’

In despair, James went back to the office and telephoned Charlie at the New York Plaza, only to be told that he and Fern had checked out that morning, without saying where they were going. He waited all day for a telephone call or a wire. He had no idea what he was supposed to do next, even if he still had a job. He was now thoroughly confused in his mind about whether he should hate the Bolsheviks or the Nazis more. He was disappointed that he was not going to see America, but realised he did not really like the Duke and Duchess, who seemed both silly and selfish, and he did not want to be involved in any more of their antics.

The next day brought only more silence, and annoyed, worried and upset in about equal proportions, he wrote Charlie a note and left it on his desk, packed his bags, locked everything up, and went home to England.

January could be a hard month, an anticlimax after the bright colours and warm cheer of Christmas. January 1938 began with grey skies and bitter cold. There had been heavy snowfall in London towards the end of December, and the roads and pavements were dangerous as the snow turned to slush and ice. English houses were not designed to cope with extreme cold, and even with the fire built up, the sitting-room at 27 Wellington Road was not cosy. There was a semicircle of warmth around the fire, but insidious draughts wriggled their way in round window frames and under doors. Richard was aware that, while the skin of his face was hot, his ankles and feet were icy.

When Cynthia, seated opposite him darning socks, sighed for the second time, he lowered the evening paper and said, ‘What’s the matter, dear?’ She didn’t answer at once, and he said, ‘Is it something I’ve done?’ He was guiltily aware that he had been very busy for some time past with his plans, and probably had been neglecting her.

‘It’s not you. It’s me,’ she said, without looking at him. Her face reddened, as if she was going to cry. ‘I’m a terrible wife,’ she concluded, low and miserable.

Dropping the paper over the side of the chair, he thrust himself across to kneel in front of her and place his hands over hers. ‘How can you say that?’ Her chin trembled, and there were drops under her lowered eyelashes, catching the firelight. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, darling. What’s troubling you?’

Almost too low to be heard, she said, ‘It started today. My – you know.’ She was blushing again, wouldn’t look at him, and spoke the next words without moving her lips. ‘The monthlies.’

He knew how shy she was about bodily functions, and had long since stopped trying to jolly or persuade her out of it. He knew what menstruation was, and had grown used to its regular interruption of routine, but he didn’t know, of course, how a woman felt about it, and since it was something they could not talk about, he supposed he never would.

He was at a loss. ‘Does it hurt, dear?’

She shook her head, pulled her hands back and fumbled out a handkerchief to dab her eyes and blow her nose. He remained where he was, one side of him uncomfortably hot, but wanting to be supportive of her in her trouble.

‘It’s not that,’ she said, putting the handkerchief away, and he saw she had decided to be brisk and practical, and it hurt his heart, just a little, because he knew she was doing it to save him embarrassment. ‘It means I’m not pregnant.’

‘Oh,’ said Richard.

She gave him a faint smile. ‘You don’t have to stay there,’ she said. ‘You’ll burn.’

He resumed his seat, but he sensed her distress under her façade of common sense. ‘Did you think you were?’

‘I hoped.’ She swallowed hard, so as not to cry. ‘I want to give you a son. But it looks as though …’ She had to stop, and pressed her fingers to her mouth, closing her eyes against the tears.

‘Please don’t cry! There’s no need. We haven’t been married very long. I’m sure lots of people don’t get a baby straight away. You have to be patient, that’s all.’

She plied the handkerchief again. ‘I went to see Dr Saloman,’ she said. ‘He’s not the doctor here, he’s our family doctor from when I was a child. He knows me, and I felt more – comfortable talking to him. He – he examined me.’ She didn’t even like saying the words, and he considered the courage it must have taken her to undergo such intimacy and shame. ‘He says I’m not quite right inside, and that I’ll probably never have a child.’

Richard rallied. ‘Probably. He said probably. Not definitely. Doctors don’t know everything.’

‘Why do we consult them, then?’ She folded her hands tightly in her lap, and he saw she had come to the thing she felt she had to say, but didn’t want to. ‘If you want to divorce me, I’ll understand. A barren wife is no use to a man. Mummy and Daddy will take me back. I’ll be all right.’

He was appalled at her gallantry. ‘Of course I don’t want to divorce you! Please don’t ever suggest it again. As to being barren – I don’t believe it. We’ve got all the time in the world. You will have a baby. And if you don’t, well, we’ll deal with that together.’

‘Oh, Richard,’ she said, in a voiceless sigh.

‘I want to make you happy,’ he said. ‘Isn’t there anything I can do?’

She thought for a long moment, her pale face rosy in the firelight. ‘There is something I want,’ she said at last.

‘Anything,’ he said. He had a flashing thought, that a puppy or a kitten might amuse her. Or a canary in a cage.

‘I want to go back to work in the office,’ she said. ‘I’d like to know I’m helping the company. You’re always telling me there’s a lot to do, and not enough people to do it. And I’d like to be busy. The days can be awfully long here when you’re at work.’