Page 40 of The Gathering Storm

She walked away to the window, and stood with her back to Emma for a moment. When she turned back, she was dry-eyed and composed. ‘Oh, well, I’ve always liked a challenge,’ she said, with a tight smile.

Emma didn’t like to mention the King just then. ‘What will you do?’ she asked.

‘Throw Mary out, first of all,’ Wally said briskly. ‘I told her to pack her bags and get out. She’s going to an hotel. But she let slip that Ernest is looking into the lease of a flat for her in Albion Gate.’

‘For both of them?’

‘No, I told him he has to keep up the appearance of respectability for the time being. Officially he still lives at Bryanston Court. Of course I can’t control who he sleeps with, but he has to be discreet, and at least play the devoted husband.’ Her eyes moistened again, treacherously. ‘He said—’ She stopped to master her voice. ‘He said he wanted a child.’

‘Oh, Wally!’

She shook away the sympathy with a jerk of her head. ‘I told him he’s already got one, his kid by his first wife, Audrey. Lives with her mother in New York, and precious little he seems to care about her. He never sees her. But he said that was the point. He wanted to have another child and do it right from the beginning. And, of course, Mary’s at her last knockings as far as that goes, so they have to get on with it quickly if she’s to have any chance. So it’s back to the divorce.’

‘You’ll go along with it?’

‘How can I stop it? That would cause even more scandal. Ernest advised me to consult a lawyer. I suppose I’d better go see Monckton – he’s smart.’

‘But I thought David was using Monckton? You can’t use the same lawyer, Wally. That would look like collusion. When it goes to court, if the judge has any doubts, he won’t award the divorce, and that’s that.’

‘I’m just going to take advice from Monckton,’ she said impatiently. ‘Ask him to recommend someone. I may as well have the best attorney. David will pay.’

‘That’s another thing that had better not come out,’ Emma said.

‘He’s just a friend, trying to help a friend,’ Wally said, a trifle wearily. Then she became brisk. ‘Now, I want you to put a date in your diary: the twenty-eighth of May. We’re having the Stanley Baldwins to dinner, and I want you there for moral support, because from what I hear they are horribly dull people. Married forty years, six children, terribly religious. She does all sorts of charity work with the Young Women’s Christian Association. They have a theatre in their country home and put on family amateur dramatics – can you believe it?’

Emma was concerned. ‘But is it wise? Introducing you to the Prime Minister is – well, it’s a political act, isn’t it? It could make things awkward.’

Wally shrugged. ‘David insists. He says it has to be done, that sooner or later his Prime Minister has to meet his future wife.’ She gave a taut smile. ‘You could say that was his proposal of marriage. He’s talked to everybody else about marrying me, but he’s never actually asked me.’

‘Did you say yes?’

‘Well, it wasn’t a question, it was a statement, so I didn’t say anything. We’ll see when the time comes. One step at a time. I’ll take legal advice, and we’ll go on from there.’

Polly had expected to feel excited when she left the shed at Southampton and saw the ship for the first time. What she hadn’t expected was to feel lonely. Queen Mary towered above her, with her black hull and white superstructure, the three huge chimneys, black with red caps, blocking out the sky. Polly had already crossed the Atlantic twice on liners, but she had been younger then, with other things on her mind. Now she looked at the massive indifference of the ship – an artefact, and yet, like all ships, seeming like a living thing – and felt too small, too lost, too alone. For a foolish moment she wanted to go home.

But, urged on by the pressure of the porter behind her with her luggage, she mounted the gangplank to be welcomed by an officer on the look-out for her, and began to feel better. And as a steward conducted her to her cabin, she was passed by a fashionably dressed woman who stared and cried out, ‘Polly Alexander? Is that really you?’

Polly stopped. ‘Agatha van Damme,’ she responded. It was a former client of hers, a member of the top circle of New York society. ‘It’s Polly Morland now. I reverted to my maiden name after Ren died.’

‘And you’re coming back to New York?’

‘Just for a visit,’ Polly said. She was about to explain her connection to Queen Mary, but Agatha rushed on.

‘My, that’s a cute outfit! Fashion hasn’t been the same since you left. Remember that Egyptian-style evening gown you made for me? Heaps of the old gang are aboard. You must promise me to come to my cocktail party tomorrow – I’m getting in early before everybody else thinks of the same thing. What fun that we’ll all be meeting every day for five days! It’s going to be a marvellous crossing.’

They parted to head to their cabins, and Polly felt comforted. Agatha was a fool, but completely without malice, and it was good to know other old friends were aboard. There was a wonderful smell of newness everywhere, and she looked forward to exploring all of the luxurious facilities.

One of the glories of crossing the Atlantic – perhaps the crowning moment – was going up on deck early in the morning of arrival and watching the Statue of Liberty slowly rise from the misty horizon of the sea, until her gilded torch caught the sun, and flashed its welcome to the world’s most exciting city.

One of the facilities in the ship was the wireless-telephone connection to every part of the world, and the telegraph office was one of the busiest places on board. The passengers had been chattering away to friends ashore all the way across, with the result that by the time Polly checked into her room in the Plaza, flowers, messages and invitations had already begun to arrive. One bouquet was from Freda Holland, containing an invitation to her latest exhibition. Across the bottom she had scrawled, ‘Welcome back! Call me!’

Queen Mary turned round in two days, and since it seemed absurd to go so far for so little time, she had elected to take the following crossing and stay a week. Her first day was occupied with shopping, and she rediscovered how busy and noisy New York was. She was exhausted by the end of the afternoon, but a long bath in the fabulously appointed bathroom revived her, and she went out to dine with the Whitneys, who were keen racehorse owners. The male Whitneys were polo players and had known Ren Alexander – many of them had profited by his financial advice – while the women had bought Polly Modes, so there was plenty to talk about.

So many invitations were arriving that a week seemed not nearly long enough: she should have arranged to stay a month or two. She would have to prune drastically, but Freda Holland had been so kind in the past she felt obliged to accept her invitation for the opening on the following day. It was an exhibition of modern realist painters, like Edward Hopper, Grant Wood and Thomas Hart Benton, so she hoped it would not be too challenging to the eye. Besides, Freda knew everyone and her launches were always well-attended, so Polly hoped to meet some of the people she would not have time otherwise to visit.

She arrived at half past eleven, when the severely fashionable were only just getting up. None but genuine art lovers and critics were present, though that still constituted quite a crowd. But Freda spotted her at once and came straight over.

‘You haven’t changed a bit! Still as lovely as ever. Now, someone’s going to drag me away any moment, so tell me quickly, what are you doing in New York?’