Long Live the King (34 page)

‘That was quick,’ he said. ‘I thought it took days.’ The baby let out another cry. It sounded angry.

‘It’s a boy,’ he said, ‘unless girls look like that too when they’re born.’

She had a look.

‘I wouldn’t think so,’ she said. ‘But no one tells me anything.’

‘What do we do now?’ he said. He seemed to be crying. Sniffing away, at any rate. She felt quite energetic, as if there was a lot to be done.

She looked.

‘I expect you have to cut the cord thing in the middle,’ she volunteered. ‘People don’t go dragging something like that round with them all their lives.’

He studied the baby, the cord, and the lump of liver.

‘Navels,’ he said. ‘I see. How we all begin. Well, well. I see.’ He tied two knots in the cord with string and snipped the ends with some moderately clean wire cutters. He boiled up the tea kettle and poured the boiling water over the cutters before using them to cut the cord between the two knots. ‘I learnt the importance of boiling water in the Cadet Corps at Eton. In time of war and tumult.’

The baby was looking round and searching for something to put in its mouth. Her breasts seemed obvious so she pulled one out of various layers of clothing and put it in the baby’s mouth. It nuzzled around a bit and then began to suck.

‘You are clever,’ he said, admiringly.

‘You’re not bad yourself,’ she said.

Nanny Brown came bustling in, in a state of fine panic, looked, saw, tore off a piece of extra skirt and wrapped it round the baby without dislodging its mouth. Someone had sensibly gone to fetch her.

‘You are clever,’ she said to Minnie, and to Arthur, ‘You are a one, Master Arthur.’

Dr Hodson arrived an hour or so later, up at the house.

‘A lightning birth,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard of it but never seen one.’

‘You did not see much of this one,’ Minnie pointed out.

But he smiled at her in a quite friendly manner and said, ‘I told you, you could leave it to Nature.’

She smiled back. But then she would have smiled at anyone. She was in a state of adoration. It was different from anything she had known before. She and Arthur shared it.

They were safe.

They decided not to tell Isobel at once but to wait until the Coronation was over. It was only a few days away, after all.

A Room Set Aside

Isobel was waiting on the Queen in Buckingham Palace. It was Sunday: the Coronation was to be on the Thursday. She had been summoned by telegram, and was at Buck House within the hour, although her plans for the day – lunch with Freddie d’Asti, a final dress fitting – had to be set aside. She had thought Alexandra was safely in Windsor with the King, to arrive in London only on the Tuesday, to have rehearsals in the afternoon and all the next day. They would need them. The rituals were elaborate.

Isobel walked through from Belgrave Square and found the sight most stirring. The cavalry were out, helmets glinting, hooves drumming: the decorations up – great wreaths and loops of flowers, the flags already down the length of the Mall, symbols of national pride and confidence. The streets were crowded, people already gathering days in advance: visitors from abroad everywhere, their strong, open colonial faces obvious, so different, alas, from the pinched, tired faces of her countrymen. But how they smiled; how everyone smiled. The future beckoned and it was good. Isobel was much moved.

But Alexandra was not smiling. Isobel found the Queen pacing the drawing room, smoking pink Sobranie after pink Sobranie, nervous as a girl before her wedding, and full of complaints.

She had wanted an extra rehearsal at the Abbey on the Monday, she said, but the Earl Marshal had failed to arrange one: if she was to kneel at St Stephen’s altar for the anointing she needed to see how her bad knee would react, how her skirt would behave, and would the ruff be disturbed when she took the sceptre in her right hand and the ivory rod with the dove in her left. In other words, thought Isobel, she was nervous.

‘The Dean said he was trying to fit me in – no one has tried “to fit me in” since I was a girl: it is outrageous, am I not the Queen? This coronation has gone to everyone’s heads! He said it was difficult. The stands and floral decorations were still being put in. But I am hardly going to stand in their way, one small woman. The choirs and orchestras were rehearsing round the clock, he said, as if that was our fault.’

It was true, Isobel knew, that the music their Majesties had chosen was not easy, but according to Robert, according to Balfour, most admirable; everyone of contemporary note – from Elgar and Parry to Sullivan, Saint-Saëns, and a host of others – was to be represented.

‘And then he said his choristers were more accustomed to Handel, Mozart and the polyphonic composers than this modern stuff. This modern stuff! He would not have dared say this in front of the King.’

‘How is the King?’ asked Isobel, hoping to divert her.

‘He is still not well,’ said the Queen, as if it was by-the-by. ‘In fact he is in constant pain and it makes him very bad-tempered. But I am not easily defeated. If I cannot get into the church, the church will come to me. I have sent for Kennion, who is the Bishop of Bath and Wells and is to officiate on the day because Canterbury is so old everyone thinks he will die mid ceremony. I have had to take poor Kennion away from his Sunday services, but it is his traditional duty to support me. He can hardly refuse.’

Isobel had no inclination to encounter Bishop Kennion – how the past did keep catching up with one, she reflected; her last conversations with him and his wife had hardly been pleasant, and over the matter of Rosina and Frank Overshaw – although mostly conducted by her husband, and through the post – almost rancorous. She had hoped never to have seen him again. Yet here he was, and at the door. She thought it best to make herself scarce, and went to inspect the Royal dressing rooms and admire the crowns. As it happened she passed Kennion in the Quadrangle, striding along with flunkeys on either side running to keep up. The palace flunkeys were on the whole little short squat men, she had noticed, Cockneys out of a family tradition of royal service. His face was thunderous – he clearly had better things to do – and he did not recognize Isobel – why would he? Isobel was just another annoying person to have passed briefly through his portals – and she kept herself unobtrusive until he had passed.

The Queen was in a better mood after Kennion had gone, and drew Isobel into conversation about Rosina – how word gets round, thought Isobel – and her elopement. ‘Not exactly elopement,’ said Isobel, ‘just rather sudden.’

Over lunch the Queen said her own second daughter, ‘Toria, was thirty-five and still unmarried, being such a thoughtful, serious girl. But at least she could keep her mother company into her old age, which was what one hoped for in at least one daughter, did one not? She seemed to feel rather sorry for Isobel for having ended up with so few children to spread around, and then being so careless of the one she had. Eloped! And to Australia, where there were no crowned heads, just Governors General and endless deserts. And then all of a sudden she began to cry. Her eyes welled up and her mouth went down. She sniffed and gulped and felt for Isobel’s hand.

‘It isn’t fair,’ she said. ‘I do so much for him, feel so much for him. I’ve been so worried for him for so long, and he doesn’t care for me one bit. He only likes his clever women, one of the stands he’s had put up in the Abbey is for them. The loose box, people call it. Trophies of the stud. That’s why the Dean was so difficult, he’s upset too. It’s disrespectful. The Abbey is dedicated to God, not fleshly lusts. Yesterday was the last straw. He was so horrible at Windsor I walked out. I’ve never done that before. Called a carriage and came here and I haven’t slept a wink.’

She was, Isobel realized, talking about the King. The staff stood by, no doubt listening, but to Alexandra they were invisible.

‘And he didn’t even come after me!’ the Queen wailed.

It seemed that the King had been complaining for some time of vague pains. He was off his food, and languid, which he put down to not having enough meat. He would not slow down; if he wasn’t receiving guests, he was dining out. He’d been playing host at Windsor to members of the King’s African Rifles and a troupe of Maori warriors. He wanted to see everything, welcome everybody. He was excited and flushed and every now and then he would double up with pain. He hated doctors. Boats were lining up at Tilbury and Southampton carrying visitors vital to the national interest. The Great Park had been opened up for the tented quarters of Canadian and Australian troops. He felt he had to inspect them. He would not disappoint his people. He’d stopped visiting Mrs Keppel, but he would not stop eating. Yesterday morning she’d put her hand on his forehead and it was hot. To be feverish in the evening was nothing; to be feverish in the morning was not a good sign.

‘But didn’t you call the doctors?’

‘He said I mustn’t. If I did he would tell them to go to hell. He said in his experience wherever doctors gathered, someone died. I went against his wishes, I called Sir Francis Laking. Of the three I inherited from my mother-in-law he’s the only one I can stand. Broadbent looked after Albert on his deathbed and didn’t save him and is very plain and very corpulent, worse than Bertie. Reid’s loyal but knows far too much about everyone’s private affairs, especially the late Queen’s, rest her soul. So I was left with Sir Francis: though he is rather short. For some reason the taller the doctor the more one trusts them. Don’t you think, Lady Isobel?’ She had stopped crying, but spoke wildly.

‘It is certainly the case,’ said Isobel, agreeing with royalty as she had found one was only too wont to do, though she had never given the matter much thought. Her own family kept remarkably healthy. She thought about Minnie and the coming baby, and had a sudden pang of anxiety. Perhaps she should be attending to her instead of to this weeping Queen? But Minnie was of robust stock and hated a fuss.

‘I knew it was bad when Sir Francis turned up unannounced,’ Alexandra was going on, ‘and Bertie was quite nice to him and even lay down and let himself be examined. Sir Francis didn’t seem worried and said it was probably just a rather stubborn chill to the stomach, and the best thing for the King to do was rest, even going to bed before dinner. The King lost his temper and told him he was a fool of a doctor, there was no way he could rest, he had far too much to do, and only dinner kept him going. Then I suggested perhaps he shouldn’t go to rehearsals at the Abbey but preserve his strength for the Coronation itself. I could go on my own.’

‘It might be a very sensible idea,’ said Isobel. But the Queen was in tears again, the latest Sobranie sodden and limp in a feeble hand.

‘And then Bertie turned on me. He roared and shouted and said I was a fool and an idiot and drove him mad, and I should go and look after my jewels and parade up and down as I thought fit and leave him alone for once. So that’s exactly what I did. He has no business behaving like that to me. I love him. I care for him. I worry for him. And this is how he repays me.’

‘The King is not well and in pain,’ said Isobel. ‘He will be very sorry for what he has said as soon as he is himself again. You will forgive one another soon enough. Don’t distress yourself so!’ So much she seemed to have said to innumerable wives in the past. Royal wives were apparently no different.

Alexandra seemed comforted and sniffed a little and the tears stopped flowing.

‘Sir Francis said he would move into rooms at Windsor to keep an eye on the King in my absence,’ she said. ‘Let him face the royal rages for a change.’

‘But he really wasn’t worried about the King’s health?’ asked Isobel. In Alexandra’s place she would have been – extremely.

‘Oh no,’ said Alexandra. ‘A chill to the stomach. What a fuss!’ And they went down to the dressing rooms to have a last look at the crown and the way the jewels were placed on the mannequin. Alexandra looked again and then asked Isobel to wait on her again the next day; she was such a comfort.

And that was the end of all serenity for by noon next morning who was at Buck House door but a rather agitated Sir Francis Laking and two colleagues, introduced as Dr Thomas Barlow, who seemed a nice enough man and had a good beard, and Dr Frederick Treves, appointed surgeon general to the King. Alexandra said this was the first she’d heard of it; why, was there some question of surgery? She seemed not to care for Treves: a very military and rather bombastic man, the kind who seemed uninterested in anything women had to say, but was at least tall.

Sir Francis did not beat about the bush. He said he had come to ask permission to set up a small operating theatre in Buck House. Equipment would be brought up through the day from St George’s at Hyde Park Corner. The King was coming up that day by special train from Windsor. He was suffering from perityphlitis. A surgical operation must be performed at once to treat an inflamed and infected right iliac fossa, the source of which lay in the vermiform process of the caeca. It must be found and removed. Peritonitis had set in and they would operate at once, praying that they were not too late.

The Queen looked from face to face. Isobel could only admire her composure.

‘Is it dangerous?’ Alexandra asked.

‘Frankly, Ma’am, yes. It is at the very edge of today’s surgical expertise. We must be prepared for all eventualities. But we do know that if we do nothing the King must die.’

The Queen stood, swayed a little, shook off Isobel’s arm and then recovered her composure. She has six children, thought Isobel, she is accustomed to sudden bad news. More, she is a queen. When others panic, she must not.

‘Well, Sir Francis, you do surprise me. Does the King know?’

‘We have told him, Ma’am, but he will not listen. He will not have the Coronation cancelled.’

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘He will not disappoint his subjects. We will see what he says when he arrives.’

‘Ma’am, he has no choice.’

‘Could you not have told him earlier? He will have very little time to recover before he must be at Westminster Abbey. The Coronation service is long and tiring.’