Long Live the King (35 page)

There was a short silence. The doctors did not say what was clear to Isobel; that the King had little chance of life, let alone getting to the Abbey. He would die un-anointed.

‘It is hard to diagnose. We have had our suspicions. We hoped against hope,’ said Laking.

‘How very unwise of you, Sir Francis.’ She was at her most regal.

‘Ma’am, by the Grace of God the King will survive the operation.’ Treves spoke for the first time. ‘But it is still a grave assault against the body. He will be in his bed for some time.’

‘Days, weeks?’

‘Months, Ma’am.’

‘And are you an expert in these matters, Dr Treves? I must remind you that the King is a strong and healthy man.’

‘It is my subject, your Majesty,’ said Treves, with great patience. ‘Which is why I have been brought in. I have performed more than one thousand vermiform removals in this country and in South Africa. We are talking about a pouch-like structure where the small and large intestine join. It is unnecessary to our survival as human beings – a vestigial trace of our evolution, it is believed, a mere appendix to it – but nonetheless fatal if infected and not removed. The pouch is sensitive to disturbance and may burst during the operation. That is our problem.’

‘Fatal?’

‘My own little daughter Hetty died under the knife in just such an operation. The knife was mine.’

‘That is hardly reassuring, Dr Treves. I am surprised you tell me.’

‘It is the truth, Ma’am.’

‘And you, Dr Barlow?’

‘I attended your mother-in-law on her death-bed. I know the family history well. It can be helpful in such cases.’

‘How very cheerful!’ she said. And then, ‘What does vermiform mean?’

‘The shape of a worm,’ said Dr Barlow, thus tested.

‘How very unpleasant!’ the Queen said. She made a decision, and dismissed them. ‘Very well, you must do as you see fit. You may have your room. The staff will find you anything you need. I shall wait for the King and see what he has to say. It is his body, after all. But to cancel a coronation at two days’ notice is unthinkable.’

 She waited until they were gone and then said, ‘Stay with me, Isobel. The family must be called. Our son George will be too distressed to be of much use: ’Toria will look to heaven for help; May will tell me it is all my fault. How quickly life can change. I remember how it was when our son Albert died. One hopes, and then hope dies and nothing is ever the same again.’

In the evening they played backgammon as if nothing was amiss. But the Queen’s limp, which that morning had been negligible, became quite noticeable. Isobel stayed the night in a palace filled with dread. The lady’s maid who brought her night robes enquired, she noticed, not whether the King would live, but whether the Coronation would be cancelled.

The next morning Isobel looked in at the make-shift operating theatre. It was a large, pleasant room looking over the grounds at the back of the house. Nurses in their voluminous skirts and little white ribboned caps were scrubbing down the walls and furniture. Lord Lister himself was there, to make sure the required state of antisepsis was achieved. He was full of misgivings, saying to Laking it was better to let the King die in peace than subject him to so much pain and stress. He had known too many patients die on the table during the procedure for comfort.

‘But not many kings,’ was Treves’s response. ‘Courage, man, courage!’

At which Lister smiled grimly and required the surprised nurses to remove their skirts and work in their petticoats to reduce the risk of infection. If he had his way they would chop off their hair as well and burn it.

And then the King returned, in what Alexandra referred to as one of his ‘difficult moods’.

It was something of an understatement, Isobel thought. When he was not doubled up in pain, or claiming death was better than disgrace, he ranted at his doctors. He was suffering the most terrible torment man had ever known, or monarch endured. The choice the quacks presented him with was nothing short of satanic. He would rather die than cancel his Coronation.

‘Then he will die,’ mouthed Treves to Isobel.

The King raged on: the doctors were fools and charlatans. He would declare his abdication now and perhaps they would leave him alone. He threw Laking out of the room, telling him to take himself and his accursed profession with him. He told Lister he was a fool, and a germ did less damage than a surgeon ever did. The Queen was listening in silence, the doctors in mixed outrage and terror. Then she spoke.

‘You would be in a much better temper, dear, if you simply had it done. You may not be able to stand it any more but neither can I.’

The King seemed to return to his senses and looked at his wife as if for further instruction.

‘You will simply go to sleep, my dear, and you will either wake up, or you will not.’

He thought about this for a moment and then said: ‘That is not necessarily the case. A man could go to hell.’

‘Not on my account,’ she said. He regarded her with great affection.

‘Then the Coronation is postponed,’ he said. ‘You may announce it.’

He turned to his doctors, apologized, and after that behaved like a lamb, doing what he was told, lying quiet while they administered chloroform.

Isobel took a walk while the doctors worked. News had got out that the King was seriously ill, likely to die under the knife. The streets were deserted, sorrow had struck, no one smiled any more. Here was a King loved by his people, and if for his faults, not in spite of them, so it was. But how quickly joy could turn to fear. Fear spread. The worst could happen. If the King could go, everyone could go. All were vulnerable. She thought of Minnie for some reason, and prayed for her safe delivery. She prayed for the royal family, for her own; for all bishops, priests and deacons, just to be on the safe side. She included Bishop Kennion. When she returned the operation was over.

The King is Dead – Long Live the King!

It had seemed that the King was dying. The operation had gone successfully. The offending pouch was out, and had not burst in the process, though when the forceps laid it on the receiving tray, it had exploded with an alarming energy, producing an intolerable stench. Many had all but run for the doors. But the King himself seemed to be drifting away. Those who were accustomed to death-beds knew the signs: the pallor, the sense of fading away, the arrested breathing. No breath at all, seemingly, for an unconscionable time and then a deep, slow, sad breath, more like a sigh. People had seen it too many times not to recognize it. Dr Barlow slipped from the room and used the telephone. If they had lost the King they should at least make the most of the death-bed scene. It was advantageous to have heads of state present when a monarch died. Disraeli had been present when Prince Albert passed on. Barlow tried Lord Salisbury, who was too indisposed to come to the telephone but sent a message saying he should be in touch with Balfour at Carlton Gardens. Dr Barlow did so. Balfour walked down the Prince of York Steps into the Mall and was inside Buck House within fifteen minutes. Barlow waited for him.

When Arthur Balfour arrived he came in the company of a young woman he introduced as Princess Ida, currently involved in experiments for the S.P.R. – the Society for Psychical Research. She had, he claimed, powers as a healer. She should be allowed into the King’s room.

‘It can do no harm, man, it might do some good.’

Barlow hesitated. He feared coming up against Treves’s aggressive scepticism, or Laking’s supercilious raising of eyebrows, but he was an older man than either of them, nearing seventy, and had known many strange things happen. He would like to end up a baronet. The Queen’s Indian waiter had assured him such was his ‘karma’, but the Queen was dead, and the Indian servant was dead, and the promise had not yet come true. Besides, it was hardly prudent to quarrel with Prime Ministers, though this one was not like any other he had known. And Princess Ida was a sweet, gentle girl, and titled. He let her into the death scene. No one noticed. The laboured breathing had almost stopped. The family wept. Barlow had been with the family long enough to read what was going on. The Prince of Wales, waiting for the mantle of power to descend, looked frightened. His wife May was weeping, yet conscious of relief to come: now at last her children would be out of Alexandra’s clutches; she could give them the proper disciplined upbringing they needed.

The King breathed his last, or seemed to. The Dowager Queen stood, raised her arms to heaven, and wailed. Princess Ida slipped into her empty chair, and watched the still, calm face for a moment. All passion spent.

‘You poor man,’ she said, and stroked his cheek with her long pale finger, weeping a little. She was thinking of her father.

‘What the devil—’ said Treves—

‘This is too bad!’ said Laking—

Alexandra moved to slap the girl’s hand away—

Princess Ida looked surprised, a little aggrieved and entirely innocent, and drew back her hand, reproachfully.

The King’s eyes shot open. He stared into space for a second and then sat bolt upright. He winced, as the stitches in his belly stretched. He looked round the room.

‘George,’ enquired the King, and then thundered, ‘George!’

George stepped forward. The lamentation in the room took its time to subside. It was hard to make sense of what had happened. The doctors blinked. But Alexandra now stroked the King’s living cheek and her tears were of simple joy. She did not care what had happened, Isobel knew. Alexandra loved the King. It was enough that the King lived.

‘George,’ said the King, loud and clear, ‘your time has not yet come. I have work to do.’

He closed his eyes and fell asleep, a deep, healthy, pink-cheeked slumber.

‘A miracle!’ cried Barlow.

‘A successful operation,’ said Treves.

‘The King has survived,’ said Sir Francis. ‘It is for you to inform the nation, Mr Balfour.’

Happy Ever After: A Postscript

Later Isobel was to write to her husband in London from Dilberne Court:
‘I don’t know what happened and none of us ever will. But I think perhaps the King encountered the spirit of his mother in the borderland between life and death. I think she apologized, as well she might. In any case he has been much happier since he came back to us. He eats only moderately, has lost inches from his girth, looks much better and is busy reforming the navy. His recovery had been so quick one would almost think the whole thing was in his mind if it were not for the horrible smell of the ruptured pouch, which was all too real. The Coronation will be in August. The ceremony will be shorter and simpler. So many grandees had to go home after the cancellation, there are fewer to impress, I daresay. But the flags and the bunting can come out again. And now Minnie is back to her proper shape, she can process with me behind the Duchesses. She will see her Coronation. And so will Adela. She can sit between me and the Baums. She slips so easily into Rosina’s place.’

As Isobel stood next to the young Princess Ida at the King’s death-bed which was not a death-bed, she had become aware of what the girl was wearing. It was a rather faded red velvet dress with a pink lace collar and scarlet ribbons. It seemed familiar. She could remember buying it. The hems had been let out once or twice: you could tell: an inch or so of darker fabric either side of the seams. The girl had hair which reminded her of Arthur’s hair. She held her head the same way Arthur did. She looked at the world with the same cheerful innocence which was not innocence as did Arthur. They were cousins. Isobel turned and said: ‘You are not Princess Ida at all, you are Adela.’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Adela.

‘I’m your Aunt Isobel,’ said the Countess of Dilberne, embracing her. ‘Time to come home.’

So Adela came.

We hope you enjoyed this book.

For an exclusive preview of the next thrilling book read on or click
here
.

To find out about Fay Weldon, click
here
.

To discover more books by Fay Weldon, click
here
.

For an invitation from the publisher, click
here
.

Preview

Read on for the first chapter of

The King had foreign tastes; a French chef would have to be brought in and where could one find such a one at short notice? Existing staff would have to move up and share beds, which always made them sulky and resentful just when they should not be. Pathways must be constructed so the ladies would not get their feet muddy as they joined the men, and field kitchens erected so that dishes could be served hot and claret warmed. At least the King’s champagne – he had to have champagne when shooting, though frugal enough with alcohol otherwise – would be cold enough. Isobel found her heart beating hard and her breath coming short. Five months to prepare for one weekend – it was a monstrous task.

Part 1