Confined to bed, worried by my family, and disturbed over Raikes’ suggestions, I did not make a quick recovery. Nor, outside of unproductive worrying, did I take any action at all. Though my wrist healed rapidly, I continued to feel tired and disinclined to do anything.
How long this state of affairs might have lasted, I don’t know. But fortunately, before it had gone on for more than a few days, my uncle had to go to a Conference. He did not actually need me, but I knew that I could be very useful to him if I went along. I did, and it turned out to be a very good idea. The Conference itself was surprisingly interesting, and my uncle helped to raise my morale by telling me I was looking very well. “Several of the men complimented me on your looks,” he said, though he was not usually given to remarks of this kind. “I didn’t point out that I could claim little credit for them. Of course, you know how to dress, and that always helps.”
After the Conference, I fell back into my normal routine; and Raikes’—on reflection, rather melodramatic—remarks faded in my mind. In any case, I had a good deal else to think about. A fortnight after I had returned to work, Paul Meadows rang up and asked me to dine with him. Paul was a journalist, with Right-wing Labour sympathies. I had known him since Cambridge.
“Can you make it early?” he asked. “I’d like you to come with me to a meeting—the Freemen of Britain. Remember them?”
We had been to a meeting of the Freemen two or three years earlier. Paul had thought there might be a story in it. I had expected a variant of the many small, crank political groups that flourish in London, and had been somewhat surprised to find it more like an ordinary, small political meeting. The proceedings had started quarter of an hour late, with the National Anthem. The three speakers had been adequate but not outstanding. I was even then an old hand at political meetings, and I thought the chief fault at this one was that the speakers had tried to make too many points. The audience, however, had been courteous and attentive—it seemed largely lower-middle-class—and had stayed until the meeting had closed, at about 10.45, again with the National Anthem. Afterwards, I had remarked to Paul that it had all seemed rather an amateur affair. “I suppose your party’s calling it semi-Fascist?”
Paul had looked puzzled. “I suppose so. Did you think it was Fascist?”
“I didn’t think it was much of anything. I doubt whether the organizers—whoever they may be—know what they’re driving at, outside of expressing a little discontent. For a while, when that second man—what was his name? Simpkins, wasn’t it?—well, when Simpkins was speaking, I thought I caught a whiff of the old Disraeli-Randolph Churchill idea. Tory democracy. An alliance between the true leaders of the people and the masses. The new freedom. You know that sort of thing. But nothing came of it.”
Paul had agreed with me, and we had dropped the subject. Since then, I suppose I had come across announcements of the Freemen of Britain from time to time, but I had never paid much attention to them.
I told Paul I remembered the Freemen of Britain. “I didn’t find the meeting especially exciting,” I said. “Have you some particular reason for going to-night?”
“Yes,” said Paul. “I have. And I’d like you to come along. You’ll be interested.”
So we went for a second time to a meeting of the Freemen of Britain. It was so different that it was hard to believe it was the same organization. For one thing, the meeting was a fairly big one, held in a large hall. More important, it was clear that a professional touch had invaded the organization. I have seldom seen a meeting handled so well.
It began promptly at 8.15, as announced. It did not begin with the singing of the National Anthem. At precisely 8.15, three men and a woman walked on to the platform. The woman and one of the men were middle-aged. One of the men was older, and the third looked in his middle twenties. They were all well dressed, but not ostentatiously so, and looked solid, respectable, and intensely English. The old man looked like a judge. The middle-aged man was in the chair.
They were all excellent speakers: clear, simple, and precise. They did not confuse the audience with a host of unrelated points. They made few demands on the intellectual capacity of their listeners. They had a few points, and they each made the same ones, several times. But so cleverly were their speeches written that I don’t suppose one person in ten realized that all the speakers had said the same things.
Each spoke for about twenty minutes. There were then a number of questions, well-asked and well-answered. The Chairman then read the Creed of the Freemen of Britain, and asked those who agreed with it to say “Aye”. The audience responded “Aye”, and sang the National Anthem. The four walked—almost marched—off the platform, and the meeting was over. It was then exactly 9.30.
I had been to meetings in Nazi Germany and in Italy, before the war. This was nothing like them. There were no uniforms, no chants like “Sieg Heil”, no army of flags, no songs: just an ordinary hall in London, four average-looking English people, a short creed which no one had to repeat, and the National Anthem. Yet for no reason I could understand, I had something of the same chilled feeling I had had at those openly Fascist meetings. There was something menacing in the air. But I could not have put my finger on what it was.
Yet someone had caught the essence of the original and rather pathetic little organization whose meeting I had attended nearly two years earlier. The Freemen of Britain had had one point, then: a modern version of the old Tory Democracy of Disraeli and Randolph Churchill. It was not a version either of those two men would have accepted. But all the same, it could be effective. Disraeli had seen an organization of the working classes and the aristocracy. So did this Freemen of Britain, though it had widened its concept of aristocracy. But the idea had been changed somewhat: and its essence now, if I understood it, was precisely what it had been in Germany: the surrender of their judgment and their will, by the ordinary people, to the aristocrats (whether of blood, brains, or money) who would lead them through the maze of the modern and confusing world.
The organizers of the Freemen did not make the mistake many organizers before them had of confusing England with the Continent. This movement was entirely English. The loud shouting in unison, the flags, the frenzied cheering, the slightly comical Fuehrer—all that was out. The speakers had appealed to the English love of country, but in a decent, reserved, English way, not with loud and “foreign” ranting. They had been very, very clever. And I admit that I was a bit frightened.
When the meeting was over, Paul and I went out to have a drink. He ordered whisky, and swallowed half of his in one gulp. “Well,” he said, “what do you think of our little organization? Changed, hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s become very efficient. It impresses me. I might even say it frightens me somewhat.”
Paul agreed. “It frightens me, too. These people are avoiding all the natural pitfalls into which a Fascist movement—if I may use an outdated word—so easily stumbles in England. With things as they are—if economic conditions get worse—this kind of thing just might succeed. What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Paul spread out the leaflet of the Freemen on the table. Some of the names listed on it were familiar to one or to both of us; others we had never heard of. “Half of them may be dummies anyway,” he said. “Or at least they may count for very little. It’s much more likely that the real brains don’t choose to list themselves. They’ve got some real brains thinking for them—and somehow I don’t think anyone on this list is among the thinkers.”
“Waiting to see how the organization goes before coming out in the open? I suppose so. But there are the usual Fleet Street rumours?”
Paul shrugged his shoulders. “For what they’re worth. I don’t think anyone has any reliable dope yet.”
We had another drink, and Paul asked me if I’d seen Giles lately. I told him no. “Then you’ve not met his girlfriend?”
“No,” I said. “Certainly not. I didn’t even know he had one. He’s never been much of a womanizer, you know. Who is she?”
“Someone called Bella something-or-other. I think she paints. I don’t think she’s actually a Communist, but she’s played around on the fringes a bit. You know the type.”
“I do,” I said, unenthusiastically. “Pretty?”
“No. Striking, though—hair drawn back, no make-up except dark lipstick, generally intense look.”
“I could have guessed,” I said, gloomily. “I wonder if he’ll marry her.”
“Would your uncle mind if he did?”
“Uncle Hugh? I shouldn’t think so. After all, he’d probably never meet her. In any case, he doesn’t consider Giles’ life any of his business.”
“Giles considers your uncle’s life his business.”
“That’s different,” I said.
Paul grinned. “It’s funny to hear them in the House.”
It was, in a way; though funny was not precisely the word I would have used. My uncle was a reasonably good parliamentarian, though he never was what would have been called primarily a “House of Commons man”. But I had often been in the gallery when he had made a brief, forceful speech to the House. His accent, its Northern tones still very evident, sounded odd, coming after the educated Southern English accents one usually heard from his side of the House. But people did listen to him, his own side with respect and the Labour benches with dislike and anger.
And I had heard Giles speak after him, as he occasionally did. Giles was a brilliant speaker, caustic, witty, and trenchant. On the public platform, he spoke like a demagogue. In the House, he modified his manner to suit its convention, and very successfully. Whereas Uncle Hugh was slow, solid, and immensely forceful, Giles was swift, ironic, and biting. But the true irony of the situation lay in the fact that Giles had always looked enough like Uncle Hugh to be his son, not just his nephew; he resembled Uncle Hugh much more than Charles did, and the older Giles grew, the stronger the resemblance became. When Giles finished lacing into the Conservatives, there were always excited cheers from his own side. But when he did this immediately following a speech from Uncle Hugh, I seemed to detect some uneasiness in the cheers. The Honourable Members were not always sure then whether they were witnessing an attack on privilege or just an old family feud. They entirely liked the one; but they did not like the other—at least, not on the floor of the House of Commons.
Giles’ career was at that stage progressing very well, though he was not in the government. He was active as a free-lance journalist and broadcaster, and was making a great deal of money. His views were so far Left, his anti-Americanism so militant, his criticisms of the Soviet Union so tepid that the more politically naïve often mistook him for a Communist or at least a fellow-traveller. The trade-unionists appeared to regard him with a mixture of admiration and mistrust. I don’t believe that he had much influence in the top circles of the Labour Party—at least, not in those circles which were running the Party. But he was adored by the more emotional constituency parties, by Fabians, and by the more volatile readers of the Left-wing weeklies. He was in great demand to speak at public meetings and at local parties, and he always gave an outstanding performance. I sometimes wondered whether both family life and life in the Labour Party wouldn’t have been easier if my cousin had decided to go on the stage instead of into politics.
I suddenly remembered a conversation I had had with my cousin Charles some years back, in 1949, or thereabouts, and I smiled. Paul asked what I was laughing at. “I was just remembering a conversation I had with Charles. He lives in horror of the day Giles gets into the government. He says the doctrine that responsibility steadies people down and makes them more bearable is on the whole true, but that Giles is the greatest living exception to it. I told Charles I’d voted Labour in 1945, and that they’d done a lot of things I hadn’t liked—but that as long as Giles wasn’t in the government, I’d stay inclined to the view that Mr. Attlee had some judgment left.”
“Mr. Attlee, perhaps,” said Paul, a bit gloomily. “But what about the Welsh wonder?”
I said I didn’t know. Paul said, “Well, it may not come to that. But—since we’ve talked so much about Giles, why don’t you come along to hear him to-morrow night? I have to cover his meeting, and I’d like company.”
“Unless Giles’ views have changed considerably, I know everything he’s going to say.”
“So do I. But it’s always interesting to see his effect on the crowd. Besides, maybe his girlfriend has mellowed him a bit.”
So we went along together. I hadn’t heard my cousin speak for some time, and I’d forgotten how eloquent he could be. The large hall was jammed, and people were standing in the back and along the sides. Giles had just launched a violent attack on the United States, and it was evident that the crowd agreed with everything he said. I could catch phrases and sentences through the applause and the roars of cheers and laughter: “… tell you this great country of ours shall not knuckle under to the money-changers and war-mongers of Wall Street … the American standard of living is bought at our expense … they are bringing pressure on us constantly to cut our food subsidies further so that you, my friends, will have to go without the basic foodstuffs … and meanwhile, they subsidize their own farmers. Yes. I said subsidize. The American government artificially keeps up the prices of farm products. So we have to pay more for them. That means we have to manufacture and export more to pay for them. And that, my friends, is why we cannot have at home more of the products—the high-quality products—that our British workers produce. So we British workers—who saved the world in 1940—we subsidize the American standard of living. We help to support the richest country in the world. I tell you it will not do! It shall not do!”
His next words were lost to me because of a storm of cheers and applause. When I could next make out what he was saying, he had switched to the subject of the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe: “… do not condone all the Russians have done. Nor do I defend their system. But they have much to blame us for. If they do not trust us now, we bear a large share of the blame. If they were good enough to fight with in the war, they are good enough to trade with now … we can get wheat and lumber and the other things we need from them …” he shouted, while his audience stamped in approval. “We can take the lead in uniting the progressive forces of Europe including Russia in a sensible economic system which has the welfare of the working classes as its goal. We can leave the American capitalists drowning in their own wheat and machinery and television sets and refrigerators until they beg us—beg us—to buy from them. And then we shall call the tune—and there will be a Labour Government in Britain to call it…”
This time, the cheering was even louder and more prolonged. When I could hear again, Giles was talking about home affairs: “… we are asked to tighten our belts and do without things while the rich ride around the West End in new cars driven by chauffeurs … we pay P.A.Y.E. while they ask to lower the taxes on high incomes … and don’t pay their taxes now … tell you I would shoot any man who didn’t pay his income tax in times of economic crisis and volunteer for the firing-squad myself…”
“Giles,” I said to Paul, under cover of the applause, “made £5,000 last year.”
“Well,” said Paul, a little apologetically, “Attlee doesn’t talk like that.”
“No. But he doesn’t stop Giles or his friends. He doesn’t even disown them.”
“There are wild-eyed Conservatives whom Churchill doesn’t disown.”
“Oh, I know. It’s just that we happen to be listening to Giles at the moment. I wonder if he’ll tell them about how he was exploited at Eton.”
When the meeting was over, we went around to see Giles. He was immensely exhilarated and quite affable, and agreed to come out for a drink with us. There was no sign of Bella. In the club, he downed two drinks rather quickly and asked me how my relatives were. I told him everyone was all right, and would have sent love had they known I was going to see him that night.
Giles grinned. “I’m sure. Everything all set for the great man’s birthday party?”
“Yes,” I said. “Why don’t you come, too—and bring your girl?”
“You’re an incredible girl, Christy. Where do you get all your information? Uncle Hugh running an intelligence service?”
“You underestimate your own importance, Giles. All kinds of people are interested in your affairs. Where is she to-night, by the way? I hoped to meet her.”
“Well, I never met Simon,” said Giles, smoothly. He went on, almost without a pause. “What’s that power-driven uncle of yours up to now?”
I sensed something in the question beyond his usual gibe. It might almost have been anxiety. “Running the business,” I said. “Making lots of money. What did you expect him to be doing?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past him. Maybe he’s developing new interests. And Tay—maybe he’s developing new interests, too. What does he think of the Freemen of Britain?”
It was very sudden. “Tay? I don’t know. What do you think of them?”
“I think they’re bloody dangerous,” said Giles. He rose abruptly. “I have to be off. Thanks for the drinks.” He hesitated for a moment, and then put his hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, Chris. Didn’t mean to be unpleasant.”
“Oh, neither did I.” We smiled at each other a bit uncertainly. Then he said good-night to Paul and left.
After we had had another drink, Paul and I went for a drive. He said, tentatively, “Do you dislike him?”
“Giles? No. He irritates me, of course—you saw that to-night. But—oh, he’s my cousin, I grew up with him. I don’t dislike him. And if I did, it wouldn’t be in the ordinary way. We’re too close for that. I’m sorry we exposed you to our family bickering, though.”
He said it didn’t matter. “You’re an odd family, though. Giles—well, other people from wealthy families have become Socialists without finding it necessary to hate all their relatives in the process. Was he always that way about your Uncle Hugh?”
I thought back—to Giles at prep school with the other boys, to trips abroad, to holidays at Feathers. “No,” I said, slowly. “I don’t think he was. He was always—he had a tendency to be dissatisfied with things. He was more critical—or more rebellious—than the rest of us—at least, on the surface. In a way, when he was young, he was very much impressed by Uncle Hugh. He gibed at his achievements and his importance, but he noticed them. My cousin Charles—that’s Uncle Hugh’s only son—never paid any attention to what his father did. At least, he acted as if he didn’t.”
“You’re an odd family,” said Paul, for the second time. “I’ve met Charles, you know. He always seemed to me to be playing a part. Didn’t his father mind when he wouldn’t come into the business?”
“Perhaps we are odd, at that. Do you know, I don’t know. I work with my uncle, I see a good deal of him—and yet I have no idea at all what he thinks of Charles or of what Charles has done. My Uncle William, of course—who’s a menace—is sure Uncle Hugh’s very much disappointed in Charles and that he wishes his son were like Andrew. On the surface, that may be a logical idea. But I’m not at all sure it’s true. You can never tell what Uncle Hugh thinks of things.”
Paul smiled. “I suppose you can be sure of what he thinks of Giles.”
“Not even that. I’ll tell you something—though of course it’s only a guess. I’ve always thought that if my uncle could find some way of making sure any money he left Giles wouldn’t go to help start a new left-wing weekly—or something like that—he’d leave him a reasonable amount. I don’t even know that he hasn’t done it, though I’d bet against it.”
“You’ve no idea how he’s left his money?”
“Not the slightest—nor how he’s planning to leave control of the company.” The mention of money brought back to my mind for a moment its relation to the family uneasiness. I had often wondered if money were the chief root of it: that is, concern over what Uncle Hugh was going to do with his fortune. In a way, that seemed absurd. For one thing, we all had quite adequate incomes, though no capital. For another, Uncle Hugh was barely sixty and in excellent health. The chances were that he would continue in full control of his own affairs for well over a decade, barring accidents. And yet——
I realized abruptly that I was talking about rather personal family matters to an outsider. “I seem to be very talkative to-night. All these family details must be very dull. I’m sorry.”
“Well, I egged you on. I was interested, though strictly speaking, it’s none of my business. It must have been seeing you and Giles together to-night—and seeing Giles up there on the platform looking so incredibly like your uncle. He looks like your uncle, Andrew behaves like your uncle, and Charles is Sir Hugh’s son. It’s an unusual situation.”
“It is,” I agreed. “However, there are some simpler members of my family—like Andrew’s sister, Daphne. She married the only son of a City baronet, she has two children, and so far as I know, there’s nothing complicated about her.”
“Robert Alison, isn’t it—the young Tory M.P.? Yes, I know them. At least, I’ve seen them about a bit. She’s interested in writing, isn’t she?”
“Daphne?” I laughed. “Not to the best of my knowledge.”
“I’ve seen her at some Author’s League lunches, I’m sure of it. I don’t think I could be mistaken. She’s very decorative. But then, so are you. Why a girl with looks like yours and red hair at that ever took to politics, I’ll never know.”
“You can’t really say I’ve taken up politics,” I said. “I only hover around the edges.”
It was getting late, and Paul drove me home. Just before we parted, he said, “You almost winced when he mentioned your husband. Do you still mind so much?”
“I—it’s not that. I just don’t like talking about it.”
“You don’t really like talking about anything personal, do you? Do you realize this is the first even slightly personal conversation we’ve ever had?”
“Some day,” I said, “I’ll tell you all about my Aunt Mildred—and you’ll be sorry.”