In the outer suburbs, milkmen, postmen, and boys delivering newspapers,
were moving from door to door, in the quiet streets of villas. The
tramcars, and later the buses, which the car caught up, and passed,
were crowded with workmen, being carried at "Workmen's Fares." The shop
fronts, in the inner suburbs, gay in the early morning sunlight, with
their Coronation flags and decorations, were still all shuttered; but a
thin trickle of men and women in the streets, moving in the direction
of the railway stations, gave promise already of the impending rush
of the business crowd. Coronation Day had come, and gone. The public
holiday was over. Now there was work toward.
At the far end of Tottenham Court Road, by which broad thoroughfare he
approached, as he had escaped from, the town, the King deliberately
varied the route which he had followed the night before. Heading the
car straight on down Charing Cross Road, through Trafalgar Square,
and so into Whitehall, he turned, at last, into Victoria Street. It
was by the side streets, in the vicinity of Victoria Station, that he
ultimately approached the palace, and ran out into Lower Grosvenor
Place. He did this to avoid the neighbourhood of the parks, and
possible recognition by early morning riders, on their way to and from
Rotten Row.
Lower Grosvenor Place proved, as usual, deserted. In the secluded,
shut-in mews, behind the tall houses, no one, as yet, was stirring. In
a very few minutes, the King had successfully garaged the car. Then he
slipped hurriedly back across Grosvenor Place. The road was happily
still empty, and he reached the small, green, wooden door in the palace
garden wall, without encountering anything more formidable than a stray
black cat. A black cat which shared his taste for night walking. A
purring black cat, which rubbed its head against his legs. A black cat
for luck!
Unlocking, and opening, the door, the King slipped into the palace
garden.
The door swung to behind him.
All need for anxiety, for haste, and for precaution was now at an end.
It was only just eight o'clock.
Sauntering leisurely through the garden, the King reached the palace
without meeting any one, on the way. Sometimes, on these occasions, he
ran into gardeners, early at work, a policeman, patrolling the walks,
or some member of the household staff; but such encounters never caused
him any anxiety. Why should not the King take a stroll in the garden,
before breakfast? Had he not been known to dive into the garden lake
for an early morning swim, and had not the fact been duly recorded in
all the newspapers?
He entered the palace by the door through which he had escaped the
night before, and so, mounting the private staircase, which led up to
his own suite of rooms, regained his dressing room, unchallenged.
The creation of a certain amount of necessary disorder in his bedroom,
and a partial undressing, were the work of only a few minutes.
Then he rang his bell, for which, he was well aware, a number of the
palace servants would be, already anxiously listening.
It was Smith, as the King had been at some pains to arrange, who
answered this, the first summons of the official, Royal day.
"Breakfast in the garden, in half an hour, Smith," the King ordered.
"See about that, at once. Then you can come back, and get my bath
ready, and lay out the clothes."
Another bath was welcome, and refreshing, after the dust, and the
excitement of the motor run. Smith's choice of clothes was a new, grey,
lounge suit, of most satisfactory cut, and finish. At the end of the
half hour which he had allowed himself, the King left the dressing
room, and passed down the private staircase, out into the sunlit
garden, with an excellent appetite for his second breakfast.
The breakfast table had been placed on one of the lawns, in the green
shade thrown by a magnificent sycamore tree. A couple of gorgeously
clad footmen were responsible for the service of the meal but they
soon withdrew to a discreet distance. The unpretentious domestic life,
traditional for so many years, in the palace, had made it comparatively
easy for the King to reduce to a minimum the distasteful ceremony which
the presence of servants adds to the simplest meal.
A few personal letters, extracted by some early rising member of
his secretarial staff, from the avalanche of correspondence in the
Royal post bags, had been placed, in readiness for the King, on the
breakfast table. One of these letters bore the Sandringham postmark,
and proved to be from his youngest sister, the Princess Elizabeth, who
was still, officially, a school girl. It was a charming letter. With
a frank and fearless affection, a spontaneous naïveté, that pleased
the King, the young Princess wrote to offer him her congratulations on
his Coronation, congratulations which, she confessed, she had been too
shy to voice in public, the day before. The letter touched the King.
He read it through twice, allowing his eggs and bacon, and coffee, to
grow cold, while he did so. There was a note of sincere feeling, of
genuine affection, of sisterly pride in him, mingled with anxiety for
his welfare, in the letter, which afforded a very agreeable contrast
to the subservience of the Family in general, which had so jarred upon
him, at the state banquet, the night before. This sister of his seemed
likely to grow up into a true woman, a loyal and affectionate woman.
She reminded him, in some odd way, of Judith.
What would the future bring to this fresh, unspoilt, sister of his? "A
woman, a woman with a heart, at the head of the procession." Another
of Uncle Bond's phrases! What an insight the little man had into the
possibilities of positions, and situations, which he could only
have known in imagination, in the imagination which he wasted on the
construction of his grotesquely improbable tales! He must do what he
could for this fresh, unspoilt sister of his. That would be little
enough in all conscience! Meanwhile he could write to her, and thank
her for her letter. That was an attention which would please her.
Producing a small, morocco bound, memorandum tablet, which he always
carried about with him, in his waistcoat pocket, the King made a note
to remind him to write to the Princess, in one of the intervals of his
busy official day.
"Write to Betty."
Then he resumed his attack on his eggs and bacon, and coffee. He did
not notice that they were cold. This letter of his sister's had turned
his thoughts to--the Family!
He was the Head of the Family now. Somehow, he had hardly realized the
fact before. In the circumstances, it really behoved him, it would be
absolutely necessary for him, to try to get to know something about the
various members of the Family. His early distaste for Court life, his
absorption in his own chosen profession, his frequent absences at sea,
had made him, of course, little better than a stranger to the rest
of the Family. And, if they knew little or nothing about him, he knew
less than nothing about them. The Prince had been the only member of
the Family with whom he had had any real intimacy, since the far off
nursery days they had all shared together, the only link between him
and the others. And now the Prince was dead.
This fresh, unspoilt sister of his would probably be worth knowing.
Any girl, who recalled Judith, must be well worth knowing. And there
was Lancaster! Lancaster was now, and was likely to remain, Heir
Apparent. And William? William had looked a very bright, and engaging
youngster, in his naval cadet's uniform, the day before. The others?
The others did not matter. But Lancaster, and William, and Betty, he
must get to know. And now, at the outset of their new relationship, he
had a favourable opportunity to take steps in the matter, which would
not recur. He could let them know that he was their brother, as well
as--the King! No doubt, they had their problems, and difficulties, just
as he had his. He would do what he could, to make life easy for them.
After all, it was quite enough that one member of the Family, at a
time, should be condemned to the intolerable isolation, and the dreary,
treadmill round of the palace.
Might he not usefully begin, at once, with Lancaster? He could send a
message to Lancaster, asking him to join him, at his informal lunch,
at the palace, at noon. Lancaster had always seemed, to him, a dull,
rather heavy, conventional, commonplace person; but there might be
something human in him, after all. Perhaps, at an informal intimate
encounter, he might be able to establish some contact with him, and
get him to talk a little about himself. That would be interesting, and
useful. Yes. Lancaster should provide his first experiment in Family
research.
Picking up his memorandum tablet again, from where he had dropped it on
the breakfast table, the King made another note, to remind him to send
the necessary message to Lancaster during the morning.
"Send message to Lancaster."
The fact that he was not sure whether Lancaster, or even William, would
still be in town, emphasized, in his own mind, his ignorance of the
Family.
At this point, the gorgeously clad footmen approached the table. One
of them removed the used dishes and plates. The other placed a stand of
fresh fruit in front of the King.
The King selected an apple, and proceeded to munch it like any
schoolboy.
It was a good apple.
After all, life had its compensations!
And, he suddenly realized now, he was beginning to take hold of his
job, at last. This decision of his to tackle the Family, to get to
know them personally, was his own decision. It was an expression of
his own individuality, the exercise of his own will. The thought gave
him a little thrill of pride, and pleasure. Perhaps, after all, there
was going to be some scope, some freedom, for his own personality,
in his place in the procession, more scope, more freedom than he had
been inclined to think. His own shoulders, directed by his own brain,
might make a difference in the jostling in the market-place. If the
opportunity arose, he would put his weight into the scrimmage.
The King finished his apple, and then filled and lit his pipe.
The footmen cleared away the breakfast things.
Soothed by tobacco, and cheered by the bright morning sunlight, the
King leant back in his chair.
It was another wonderful summer day. Overhead the sky was a luminous,
cloudless blue. The sunlight lay golden on the green of the trees,
and on the more vivid green of the lawn. The garden flower beds were
gay with masses of brilliant hued blossoms. One or two birds whistled
pleasantly from the neighbouring trees and bushes. A fat starling
strutted about the lawn, digging for worms.
A sense of general well-being stirred in the King, a sense of
well-being which surprised him, for a moment, but only for a moment.
It was always so, when he had been in Paradise, with Judith. Always he
returned to the palace refreshed, and strengthened, with a new zest
for, with a new appreciation of, the joy of mere living. Somehow, he
must see to it, that his--promotion--did not interfere with his visits
to Judith, and to Uncle Bond. He must see to it--in the interest of the
State! He smiled as the words occurred to him. In the interest of the
State? What would his fellow victims of the State, of the people, the
old Duke of Northborough, for example, say to that, if they knew? But
the words were justified. It was to the interest of the State that
he, the King, should obtain, from time to time, the refreshment, the
renewed strength, the zest, the sense of general well-being, of which
he was so pleasantly conscious now.
But, meanwhile, in the interest of the State, he must not, he could
not afford to, waste any more of these golden, summer morning moments,
idling here in the garden. The avalanche of correspondence in the
post bags, and the official documents, and dispatches, which had
accumulated, during the last day or two, owing to the special demands
on his time made by the Coronation, were awaiting him in the palace.
Long hours of desk work lay before him. The thought did not displease
him. He was in the mood for work. Here was something he could put
his weight into. Here was an opportunity for individual action, and
self-expression, an opportunity for the exercise of his own judgment,
driving power, decision.
Knocking out his pipe, the King stood up abruptly.
Then, whistling gaily, an indication of cheerfulness which had grown
very rare with him, of late, he crossed the lawn, and re-entered the
palace, on his way back to duty.