The Intrigues of Jennie Lee Page 11

  The worst of it for Jennie was there’d be no chance for any time with Frank. Like other MPs, he was duty bound to bring the wife, and she was equally obliged to play the part, which Dorothy Wise did with fervour. The days would be worse than not seeing him at all. They’d catch glimpses of one another, from a distance, even pass in corridors, nodding the way parliamentary colleagues would do. Then nothing. And nothing much for Jennie to do besides mill about the hall and be hearty with her constituency people. A week of shamming.

  The one thing that she would turn over in her thoughts with any avidity was how and when she might get word to Mosley about the Duke of York’s...what word should she use? Interest? Jennie would have to be patient. Llandudno was certainly not the place to pass along her message. Mosley’d be under intense scrutiny every moment. Every hack from the papers knew he was going to speak and was monitoring his every encounter, remark, gesture for a clue to what he‘d say. And he’d be with Cimmie, his wife, who was also a sitting MP and at the conference in her own right, so to speak.

  The second afternoon, Jennie decided to escape the meetings for a walk down to the ubiquitous seaside town pier. She paid her six pence and strolled out to the end, thinking through her quandary for the hundredth time. She knew instinctively that she couldn’t tell Frank anything about her conversation with the Duchess of York. He’d have been furious at the constitutional breach. So angry he might even take it to Ramsay MacDonald. Besides, if he had any inkling of her relations with Mosley, even as much as suspected by Elizabeth—the Duchess—she had to remind herself, the jealousy would surely combine with the anger to move him to action.

  “Jennie, Jennie Lee!” The voice was loud, emphatic and Welsh. “Over here!”

  It was Aneurin Bevan. He bellowed in a way no Scotsman ever would, from across the wide road separating the strand from the holiday rooming houses overlooking the sea. He left a scrum of unsteady companions, all of whom looked flushed from drink, and marched directly towards Jennie, looking neither right nor left, thus forcing traffic to stop for his crossing.

  Bevan was wearing the summer version of the slightly too showy style he affected in London—a straw boater over a striped coat and tan trousers. It was a look as far from the Welsh coalface as he could contrive, Jennie thought. He grasped her waist with each hand and smiled. Jennie returned the grin. He was the tonic she needed. Instantly the gloom above her vanished. “Comrade,” he addressed her with a twinkle and a grin rewarding himself for his wit, “will you let me buy you supper at the most expensive restaurant in the best hotel in Llandudno?”

  “You can’t afford it, Comrade.” She returned the irony of his address.

  “You don’t know how cheap things are here in Wales.”

  “I accept.”

  She proffered her arm and Bevan took it. An evening with Nye Bevan was the distraction she needed. She’d resist his blandishments all evening and even regale Frank with the story as soon as they were together again.

  * * *

  In the months since Jennie had become Frank Wise’s mistress, Nye Bevan had reconciled himself to the arrangement. He’d ended the competition for Jennie that had begun soon after he and Frank had arrived at Westminster in September of ‘29. Nye knew in his bones he should have won. He had the assets to do so. To begin with, he was unmarried. Then there was the natural affinity that sameness of upbringing should have cultivated—both were children of the coalmines, coal miners and coal mining politics. Nye was near Jennie’s age, when Frank was twenty years older. Jennie and Nye shared a political style—assertive, strident, flamboyant—where Frank Wise was thoughtful, considered, even sometimes a bit cautious.

  It was always easy for Jennie to fall in with Nye. Often enough, she told herself that she should have fallen for him too.

  Unlike the dour politicians of Labour Party Scotland, Nye Bevan had no problem enjoying life. When parliament was sitting, he was frequently to be seen coming back to the House in evening clothes from one or another exclusive affair, at which few Labour Party politicians would allow themselves to be seen. He’d begun by inviting Jennie to opening nights at West End theatres, even Lord Beaverbrook’s charity galas. She had steadily declined.

  “Nye, how can you allow yourself to be seen at these events?” Jennie asked. “Won’t it destroy your reputation with the miners?” Sometimes she asked archly, “What about proletarian solidarity?”

  He would reply, “Ten years at the coal face, my dear. Everyone knows my fidelity to the cause. My friends in Ebbw Vale want me to enjoy myself...it’s their vicarious pleasure!”

  Ebbw Vale was a mining and iron mill town, just south of the Brecon mountains in the south of Wales, much like Jennie’s Cowdenbeath in the lowlands of Fife.

  Knowing about Frank and Jennie, Nye had nevertheless persisted in his invitations. Occasionally, she’d accept one.

  They turned back towards the pier and walked easily together towards the Grand Hotel.

  Seated in the large dining room overlooking the sea, they were offered menus, Nye’s with prices, Jennie’s without. Offended, Jennie swiped Nye’s from his hands and passed him hers.

  He smiled, as she said, “Not cheap.”

  Nye looked towards the sommelier standing discreetly next to a heavy walnut sideboard. Instantly, but noiselessly, he swept up to their table.

  “Pol Roger, please.” It was a very dear champagne. Nye looked at Jennie. “The only kind Winston Churchill drinks.”

  Jennie turned over the menu to the wines.

  “Really, Nye, you can’t afford that!”

  “Not so loud.” Then, under his slightly beery breath, he added, “You can always live like a millionaire for five minutes.”

  They laughed and turned back to the menus.

  When both were closed, Nye spoke again. “Where are you staying?”

  “Guest house on St George’s Crescent.”

  “I’m here in the hotel...”

  As he moved his hand towards hers, she smiled. “I’m sure the view from your room is splendid, but no, I don’t wish to see it tonight.”

  He smiled, shrugged his shoulders slightly and withdrew his hand to show he had accepted the ground rules.

  “Very well, sister. No incest, just business tonight.” He paused, then asked, “Are you going to listen to MacDonald tomorrow?”

  “Must I? Can’t abide the man.”

  “Well, you’ll have missed nothing if you sleep in. It will be the usual cant—‘everything that can be done about unemployment is being done.’ There is going to be motion of censure, from the ILP, for inaction on unemployment. I’ll probably speak. So will Frank.”

  Jennie sighed. “It’s got no chance, of course.”

  They both understood the block voting by union representatives of a million or more members. These votes were in the government’s pockets.

  Then she brightened. “But surely the main event will be Mosley?” Jennie wanted to sound offhand but didn’t manage to. Nye didn’t notice her enthusiasm. He doesn’t know, does he... about Mosley?

  “Yes. But I’m not much more hopeful about his motion.”

  Mosley would speak to the party in favour of the plan the cabinet had rejected.

  “The motion wouldn’t require MacDonald to resign.” Jennie was trying to be optimistic.

  “Don’t fool yourself. If it wins, MacDonald will have been repudiated and Mosley will become the next Labour prime minister.”

  “And you don’t think that can happen?”

  “Let’s order the next course.”

  Nye wanted to change the subject and even more the mood. But his conversation merely darkened Jennie’s frown further.

  “Seen Frank?”

  She frowned. “Only from a distance. He’s here with his wife.” She fell silent.

  He tried to cushion her feelings. “Constituency matters, social calls, it’s all appearances.”

  Suddenly she had to confide. “I do understand...it’s just a little harder this
week, seeing them together. I can’t wreck his home. I won’t let him do it either.” Before Nye could reply she asked, “Can it go on like this indefinitely?”

  “Jennie, you know I’d do anything for you, anything to help.”

  He reached across the table again, and this time Jennie accepted the act of consolation and friendship.

  “I keep turning things over. He can’t divorce. I don’t want to be married. But I love him and funnily enough he loves me.”

  “I’m listening.” He invited her to continue. So for a quarter of an hour she took Nye on their tour of the Soviet Caucasus. But she didn’t tell him how it had shaken her scientific socialism.

  When she finished, Nye sighed. “Not for me, such exertions. I thought Moscow was tough enough...remember walking the streets just looking for fags?”

  They were now between courses and the thought made him reach into his coat, pull out a packet of Players and offer Jennie one.

  She took it, drew in a drag and exhaled through her nostrils. Jennie couldn’t help it, her mind always seemed to turn back to politics.

  “What’ll we do if the party conference rejects the Mosley policy, Nye?”

  “It depends. If the vote is close, we’ll keep soldiering on... make another push, especially if things get worse.”

  “Get worse? There’s already two million unemployed. In my constituency it’s thirty per cent.”

  “What’s the alternative? Join the Communists?”

  They both laughed. Each had experienced attempts by the party to subvert their local Labour Party branches into fatuous sectarian extremism.

  Jennie was thoughtful. “If the government continues to drift, the ILP contingent will start voting against it in the House.”

  Nye put down his knife and fork and looked at Jennie. When her eyes met his, he said slowly, “That would bring down the government.” She nodded, but he continued, “Even worse, split the Labour movement. I’ll never be party to that.”

  * * *

  Walking back to Jennie’s guesthouse room, she could feel the ardour rising in Nye. For all his protestation of friendship, she knew, he wanted more from her. And when he sought a kiss, a real one, Jennie gave in, enjoyed it, and began slightly to regret not having seen the view from his room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, MacDonald’s speech was as unctuous as Jennie feared. She’d been unable to stay away. It was a matter of morbid curiosity. When, finally, MacDonald proclaimed “Everything that can be done is being done with energy, precision and systematically” she could detect the unconcealed and audible sigh that deflated the entire pavilion.

  After an endless ninety minutes, the old man subsided. Jennie needed air, as apparently did many others. People were streaming out onto the pier, muttering to one another. The hall had been dark enough that the midday overcast was blinding. Jennie turned back from the glare and saw Ellen Wilkinson behind her. Still undersecretary of health and so part of the government, she had been on the podium behind MacDonald, though too far away for Jennie to gauge any reaction in her face.

  Ellen smiled as she came out of the hall into the brighter light. She grasped Jennie’s hands and gave a conspiratorial shrug.

  “Come have a drink before the next session?”

  “Oh...I suppose.” She took Ellen’s arm. “Let’s get that drink before this lot drain the pubs altogether.”

  She turned her head from side to side as people continued to stream past them.

  It took a ten-minute walk, but at last they were settled in the snug of a pub, far enough away from the pavilion not to be crowded with boisterous shop stewards. Jennie brought two shandies to the table, placing each on a coaster to catch the foam still running over the glass lips. Ellen looked up as she sat.

  “They’re frightened, you know?”

  “Who?”

  “The cabinet, the government, MacDonald. That’s why he left straight away after his speech. Doesn’t want to be here if the party votes against him.”

  “But he’s got a million votes in his pocket to swamp the ILP no confidence motion.”

  “No, I mean Mosley’s motion. They’re worried he could carry the conference. That would be the end for the government.”

  Jennie smiled. “I’ll drink to that.” She lifted her glass, as did her companion. “If it happens won’t you be out of a job as junior minister?”

  “Don’t care if I am!”

  “But how can Mosley pry a million votes from the Trades Union Council?”

  “Sheer oratory, Jennie. You’ve heard him in the House. The man makes women swoon and grown men lose their reason. He’ll hypnotise the crowd and call for an immediate vote. Suddenly everyone will realise he’s the next leader, that he might even be able to win a majority in the country. MacDonald will never do that.” She stopped. “But can he be trusted with that much power?”

  Jennie wanted reassurance. “What exactly are you worried about?”

  Ellen drew breath and continued. “Sir Oswald Mosley”—the titled name spat itself out—“is what I used to call a ‘class enemy’ when I was still a Communist. Landed family, hereditary baronetcy, officer corps in the War, with a Military Cross to prove it, still swaggering fifteen years later, society wedding, large country house, servants. Why is this man on our side?”

  “You might say the same for Charlie Trevelyan. He’s no class enemy!”

  Ellen nodded. “Charlie comes from three generations of political men on the left of their party. His principles were his father’s before him and have been fixed his whole life. He’s paid for them, too!”

  Jennie pulled a packet of cigarettes from her clutch and offered one to Ellen, who found a box of matches in her pocket and lit both.

  Ellen exhaled and finally concluded, “Mosley’s our best chance. I suppose we’ve got to trust him.”

  * * *

  They were both back in their seats at the Pavilion that evening, for the last act of the conference drama. Everyone in the hall knew what was coming. It would be a tragedy whose protagonist—MacDonald or Mosley—had yet to be known.

  Tom Mosley was gambling all on one throw. Everyone knew that by standing against MacDonald here he wasn’t just burning bridges back to the cabinet. If he failed to carry the conference, there was no future for Mosley in politics. If he succeeded, MacDonald’s premiership would be ended.

  The parliamentarian hurriedly went through the motions of putting and seconding a motion and invited Mosley to come forward. As if by command, the throng quieted, took their seats, and turned their faces towards the stage. Political theatre was to unfold before them, a one-act play whose denouement was not a foregone conclusion. Mosley stepped to the stage, and stood quietly for a moment longer than anyone expected. Jennie had seen this before, in the House of Commons: Mosley’s sense of presence, asserting his control of his listeners’ emotions merely by making them catch their breaths.

  Standing at guardsman’s attention, he needed no uniform. His face shone beneath hair dark and brilliant. The officer’s moustache reminded everyone he’d been in the trenches with his men. His suit was a light grey, tight-fitting, double-breasted, cut in at the waist, a sharp contrast with the celluloid wing-collars and swan-tailed frock coats of the cabinet ministers who had preceded him on the podium.

  He began quietly in the silence of the vast space, every delegate feeling the shared anticipation. This, Jennie had experienced before, in the company of others and alone: Mosley’s ability to make each person in the hall feel he was being addressed directly and individually. It was evident that the details of his plan didn’t matter. He was hypnotising the gathering. Perhaps Jennie was slightly immune, for she found herself looking round, noticing that the delegates were rising from their seats and returning to them almost at his command. His sweeping arm motions, his fist hammering the podium, worked like a conductor’s baton mobilising the orchestra of his listeners. Sometimes they remained on their feet, almost swaying to the beat of his
voice. Twice, the perspiration glistening on his face made him pause. Mosley stopped, pulled the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat, and wiped his brow. In the silence, each of his listeners could feel the shared anxiety that he might stop when they needed him to go on, to continue to dominate them, time without end.

  He was speaking about putting millions into public works, building roads, bridges, schools, hospitals, he was demanding tariff reform and Empire preference, attacking the gold standard and the craven submission of a Labour government to the Bank of England and the House of Morgan. But the two thousand or so in the pavilion were not listening to what he said so much as bathing in his energy, the anger in his voice, the pride they felt in being with him, the comradeship between them that his words instilled, the mission he would lead them on. They were no longer sober men contemplating complex issues to which there were no simple answers. They were human beings, for whom it mattered personally, and individually, that they were with Oswald Mosley. And they were prepared to be the unthinking, collective instruments of his vision. It might not last beyond the end of his speech, but while he continued, everyone was transfixed. Even Jennie could feel herself now being seduced, in a way not entirely different from what she had felt alone with him, opening to him as his ardour rose. Two thousand people in the hall banished prudence or consequences. Momentarily, they surrendered choice and responsibility in exchange for a shared feeling of membership in the grandeur that was washing over them.