The Intrigues of Jennie Lee Read online

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  It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon of that first weekend they’d managed to share that Frank and Jennie found themselves in disagreement, exchanging cross looks and sharp words. The subject was Mosley’s national speaking tour, or perhaps it was a pretext.

  Sitting side by side in bed, neither dressed at all, they were surrounded by the Sunday papers. Jennie had been reading The Times’ report on Mosley’s meeting in Leeds. She put the paper before Frank.

  “Still worried about Mosley?”

  Her tone suggested there was no reason for disquiet, that Frank’s former anxieties about him had been wrong.

  “His crowds are huge. He’s going to win the next election for us.”

  Frank looked up from his paper. “Yes, he’s quite the demagogue.”

  “Demagogue? I’d call him a real leader. Someone we desperately need after ten years of Stanley Baldwin and Ramsay MacDonald.”

  “I grant you his magnetism.”

  Jennie searched for innuendo in his voice. Was it there? Is he making an observation of Mosley’s effect on the electorate, or on me? They’d never actually allowed themselves to admit shared knowledge of her ‘infidelity’ with Mosley. What had never been explicitly admitted, they could both pretend never happened at all. Frank knew he had no right to demand an account from Jennie. He couldn’t even call what she had done ‘infidelity.’ She was unable to think of these few couplings as betrayals of her love for Frank. But she knew that, as a man, Frank couldn’t really ever shake himself free from sexual jealousy. It was a difference, a barrier between men and women Jennie thought unbridgeable. The frank truth about what Mosley meant to her should have allayed all Frank’s fears, but in fact would simply inflame them. She knew exactly how she felt about Mosley, and she could still call up the feeling. Remarkable how she could dredge the body’s sensations from unknown depths of memory, even now, months since she’d had anything to do with him that way. It had been a pure, thoughtless, fleeting, hedonic oblivion, nothing to do with what was really important to her—the fulfilment she felt being with Frank. And yet telling Frank any of that was impossible. He wouldn’t be able to understand that these pleasures came unaccompanied by any enduring feelings, commitments, loyalties, anything he should be jealous of. She would treat Frank’s remark as political, not personal.

  “Doesn’t the country need his magnetism? Don’t we need to feel that something is being done?”

  He frowned. “I suppose so. I’m frightened of what will happen when he tires of the adulation and begins to involve himself in governing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve said it before. Mosley thinks parliamentary democracy is inefficient. Produces nothing but half measures. He’ll lose all patience once he begins seeing the way government really works. Then he’ll try to use his support to cut through the compromise, the horse trading.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, is there? We’ve seen enough pointless parliamentary wrangling for ourselves, haven’t we?”

  “Still don’t get it, do you? You’ve ditched MacDonald and you’re going to end up with Mussolini, or worse, that German demagogue, Hitler!”

  Jennie rose from the bed in dudgeon. She stood before him, nude, hands on her hips, her voice quavering.

  “Look, I ditched MacDonald and he was my own father. If Oswald Mosley looks to turn into Benito Mussolini, I’ll do no less.”

  Frank was silent for a moment. He had worked hard to supress the knowledge, to unknow what Jennie had told him about her and MacDonald that morning six weeks earlier, just before the upheaval. He’d nearly succeeded in forgetting. But now, she was making him face it again.

  Suddenly feeling naked, Jennie reached for a dressing gown.

  “I wish I didn’t know. If only Mosley hadn’t told me. Either I should have been told before I chose a political life or never have been told at all. Now I’ve got to live with this fact.”

  Frank couldn’t remember ever having seen Jennie cry. He was about to. Rising from the bed, he slipped into his dressing gown and sought to bring Jennie to him. She resisted, then moved away. He watched her now, seeking a look, a mannerism, a movement, something that would make Jennie the daughter of Ramsay MacDonald. There was none. She came back to the bed, and they both sat down on its edge.

  “He was a hero in my family once. But for years now he’s just seemed like an unctuous old sell-out.” Frank let her go on. “Then to discover the pathetic old man envenoming me was my own flesh and blood…well, it’s made me feel even more poisonous, I’m afraid.” She shivered and he wrapped an arm round her. “Frank, the worst of it is that every time I try to put the pieces together it looks horribly like a conspiracy of MacDonald and my parents. As though I was some political creation, not their child at all.”

  She could see Frank wanted an explanation, but he wasn’t going to demand one. She led him through the reasoning that had preoccupied her now for months. At each link he nodded.

  When she finished, Frank spoke quietly. “And so you paid him off, well and truly. You destroyed him, Jennie, and a good job too.”

  Only a handful of people knew Jennie’s catalytic role in ‘the coup,’ as they called the events that brought MacDonald down and Lloyd George and Mosley to power.

  “Doesn’t make me happy, Frank. Not now it’s done. I can’t help thinking the cold dish of revenge isn’t to my taste.” She looked at him. “I want to feel that I did it for the right reasons, not because he…” She couldn’t find the words to finish her sentence.

  Suddenly Frank was troubled. “Jennie, you never needed to know about all this, about MacDonald and your parents. Why ever did Mosley tell you?”

  Jennie was past protecting herself or anyone else. She needed to answer, to tell Frank everything now. She wanted his absolution.

  “Mosley knew about my friendship with the Duchess of York. He wanted me to be his conduit to the palace. I suspect he told me because he rather thought it would induce me to go along. I was reluctant.”

  Frank let out a low whistle. “Are you saying he blackmailed you…if it had come out, the truth might not have ruined MacDonald. Certain would have wrecked your political life.”

  “Not exactly, Frank. It wasn’t a quid pro quo.”

  “But he would have used it against you, if you hadn’t agreed to help him. You mustn’t trust him, Jennie, in private affairs or public matters. He’s no honour. There are no limits to the means he’ll help himself to.”

  Jennie frowned. “Double standard, Frank?” She went on: “It’s alright for you to serve in cabinet with him. But I’m not to trust him?”

  “Perhaps neither of us had much choice. But we’re riding the tiger, that’s for certain.”

  Jennie had the last word. “And so far it’s headed in the right direction.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Unlike Frank Wise, Jennie’s political twin, Aneurin Bevan had no qualms and only enthusiasm for Tom Mosley. Like Jennie, he was both too young and too unreliable to be even contemplated as cabinet material. So he found himself spending long afternoons and evenings on the backbenches, where he would always contrive to be sitting as close to Jennie as possible. When she rose for refreshment, a smoke or a breath of air along the terrace of the House, he was usually to be found doing the same, trying hard not to look too much like a loyal canine. He knew about Jennie and Frank, had reconciled himself to their abiding relationship, but never stopped making clear to her that he remained available. More than once, he reminded her of his reply when she had remarked they might as well be brother and sister: “Yes, with a tendency to incest.” Jennie showed him she was flattered by his attentions, even tempted. Besides, she liked Nye Bevan as a great friend, a political fellow traveller, and the only real bon vivant in her life. But Nye knew nothing of Jennie’s role in the coup, nor how exactly it had happened. Those few who did know worried that Nye might be tempted to leak the details to his pal Beaverbrook. From him it would get to The Daily Exp
ress, for certain.

  Jennie and Nye were standing together on the terrace on a November evening, almost three months after ‘the coup.’ Neither was wearing a coat, letting the wind off the river clear the cobwebs of a long sitting. There was no river traffic, not even a coal barge. Behind the bare trees on the embankment opposite, the long ribbon of the St Thomas hospital buildings was dark.

  “I’ve been invited to speak at one of Tom Mosley’s rallies, in East Hull, next week. Want to come?” Nye smiled conspiratorially.

  Jennie chortled. “Actually, they invited you because I turned them down.”

  It would be another rare weekend escape for Frank from the Treasury and from his wife.

  Jennie wondered aloud. “Hull’s a fairly safe seat. Why’s Mosley speaking there?”

  “Now he’s party leader, he’s cleaning out the stables, Jennie. Sitting MP, Kenworthy, he’s not reliable. Was anti-Lloyd George when he was a Liberal.”

  “That doesn’t make him unreliable now, does it?”

  “Mosley’s trying to bring some discipline to the party, purge the wayward nonconformists. Seems like a good idea.”

  “I don’t much like it, Nye. If our party had demanded ideological conformity, you and I would never have been allowed to stand for parliament.”

  “It’s different times, Jennie. If we’re going to succeed, we’ll have to sing from one hymnal.”

  “Conducted by one choir master?” She recalled Frank’s worries about Mosley. “You’re frightening me rather, Nye.”

  Bevan didn’t respond. He must have been thinking of something quite different. Flicking his fag into the Thames, he turned to Jennie and smiled.

  “There isn’t going to be a vote on anything important tonight. Let’s play truant. I’ll buy you dinner at the Café Royale.”

  “You can’t afford it!”

  “I’m a Bollinger Bolshevik, my dear…we’ll just forget we didn’t pay the bill.”

  Jennie shrugged. “Very well, I’ll let you steal me dinner.”

  * * *

  They were settled into a red-plush semi-circular booth at the Café Royale. Nye was nodding in a friendly way at too many of the other diners for Jennie’s comfort. She made a show of putting the menu up to hide her face.

  “Don’t worry, Jennie. People here are discreet.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I come with a different woman every night and so far there’s been nothing in the scandal sheets.” He began to scrutinise the wine list.

  “Every night and they still let you walk out on the bill?”

  “I usually send it to Lord Beaverbrook…and he always pays!” Nye smiled and Jennie couldn’t decide it he was serious or not.

  He put down the wine list and reached for Jennie’s hand. He did not hold it but only squeezed it in a decidedly fraternal manner.

  “How are things...with Frank?”

  Suddenly she felt a rush of gratitude towards Nye.

  “Thanks for asking.”

  The need to tell someone had been weighing for days, weeks now. He waited.

  “You know the saying, ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ Everything’s going swimmingly.”

  “Swimmingly? Is that political or personal?”

  For Nye, the past three months in the House had been pure fun, watching Tom Mosley, and Frank Wise for that matter, standing at the dispatch box making fools of old men like Churchill, Neville Chamberlain and Stanley Baldwin. No one even bothered to jape at MacDonald, shunted off to a corner of the opposition bench with his son, almost the only Labour MP besides Snowden who had followed him out of the party. One look at Jennie and he knew it hadn’t been quite the same for her.

  “I’m miserably lonely.” She looked forlorn. “I never see Frank anymore, that’s the problem.”

  “Has his wife twigged?”

  “Long ago now. But that’s not the problem anymore. Once he became Chancellor of the Exchequer, she turned a blind eye altogether.”

  “Any idea why?” Nye was surprised.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps she wants this government to succeed. A scandal would harm it.”

  “So, she’s happy to be the wife of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, to be taken up by the cabinet wives club as a very senior member.”

  “That’s not Dorothy Wise, Nye. It’s not like that at all. She’s more of a bluestocking. I think she believes in what her husband is doing and she’s decided she doesn’t mind about me. You know, women aren’t driven by jealousy about sex like you men.”

  “Well, I’m jealous of you and Frank.”

  “No, Nye, you’re envious. But you shouldn’t be. We haven’t seen each other, Frank and me, for a month now. He’s too bloody busy with government. That’s why I’m miserable. I’m pretty sure he’s miserable too. That’s my consolation.”

  Nye pushed a menu towards her. “Let’s order. And if you’re still miserable after dinner we can try to do something about that.”

  Instead of a kick under the table he won a sly smile from her. “And I’ll explain the difference between jealousy and envy.”

  * * *

  Jennie spent much of that winter with Nye, and also with Ellen Wilkinson, along with other members of the parliamentary Labour Party who were not in the cabinet. There was much opportunity for talk, for writing and reading articles for the left-wing rags, but also for meals and pints during long sittings of the House. And between Jennie and Nye there was even a little time for the distractions of the flesh. It wasn’t as electric for her as being with Tom Mosley, and it lacked the emotional intensity, security and refreshment of making love with Frank, falling asleep with him, waking up with him. Still, she needed the attention and the release an afternoon or evening with Nye provided.

  Too often, when she and Frank were able to meet it was in some public place—the smoking rooms of the House or a Labour Party function. Always, there were others with them, or arriving to interrupt them. Once, he complained that he had not had a home cooked meal in a fortnight, and that had been ‘tea’ prepared by the wife of a senior civil servant while they worked.

  It was only just after the New Year, in January of 1932, that Frank and Jennie were able to share a weekend together. Frank had asked to hide out from reporters, civil servants and cabinet colleagues at Jennie’s flat on Guilford Street. He was holding two red boxes, with a third under his right arm, when he came in. Jennie took one at the door and led him into the sitting room.

  She closed and locked the door, leaned back against it and let her eyes drink in his presence. For his part, Frank lowered the two cases to the floor, turned slowly and smiled shyly, like a truant. Then, without a word they came together in the middle of the room, disrobing one another. The flat was cold, but they didn’t notice. Both had been heavily dressed: Frank against the elements, Jennie to save on coal in the flat. By mutual agreement, the process of undressing each other had begun at speed, but slowed down as the final layers were removed.

  An hour later, Jennie was back in the lounge rustling up two whiskey and sodas, when her eyes fell upon the boxes again. She returned to the bedroom with the drinks and stood before the bed. “Those damn boxes. You brought work, didn’t you?”

  “Got to.” Frank frowned. “Have to start writing the budget speech…Worse news.” He paused. Jennie put down the glasses and reached for the bedstead, bracing herself. “I suspect this is the last weekend we’ll have together for months.”

  “Months? How can that be?” The distress twisted her face.

  “Mosley wants an election…to break up the government, make himself prime minister. He’s going to use the budget to break up the coalition.”

  Jennie repeated his words with invective. “He’s going to use the budget? You’re Chancellor, not Tom Mosley! It’s your budget.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. He’s leader of the party. I couldn’t stop him even if I want to.”

  “Do you? Want to stop him?”

  “No, not yet anyway. We�
�ve agreed a budget, Mosley and I have.” He sighed slightly. “Pillow talk, Jennie?”

  She knew what the interrogative tone meant. He would divulge cabinet discussion if she promised secrecy. So far, she had been as good as her word.

  He spoke two words. “Tariff reform.”

  Jennie threw the words back in mockery. “Tariff reform? Who the blazes cares about tariff reform when there are two millions unemployed?”

  “Lloyd George does. His party does.” Frank looked at Jennie, hard. “Don’t you see? It will force Lloyd George’s resignation, as PM. He’ll pull his sixty members out of the coalition. There’ll be an election, one we can win outright.”

  “Over tariffs? They’ll withdraw over import duties?”

  “Free trade’s been a fixed point for Liberals almost for a hundred years, Jennie. They’ll never give it up.” He stopped, evidently deciding whether to divulge more. “And it’s not just tariffs Mosley wants. It’s ‘Imperial Preference,’ free trade with the White dominions—Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa. Tariff wall against everyone else—Europe, the USA.”

  “I still don’t understand, Frank. What’s so radical about… what did you call it, Imperial Preference?”

  “It’s Mosley’s idea, actually. Steal a plank from Tory policy. Up the empire and all that. Wrap Labour in the Union Jack. Get Beaverbrook’s papers to our side…”

  Jennie understood well enough. “Why should the Tories hoover up all the patriotic vote, eh?”

  “His very words.” Was there a hint of suspicion in his words? Always Jennie listened for the hint of suspicion.

  Jennie smiled. “Just a coincidence.” She leaned against him suggestively.

  Frank put his arm round her. “So, yes. This election means we probably won’t have another day together for months.”

  * * *

  Frank was right, but things moved so fast they were almost too busy to notice how little time they had together.