The Intrigues of Jennie Lee Read online

  “Tell me what’s she’s like. Do you love her?”

  “Dorothy...” He thought a moment. “Formidable lady. J.P., educated, but no bluestocking. Keeps our place in Bucks beautifully. There’s four kids. Three girls and a boy. The oldest two girls are in school now, here in London. They stay in town with me most weekends. Dorothy’s a great help with politics. She’s been chair of the Mid-Bucks Labour Party. I’m terrifically grateful to her.”

  “But you don’t love her...” Wise was silent, so Jennie answered for him: “Anymore.”

  “Never sure I did. Admire her awfully. But it’s not like this.”

  “Frank, can this just be a fling...please?”

  “I don’t know.” It was all he could say.

  Jennie knew. It couldn’t be a fling, not for her. But it had to be clandestine. She didn’t mind that, not at all, and not just for his sake. She couldn’t have anyone think she was someone else’s creature, a dependency, a satellite in some man’s orbit. That was the marvellous thing about Frank. He loved her. But from the first he treated her as an equal, never condescending, never humouring, ready to take her arguments seriously, to argue against them when he disagreed, credit her when she changed his mind. All this despite the differences in their ages, experience, education. Somehow, it was important to Frank that his lover have her own, independent standing.

  * * *

  Frank Wise had been right about effects of the Wall Street crash. Within weeks it had turned the steady overhang of unemployment in heavy industry into a torrent of job losses. Month by month, almost a quarter of the British workforce were driven into a miserable dependence on pay-outs from the dwindling National Insurance Scheme. Every Labour constituency was haemorrhaging work, and then communities began losing their entire local economy. From week to week, more and more shopkeepers and tradesmen found themselves vagrants, sometimes even beggars, cap in hand shuffling from street corners at the command of coppers. Jennie saw it wherever she spoke.

  At their wit’s end, MPs on the left of the Labour Party increasingly rejected the caution of their own cabinet ministers. Day after day, they’d meet in the same rooms with the same back benchers, all obsessively working over the same terrain, turning over every policy, ploy, plan that might make a difference. All knew equally well that nothing they could do would spur MacDonald’s government into real action.

  Night after night Jennie would come out of the house with Frank seething, blocked, defeated, powerless before the magnitude of her own government’s indifference.

  “Frank, is there anything anyone can do?” Her tone was plaintive, as though she were supplicating, beseeching.

  Wise had to say something, anything that might lift her gloom even a little.

  “Only hope is Mosley.” Jennie looked at him, bighting her lip, but he didn’t notice. “MacDonald has given him unemployment as his responsibility in cabinet. He’s talking to the right people—Keynes for example. He just has to get them to listen.”

  * * *

  By the early winter of 1930 Jennie had moved to Guilford Street, a few steps from the tube at Russell Square and close to Frank Wise’s larger flat in Bloomsbury.

  Jennie and Frank woke together after one of the first nights they were able to share in her new flat.

  She slipped out of the bed, not bothering to cover her body against the draft, dropped a coin in the gas fire and moved into the kitchen to make two cups of tea. Coming back with the cups, she had to circumnavigate the clothes each had shed the night before in their path towards the bed. Frank lifted the covers to her and she slid back under the warn eiderdown, passing him a cup.

  “How ever can you prance round in the cold without a stitch, Jennie?” Frank’s body was still buried beneath the quilt.

  “This wouldn’t even be a chill morning in Fife.”

  His look was serious. “Dorothy suspects about us, I fear.”

  “However did she...” Jennie didn’t finish the sentence. There were a hundred ways a wife might find out about these things, she knew, no matter how discreet one were.

  Frank was prepared to answer her question. “Came to the House one day on a shopping trip up to London from Bucks.”

  The Wise’s owned a ramshackle 19th century pile south of Oxford. It required much of Dorothy’s attention, as did the two younger children.

  “She was in the Ladies’ Gallery. Saw us walking out of the Commons together and ‘just knew.’ That’s what she said anyway.”

  “Surely no one would have given us away.” She’d been assured by no less than the Duchess of York that it wasn’t done, not even between political enemies in Westminster. Coupling was one’s private life and not to be tread upon. Besides, no grouping in the house had a corner on conventional morality. Everyone knew that the outcome of public disclosure was tit-for-tat, and that nothing spread about could stay private for long.

  “Don’t think anyone told her. That’s why I rather credited her intuition.”

  “You admitted it to her?”

  “No. Denied it absolutely!”

  She kept her face impassive. She wasn’t going to condemn his dissimulation. In fact she was glad of it.

  But Frank looked ashamed of himself. She realised she had to reassure him.

  “You did the right thing.”

  Relief spread across Frank’s face and he moved towards her in a way she did not misinterpret. Jennie decided to toy with him briefly.

  “Frank, tell me why we need to get off the gold standard.”

  Later, in the languor of a late morning lie-in, Jennie decided that he had very much done the right thing, not admitting the affair to his wife. She knew she loved Frank, needed him in her life in a way she had never needed anyone else. But she knew with equal certainty that she didn’t want to marry him. Jennie didn’t want to be his, or anyone’s just yet, wasn’t ready to live with anyone as anything like a wife. You’re twenty-five. You need your freedom, don’t you, Jennie? The question answered itself. She felt too young to be settled. She looked over at Frank, facing her but dozing. Not for the first time she thought, If you were a couple, he’d have to take the lead, even if you still had a political life at all. But it wasn’t merely that, she knew. You won’t make the promise of fidelity, exclusiveness that you’re not ready to keep. She could feel it in her body and now expressed it to herself in unspoken words. You’re too vital an animal yet, too feral, to be happily enclosed. She would not endure a physical exclusivity that might become stale. She was glad Frank was married to someone else. It protected her from making promises to him she recognised she would have to keep.

  There was another visceral reason she needed her absolute freedom, something else that gnawed at her, something she could usually keep well away from her conscious thoughts, but that she knew was there somewhere. It lurked, ready to be called up by the odd sensation that coursed through her body from time to time, drifting off to sleep or waking from a morning dream. She found that she could also call this feeling up just by conjuring the touch of Mosley’s hand moving up her thigh that dinner five months before.

  Chapter Eight

  It was towards the end of January 1930 that Jennie met Mosley again. She had just made her second speech in the house, an unqualified attack on the political cowardice of her own side, the government she’d been sent to Westminster to sustain. Jennie had not exempted anyone in the Labour government. Jennie’s vituperation had spared no one, not even Mosley, sitting there on the minister’s front bench.

  The house had not been very full that afternoon, and of the cabinet only a handful were present. Mosley was the most conspicuous of them, sprawled across three seats directly before the dispatch box and the mace. Members were beginning to stroll out for a drink in one of the palace’s bars, perhaps contemplating an early supper.

  “Mr Speaker,” Jennie had shouted, and to her surprise, been recognised.

  As she began, those strolling out stopped, turned and sat at the nearest benches. One or two who
were just coming in, turned and spoke to those behind them. Soon, more flowed in from the lobbies, hoping for a bit of excitement. They were not to be disappointed.

  “The government have had four months to tell us what they proposed to do about unemployment, four months during which perhaps a half a million more workers have lost jobs. The prime minster has nothing to offer these men...and women. Instead those in work are told they must work harder and be paid less for it. And why?” In a mocking tone, she continued. “So that capitalists don’t take their large profits out of this country and create jobs elsewhere?” She paused for effect. “Well, they’re certainly not creating any hereabouts.”

  The Conservatives across the floor had cheered her on, in mock support of her attack on her own side, waving their order papers. The younger ones shouted terms of endearment. The older members merely expressed encouragement.

  Coming to the end, Jennie felt the need to shock once more. She looked to her left and right across the Labour benches, now fuller than when she had begun. She would address her side alone, with no pretence of addressing the whole house, or even the Speaker, as the rules required. “What’s the point of Labour governing the same way the capitalists do? Better we make proposals that their lot defeat.”

  She gestured towards the Tories and the Liberals across the floor.

  “Then we can carry them to the country, and win. The game this government is playing is not worth the candle.”

  Instead of sitting, Jennie trod down the steps, bowed to chair and strode from the chamber.

  A handful of MPs on her side were murmuring their agreement, “Hear, hear.”

  A few Tories were calling after her, “Hear, hear.”

  Striding along the corridor, Jennie detected the echoing sound of hurrying footsteps along the flagstones behind her. Someone was trying to catch up. When she turned her head, it was Tom Mosley. He had followed her out of the chamber. Jennie slowed to allow him to catch her before she began descending the stair to the Lady Members’ Room. She found herself smiling in spite of herself. Was she glad to have had an effect on someone from the front bench? Did she actually welcome his attention? Yes, she realised. Did she want others to see this glamorous figure seeking her out? She had to admit it, at least to herself.

  But when he came up to her, all she said was “Yes?” in the haughtiest tone she could muster.

  “I wanted to tell you that I am going to resign from the cabinet.” Mosley’s look was penetrating. His dark eyes searching hers for a reaction, as if to ask whether she would be glad.

  Jennie wanted to be slightly provocative. “When did you just decide, just now?”

  “You mean was it your speech that convinced me? No. But my reasons are rather the ones you gave in there.” He inclined his head towards the chamber. “I’ve spent the better part of a month trying to get the cabinet to do something besides playing at Mister Macawber.”

  They both smiled at his Dickensian image.

  She took it farther. “They’ll still be hoping that something will turn up by the time the next election comes round. But why tell me?”

  “Perhaps so that you might excuse me from your attack on the government.”

  “Well, you didn’t stick it very long in the cabinet. Three months?”

  “How can you condemn me for impatience after a speech like the one you just gave?”

  “I suppose you’re right. But I’m surprised you’re quitting. It’s power you want, I recall. There’s none in the back benches.”

  “Well, I don’t expect to be on them long.” He looked at her gravely. “And when I return to government, I hope I’ll have your support.”

  “You will if you earn it.” She turned to walk on.

  But Mosley reached out and held her arm. Jennie looked down at his hand, willing it off. It was not the way she expected to be treated, by anyone.

  “Miss Lee, I can’t tell if you like me or loathe me. Which is it?”

  “What makes you think I give you any thought at all?”

  Jennie hoped her tone conveyed indifference. But she did not turn and walk away. Suddenly she knew why. They both did. Jennie had allowed him rather too much liberty at or rather beneath Charlie Trevelyan’s dining table.

  “That’s coming at it rather high, Miss Lee.” There was a slightly conspiratorial look in his face now. They’d now reached the door of the Lady Members’ Room.

  Jennie could feel a tide race pulling her towards him. She needed to make a break.

  She blurted, “I tell you, Mosley, I have a lover.”

  “And I have a wife.” He loosened his grip and spoke quietly. “Makes no matter.”

  He had more than a wife, Jennie knew. Why are you standing here, talking to this bounder? But stand she did, transfixed by Mosley’s penetrating stare, his winning smile, the feeling he exuded that for a moment they were the only two people in the world; the message in his whole bearing that holding her interest was the only thing he cared about, ever would care about. Jennie couldn’t fathom it. She quite disliked him, and yet, for the moment, would do anything he suggested.

  “Have a drink with me, Miss Lee.” He took her arm gently. “Now...please.” His tone was correct and seductive at the same time.

  She opened the door, hoping none of the other women MPs were there, took her coat off the tree in the corner and emerged. Mosley led her out of the members’ exit and across Parliament Square to a pub more frequented by Tory members than Labour MPs. Just as well, Jennie thought, no one she knew would be there.

  Mosley ordered two glasses of single malt Scotch whiskey. He waited in silence until the barman had poured them, withdrew a billfold from his coat and paid. Only then did he speak.

  “I dare say, Miss Lee, your speech was devastatingly accurate...it was as though you’d been sitting in the cabinet, every day since MacDonald formed the government.”

  Jennie wanted to be implacable. She remained silent. Mosley filled the silence between them.

  “MacDonald and the rest knew what policies I advocated when they gave me a place in the cabinet. But it must have all been for show. No one’s been interested in the slightest.”

  Jennie couldn’t help herself responding to a frustration she shared as deeply.

  “Whatever are they interested in?”

  “Not much. They’re a set of old men afraid of change, most ignorant of economics and frightened by the bankers, others are trades-union bosses bought off by big business, a few so-called socialists anxious about how to stop the unemployed shirking...”

  Jennie was listening for political intelligence. “Is it true MacDonald is going to try to cut the unemployment benefit?”

  Mosley nodded. “It’s the only way he can balance the budget. Says we pay men more not to work than other countries pay them to work.”

  Jennie raised her voice. “But there is no work.” Several others in the pub turned to towards them, seeking the source of the outburst.

  Mosley spoke quietly. “And won’t be, so long as they worry about balancing the budget. I suppose you’ve been listening to Lloyd George’s pet economist?”

  “Keynes, the one at Charley Trevelyan’s dinner party last summer?” Mosley nodded. “The Liberals have what, sixty seats? Not much chance of them ever returning to power.”

  “But we could steal their programme. It’s hardly different from what I’ve been arguing for anyway.”

  “Who is ‘we,’ anyway, Tom?” She found she’d used his Christian name, something she had not wanted to do.

  “‘We’ is the Labour Party. We can make a start in the Commons. See how many backbench MPs will follow.”

  Jennie raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that. I’d love some company rattling the old bastard’s cage.” She smiled bitterly, recalling the fact that Ramsay MacDonald was well known to have been illegitimate. Mosley smiled too. Then her words struck him. She wouldn’t have used the word as she did if she knew she was illegitimate too. This woman doesn’t know that she is
Ramsay MacDonald’s bastard. Jennie didn’t notice Mosley’s look of surprise. She contemplated her empty glass.

  “Trouble is, rattling cages won’t work. Most of the backbenchers are too timid to revolt.”

  Mosley smiled. “You’re right of course. That’s why we’ll have to go over their heads. You’d be good at that, Jennie.”

  It was the first time he used her Christian name. Did the familiarity suit? She couldn’t quite tell. Weakly she replied, “Go over their heads, what do you mean?”

  “Take my policy to the party conference, override the parliamentary party!”

  “Labour Party conference is eight months away. Things will get worse and nothing will be done.”

  “Precisely. And that’s why we’ll succeed.”

  For the third time he put his hand on her arm, now in comradeship. This time she didn’t remove it.

  He called to the barman. “Same again, please.”

  Is he already counting me into his following? I suppose he’s right, damn the man. She was finding Mosley more convincing than she wanted him to be.

  Mosley looked at his watch. “I say, shall we get some supper? There won’t be a division in the house till late.”

  Jennie looked him steadily in the eye. “Don’t you have a flat nearby, Tom?”

  It was important they both understood this was to be no seduction. There would not even be dissimulation. He had to see that she knew all about him.

  She continued. “Somewhere on Ebury Street?”

  * * *

  Their coupling was clinical in its equality of attention and satisfaction, both giving as good as they got, both recognising, nay, seeking a carnality uninhibited by modesty, or even ritual courtesy, still less pretended romance. It was clean and bracing, and Jennie enjoyed it thoroughly.

  Afterwards, they dressed, and without discussion returned to the House.

  * * *

  Mosley didn’t, after all, resign immediately. MacDonald actually seemed ready to listen to him. For three months a subcommittee of the most senior ministers considered his policy of public works, nationalisation of industry and high tariffs. Meanwhile he remained in the cabinet.