Amidst the rest of the world's obsession with CK3...
Chapter 38, Southampton, 10 August 1936
The Courtroom was housed in the Civic Centre, a rather grand building for an English port but rather impressive, nonetheless. The figure, who was powerful but not really well known, sloped into the public gallery and quietly attended to a crossword. The Judge tracked the figure as he took his seat.
“May it please the Court,” the clerk began, “case number four, Simpson versus Simpson, in your bundle, Your Honour.”
The Judge grunted acknowledgment, rubbed his wig and back and forth in irritation, and started reading through the messy bundle of papers before him. “Plaintiff?”
“Your Honour I am Sir Norman Birkett and I represent a Mrs Wallis Simpson, Your Honour,” the barrister for the ‘wounded party’ said; he was, despite all begging at Prime Ministerial level for the contrary, an expensive London barrister, a QC no less, whose presence here further increased the risk of scandal and revelation.
“I see, instructed by?”
“Mr Goddard,” the barrister pointed to his instructing solicitor, who half rose and inclined his head.
“Defendant?”
“Mr Ernest Simpson, Your Honour,” another barrister, this one a well-known ‘hack’ from the circuit, bobbed up and said quietly.
“Alright, what is this about then?” The Judge knew full well what ‘this was about’ and looked beyond mortified, as if he wanted to be anywhere other than the Southampton Assizes. With grim determination, he set about his duty.
“Your Honour, this is an application for the Court to grant a Decree Nisi in the matter of the marriage between the Plaintiff and Defendant,” Birkett began silkily.
"Based on what, Mr Birkett? Adultery?”
“Your Honour is percipient,” Birkett said with a tight little smile. “Indeed.”
“And is this admitted?” The Judge peered at Ernest Simpson’s counsel.
“It is, Your Honour,” he said from a half-risen position, tugging on his gown like a tradesman with his apron. He knew the Judge and how to handle him, which was common for the circuits. With this Judge, you never gave anything until it was asked for.
Birkett didn’t, however, and sought to further pressure the Judge into getting on with this matter; he could get a train at lunchtime and be back home for dinner. “I trust that this satisfies Your Honour’s interest?”
The Judge glared at Birkett, and then to the languid looking, crossword completing figure in the public gallery. In truth he was annoyed, bloody livid actually, with his orderly courtroom being used for a ‘country case’, a local divorce hearing originally brought in to avoid all witnesses and parties decamping from their homes to London thereby raising the expenses, particularly of the witnesses who could rarely afford it. This quiet, local justice had been seized upon by the Upper Classes as a way of avoiding London opprobrium; a quiet little hearing in a sleepy rural court was just the ticket, particularly if the local judiciary was venal (which he was not) and in or near a port, allowing for a discreet and swift getaway to the continent for a bit. The Judge was angry that his quiet courtroom in this earnest civic building was being used for the most scandalous of ‘country cases’. Time for a little fun.
“No, Mr Birkett, I would like the details and particulars, if you please.” The Judge could just, from the corner of his eye, see the languid figure sitting up, alert. Good.
“I’m obliged, Your Honour,” Birkett said weakly. “On the twenty sixth of last month, the defendant was staying in the Stag Hotel, Lyndhurst. It is understood, Your Honour, subject to representation by My Learned Friend,” he nodded at the other barrister, “that this was as part of a meeting of old Army acquaintances, a ‘reunion’, if you will.”
The Judge was writing notes; this was already written down in the pleadings of both sides, but he wanted Birkett to earn his dammed pay if he was going to parade this farce in this courtroom. “I see, go on, Mr Birkett.”
“I am grateful,” Birkett said, sounding anything but. “Mrs Simpson had made her own arrangements with her own friends, and decided, on a whim, to surprise her husband at the Stag Hotel. She arrived at the hotel, and observed Mr Simpson engaged in physical relations with another woman.”
“Ah, yes, thank you, Mr Birkett,” the Judge said, warming to the topic. He toyed with extracting the more salacious details, but noted the crossworder staring at him. “Er, Mr Shears,” he said to Mr Simpsons counsel, “anything from you at this stage? Don’t worry, you can make a submission momentarily.”
“I’m grateful to My Learned Friend for such a balanced opening, Your Honour.”
“In that instance, I have two questions.”
“If I can be of assistance…”
“…I am quite able, Mr Birkett, of thinking for myself,” the rebuke was beautifully delivered and the Judge relished wielding it so lightly. “Perhaps you could assist me with furnishing us with the identity of the third party?”
“The third party, Your Honour?”
“Yes Mr Birkett, forgive me if I am not clear, but who was the other woman?”
Birkett was dumbstruck and the Judge knew that his hunch was correct after all. It was common for the society divorce to be triggered by the act of one party, usually the husband, being caught with another (thus satisfying the grounds for infidelity). It was also a ‘cottage industry’ for local young woman to earn a small wage by agreeing to be caught in bed with the husband, of course no actual intimacy taking place. Birkett’s response, his failure to provide a name, indicated to the Judge that potential illegality was at play here, and this was indeed a ‘country case’. Gleefully, because he found Birkett and this entire case tawdry, the Judge pressed home the point. If he was going to be pressured by the Government not to appoint the King’s Proctor to investigate the veracity of the case, he wanted proof that Ernest Simpson was not in bed with some poor local girl that he had never properly met. “It’s a simple enough question, Mr Birkett,” the Judge said sweetly, “and I am sure, almost certain, that Mr Shears will be able to assist. Would you two like a moment?”
“I’m grateful,” Birkett said, his composure regained. “Five minutes?”
“Yes, Your Honour. Mr Shears?”
Shears now rose. “Yes, Your Honour,” he agreed, “and I agree with My Learned Friend that five minutes will suffice.”
“Let’s make it ten,” the Judge said, sportingly. As everyone rose to allow the Judge to retire for a cup of tea, he saw the languid figure hurry to confer with the lawyers. This was turning out to be a more enjoyable morning than he had feared it would be.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Not far away, near, ironically enough, the New Forest town of Lyndhurst, the figure of a female could be seen walking along an area of heathland, trailed by two other figures.
“Mrs Simpson,” Sir Warren Fisher greeted his prey with a touch of formality, “I am Sir Warren Fisher, Head of the Civil Service and Permanent Under Secretary at the Treasury.” If he thought she would be impressed he was wrong, but when one is the mistress of the Monarch one, Fisher accepted, would be hard pressed to be capable of being further impressed. “I thought while we wait for news from Southampton that we could have little wag of the chin.”
“What the hell do you mean,” she said tersely, and Fisher, who enjoyed the possibilities afforded by the English language, was mildly offended that the best that she could do was offer a blasphemy but allowed that was perhaps under pressure today.
“It means, my dear Mrs Simpson, that I would like to offer myself as a Sherpa, a guide, if you will, to how we could make the next few weeks more bearable for you.”
“Like getting rid of that deadbeat husband? Like calling off the American press?”
“Heavens no, my dear,” Fisher gushed, “I am a mere functionary, I keep the files tidy, I make sure that no one messes up the records.” He looked shrewdly at her. “I give ‘em the stick, when needed. I am also, however, well versed in our, shall we say, procedures.”
Wallis Simpson, if she was honest, was slightly terrified of this theatrical figure, who seemed almost a caricature from a bygone era. He talked in riddles and conveyed an unspoken threat of something that David had hitherto kept from her; an official disapproval, a judgment from a higher authority. “What procedures,” she said, seeking time, refuge, in a question.
“A good question,” Fisher cooed, “a very good question, a most timely, apposite and indeed relevant question,” he said soothingly.
She looked at him suspiciously as they walked together along the bleak, beautiful, wind-lashed heath. For all that this odd character was from another world to Wallis Simpson, she was, perhaps pathetically, nevertheless extremely glad of the company. Mountbatten, who had arranged her exile in Hampshire to coincide with his own Naval duties, had quickly tired of the tension building and the sniping that it had engendered.
She forced herself to be pleasant. “That wasn’t, Mr Fisher,” she offered a thin smile, “an answer.”
Fisher noted her effort to hide the retort amidst an effort to be equable; he sighed theatrically and nodded. “Let us just say that no one, none of us, wants to establish you as an enemy. Nor,” he continued without allowing for interruption, “will I allow us to not try and mitigate the damage to the Monarchy,” he said it in a rush, for he too was nervous (although he managed it far better than Mrs Simpson).
“You mean,” she said with a frown, “David, don’t you?”
“I do,” he said with a sight nod of encouragement. “Might I ask you something Mrs Simpson?”
“Yeah,” she said wearily, the nervousness still there.
“Who is your confidante? Who are you, confiding in? Is there some avuncular Englishman of whom you can avail yourself?” Despite the flowery prose, this was delivered with an unexpected intensity.
“Well, there’s,” she paused, struggling to think of a Briton, at least a male Briton, not supplied by David.
“A ha,” Fisher said gently. The point was made and so he rushed to provide an answer. “Mr Goddard.” He paused to allow her to talk, and carefully navigated around a small hole on the heath. He smiled as, in the distance, he saw two New Forest ponies trotting, having taken water from a nearby stream. “Pretty ponies,” he said simply.
“Yeah, Mr Goddard,” she said in swift agreement; ironically given the events playing out not that far away, she had forgotten her lawyer.
“And he has,” Fisher said, now at the culmination of this conversation, “advised that during this separation from Ernest, and before the completion of the divorce proceedings…”
“…that damned Absolute thing?” For all her nervousness and self-enforced politeness, she hadn’t completely lost her sting.
“Just so,” Fisher said smoothly, impervious to her ‘bite’. “Our enlightened Mr Goddard has, I understand, suggested but not recommended that you might like to visit Europe during this rather difficult time.”
Mrs Simpson didn’t say anything, she just squinted her hard face at this flowery Englishman. Somewhere, in the distance, the sound of a car spluttered across the forest.
Fisher paused. “Have you thought about this, Mrs Simpson?” He couldn’t resist the slight emphasis that he placed on ‘Mrs’. “Hmmmn? Is it pastry in Paris or mussels in Marseilles?” He chuckled at his own wit. Then another, delicious logical thought occurred. “Perhaps, my dear Mrs Simpson, you might want to return to the Americas for a time, hmmmn? Burgers in Baltimore?”
“America?” She said it as if it was a mythical land.
“I know, ‘tis a fanciful place; I’m sure, though, that you would be afforded a warm welcome. Why, heavens, you’d be feted!” He nodded with a very happy smile at Mrs Simpson.
“Not with the American newspapers,” she replied immediately, “David shows me the articles. It would be hell.”
Another thought occurred in the gloriously old-school mind of Sir Warren Fisher. He looked at Mrs Simpson with a new found appreciation. “You don’t want this, do you,” he said, not in question but in affirmation. “Yes, you don’t want the notoriety that comes with His Majesty,” Fisher emphasised the ‘His Majesty’ deliberately.
She looked at him, thoroughly unhappily. She thought, for at least thirty seconds, about whether or not to trust Fisher. And then she remembered all that David had said about the British old guard, and their ability to manipulate her every word. “I am not out,” she snapped, “to be a movie star.” She nodded, seemingly satisfied that she hadn’t compromised herself.
Fisher matched the nodding, and got to the point. “Is divorce, Mrs Simpson, and a marriage to His Majesty, really that necessary? The history of the Kings and Queens of England is replete, positively brimming, with powerful, respected mistresses. You would have secure position in society, we would all ensure that you are acknowledged, discreetly, in Court matters. It would give you His Majesty, without all of the nuisance of ceremony.”
“Publicly?”
Fisher squirmed. “Have you actually thought, Mrs Simpson, about what it entails? Standing there at balls and ceremonies, everyone queuing to kiss your hand, and the speeches, at every event? Purgatory, Mrs Simpson, pure purgatory.” He looked at her keenly, hoping that he was succeeding.
“I’d just be his whore,” she snapped. “I’d have no position! And what if he marries?”
“Ah, the thorny issue, the Calais of this situation, around which all else swirls.” He took a deep breath; he had no Cabinet authority to suggest this (although he knew that Chamberlain would support him) but resolved to plough on regardless. “Let us accept that His Majesty is now unlikely, highly unlikely, to take a wife. While it would be constitutionally convenient, nay desirable, for His Majesty to commence matrimony, it is not, well, essential. He has three brothers and a sister. He has two nieces. The line of succession is secure, regardless of the issue of any relations that he may lawfully engage upon.”
They walked for a few moments in silence, the gentle breeze rustling the trees. “It really is such a beautiful country,” he said whimsically. “We’re very lucky to have all of this.”
“So, my choices are to run to Europe while I’m divorcing Ernest, or tell David the marriage is off?”
Fisher thought, for a moment, about correcting the words but keeping the meaning, but with a sigh realised that it would be a waste. “That’s putting it quite effectively, actually.”
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
It was evening, early evening, when Wallis Simpson, overwhelmed with Fisher’s suffocating attention and the news from Court, finally had an early dinner and was smuggled into an anonymous boxy little car (a far cry, she thought sourly, from the grand vehicles that came with Edward’s courtship). As ever, her escort (or prison guard, she thought), was loitering.
“My Dear Wallis,” he said firmly, with his usual wry smile and slightly diffident air. He took one look at the aerodrome and sniffed in the manner of a down-at-heel duchess inspecting lodgings well beneath her. “This aircraft will take you to France, you’ll be met there by our friends.”
“Friends, Louis?” She took a perverse pride in not calling him 'Dickie'.
Commander the Lord Louis Mountbatten, known as ‘Dickie’ (despite Richard not being one of his many names), smiled thinly. “Lady Yule, Wallis. We’ve decided to stick you on her yacht, the Nahlin. That way it will harder for the newspapers to get hold of you.” He pulled the tight smile again. “Unless, that is, we want them to.” He looked around, and seeing a crowd of people in the near distance, he pulled the brim of his hat further down. With his winter overcoat and thick hat he was more suitably dressed for the colder months than this tranquil, mild summer’s evening. Wallis Simpson wondered if he had taken David’s order to be ‘incognito’ too far, or if he was perhaps enjoying the theatrics of this too much.
She was incredulous. “A boat?”
“It’s a luxury yacht, it’s got everything on board that you’ll need. Although,” he drawled, with his insufferable air of knowing more than everyone else, “we’ll need to get you some drink. Annie doesn’t like the strong stuff.”
“No liquor?”
Mountbatten sighed. “No liquor.” He turned his head and looked her at an awkward angle. He always seemed to view her via an angle, the head was always tilted, the mouth always half smirking. Wallis Simpson looked at this urbane flunky and wanted, at that moment, to slap his smug face. Perhaps it was the combination of Fisher earlier and Mountbatten now, but Wallis Simpson was quite looking forward to leaving England far behind.
“Let’s go,” she said unceremoniously. As Mountbatten adopted the air of the long-suffering courtier, Wallis Simpson climbed into an aircraft, and in minutes was gone.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
GAME NOTES
This was always going to be a bitty update, as all of the above elements need to be covered but each, on its own, probably doesn’t merit a full update. The ‘headlines’ are that Wallis leaves the UK after the Decree Nisi is lodged and approved and Fisher persuades her to go through with the plan to leave.
Fisher never, in our OTL, met with Simpson as described although it was certainly mooted at a number of points; the small cabal that OTL managed the crisis debated Fisher having a quiet chat in an attempt to get her to quietly leave the UK. When it was pointed out (probably by Baldwin) that as a plan it would be on a par with the Scott expedition or Gallipoli it was quietly dropped in favour of a Chamberlain approach to the King (and I’m not making this up, but it was believed that Chamberlain, alone, possessed the negotiating skills necessary to win the King over) which itself was overtaken by events. But I wanted to show how this most eccentric of English bureaucrats would have made his approach to Wallis. And it’s a farce…
The other farce, of course, is the initial hearing of Simpson v Simpson. I have deliberately made some changes; the setting has switched from Anglia to Hampshire, as I note that a lot of Wallis and David’s friends had country comes in or around the New Forest, and Portsmouth, where Mountbatten is based, is a short drive away. Having switched the scene of the ‘country case’ (this really was a thing, and ladies of varying repute earned a bit of cash by agreeing to be found with wealthy men in need of a discovery of adultery) I am able to pick and choose what I wanted to. I toyed with portraying the alleged adultery (as @El Pip recently pointed out to me, it was a farce) but found it incredibly tawdry, and have skipped through some of the initial hearing stuff in favour of a simple tale of a grumpy judge reluctantly allowing the Decree Nisi. The judge is fictional but based upon someone I know in my dealings, Shears is named after another lawyer who sadly has none of our local hack’s guile, and Birkett was more used to the calm, logical London appellate courts than this local, slightly ‘down and dirty’ tribunal where our resident judge presides over almost anything and everything that needs judicial attention.
Both the Fisher conversation and the Court Case being pitched as they do overlook a key participant in Wallis’ affairs, her solicitor (and his team), Theodore Goddard. Goddard frankly overplayed his importance and his influence with his client; the reason that Fisher didn’t meet with Mrs Simpson (or, even more deliciously, Chamberlain) was that Goddard persuaded all and sundry that she could be persuaded to leave, discreetly, between the Decree Nisi and the Decree Absolute (a good few months, assuming that the judge, or, and this is an intriguing prospect, an interested party, does not ask for an investigation into the validity of the claims). He failed dismally, and Simpson remained. In our OTL, the King and Government are oddly in agreement (remember, the Government hasn’t really outrightly declared that the King should abdicate yet, so wants as little scandal as possible) and so Fisher is wheeled in. She agrees, and a few hours later is off to Eastleigh aerodrome (not far from either the Court or the New Forest) for a short flight to France. The proposed stay is, of course, my ironic twist on the OTL Summer Cruise that the King took with Wallis instead of the interminable Royal summer in Balmoral. No offence to the Scots and their beautiful country, but a pleasure cruise, even on a teetotaller’s yacht, is preferably to imprisonment up there…
The Mountbatten cameo is just that, and noting that he is mentioned in the “things we’d like to see” comments, I will endeavour to write him in more. Cue heavy sighs from Le Jones…
I have a couple of issues with Mountbatten, although there are admirable traits. During the BLM protests in the UK, my only moment of “hang on a sec” was the proposal to tear down his statute, that led to the comedy moment of two Middle Class Englishmen arguing over whether statues (if there are any) of Jinnah and Nehru (and Attlee, and Wavell) should also be torn down. I think that in India he did the best that he could, albeit with an eye to a headline and taking Whitehall’s urging to get the job done quickly perhaps too literally. He was clearly overpromoted due to his impeccable connections and Royal pedigree, more of an indictment of the British preference for mediocrity with a title than excellence without, and was never the best ship handler in the Royal Navy. Dieppe, well, yes, he fluffed that, and his treatment of Slim was appalling. But he was the perfect figurehead, was a dedicated 1SL, and…ahem. Mad rant over.
So the list, so far, is Jimmy Maxton, Mountbatten, @TheButterflyComposer with his "Oo...so many british actors and directors and authors. Maybe have a roundup of 'hang on a minute, they're still alive?' From the old fuddies from the victorian empire, coming out of the woodwork now to wage one last great battle either for or against the crown," Sir Arthur Harris, Cunningham, Mountbatten, RV Jones, Lindemann (why?! Dear God why?!), Macmillan,
So yes, this is the one card that the King has, and is played with as good a chance as it was ever likely to have. As a throw of the dice it is a risky and, as has been said, rather final one - there is no going back without one of the sides yielding, but the hope from the King that public pressure would force MPs to look back at their constituencies before (as he would see it) bullying their Sovereign might have an effect.
The Royal hope is that there is a softening of the Government's position, or that enough National Government (largely Tory, but others are hanging around) split and join the loose coalition forming. There is probably an innocence on Edwards part (but not his advisors, and certainly not on the Beaver's) that if only Baldwin and his gang could be shunted aside, or embarrassed, that all would be well. Without giving away the next few months of gameplay, both sides are digging in. That means some form of clash, and perhaps a resignation (but of whom...) is almost certain.
I am planning an update in which he will at least feature.
Alas this performance lacks the whimsy...
Well it's always so good to hear from you!
Well.
My rant...
Is this. When I was doing my growing up, a certain element of the media and society latched on to Bletchley Park as the "thing wot won the war". I suspected then and believe it now, that this was because code breaking and clever use of well-heeled chaps and gals is easier to sell than a Lancaster (being careful of forum rules) not-precisely-precision-bombing 'industrial' targets or infantrymen doing awful things to one another. It infuriated me, and still does. It was a combination of factors 'wot won the war', and good intelligence was certainly a part of it. If I am candid (and why not, we're all on the Trust Tree here) if I take my hat off to anyone in 39-45 it's the incredibly brave / terrified boys who manned battered tanks / warships / aircraft, those that led them with courage and a humility to try and learn new ways of not killing one's command, and the people on the home front who dug coal, made planes etc. A bunch of academics working hard to crack codes - yup, you did your bit, but you were more than just a couple of the famous faces, and others had it far worse than you.
I think you're right, as discussed above. This is a rubicon moment for HM.
I don't know - if the rebels can get some big hitters to their cause they can do damage to Baldwin and the Government; it remains to be seen whether the victory will be pyrrhic or not. Society was changing in the 30s, it was cleaner, more suburban, less formal. But this is still the 30s, not the 50s, and Church attendance matters, as do patriotism and duty etc. I guess that this crisis will show the faultlines in British society.
Chapter 38, Southampton, 10 August 1936
The Courtroom was housed in the Civic Centre, a rather grand building for an English port but rather impressive, nonetheless. The figure, who was powerful but not really well known, sloped into the public gallery and quietly attended to a crossword. The Judge tracked the figure as he took his seat.
“May it please the Court,” the clerk began, “case number four, Simpson versus Simpson, in your bundle, Your Honour.”
The Judge grunted acknowledgment, rubbed his wig and back and forth in irritation, and started reading through the messy bundle of papers before him. “Plaintiff?”
“Your Honour I am Sir Norman Birkett and I represent a Mrs Wallis Simpson, Your Honour,” the barrister for the ‘wounded party’ said; he was, despite all begging at Prime Ministerial level for the contrary, an expensive London barrister, a QC no less, whose presence here further increased the risk of scandal and revelation.
“I see, instructed by?”
“Mr Goddard,” the barrister pointed to his instructing solicitor, who half rose and inclined his head.
“Defendant?”
“Mr Ernest Simpson, Your Honour,” another barrister, this one a well-known ‘hack’ from the circuit, bobbed up and said quietly.
“Alright, what is this about then?” The Judge knew full well what ‘this was about’ and looked beyond mortified, as if he wanted to be anywhere other than the Southampton Assizes. With grim determination, he set about his duty.
“Your Honour, this is an application for the Court to grant a Decree Nisi in the matter of the marriage between the Plaintiff and Defendant,” Birkett began silkily.
"Based on what, Mr Birkett? Adultery?”
“Your Honour is percipient,” Birkett said with a tight little smile. “Indeed.”
“And is this admitted?” The Judge peered at Ernest Simpson’s counsel.
“It is, Your Honour,” he said from a half-risen position, tugging on his gown like a tradesman with his apron. He knew the Judge and how to handle him, which was common for the circuits. With this Judge, you never gave anything until it was asked for.
Birkett didn’t, however, and sought to further pressure the Judge into getting on with this matter; he could get a train at lunchtime and be back home for dinner. “I trust that this satisfies Your Honour’s interest?”
The Judge glared at Birkett, and then to the languid looking, crossword completing figure in the public gallery. In truth he was annoyed, bloody livid actually, with his orderly courtroom being used for a ‘country case’, a local divorce hearing originally brought in to avoid all witnesses and parties decamping from their homes to London thereby raising the expenses, particularly of the witnesses who could rarely afford it. This quiet, local justice had been seized upon by the Upper Classes as a way of avoiding London opprobrium; a quiet little hearing in a sleepy rural court was just the ticket, particularly if the local judiciary was venal (which he was not) and in or near a port, allowing for a discreet and swift getaway to the continent for a bit. The Judge was angry that his quiet courtroom in this earnest civic building was being used for the most scandalous of ‘country cases’. Time for a little fun.
“No, Mr Birkett, I would like the details and particulars, if you please.” The Judge could just, from the corner of his eye, see the languid figure sitting up, alert. Good.
“I’m obliged, Your Honour,” Birkett said weakly. “On the twenty sixth of last month, the defendant was staying in the Stag Hotel, Lyndhurst. It is understood, Your Honour, subject to representation by My Learned Friend,” he nodded at the other barrister, “that this was as part of a meeting of old Army acquaintances, a ‘reunion’, if you will.”
The Judge was writing notes; this was already written down in the pleadings of both sides, but he wanted Birkett to earn his dammed pay if he was going to parade this farce in this courtroom. “I see, go on, Mr Birkett.”
“I am grateful,” Birkett said, sounding anything but. “Mrs Simpson had made her own arrangements with her own friends, and decided, on a whim, to surprise her husband at the Stag Hotel. She arrived at the hotel, and observed Mr Simpson engaged in physical relations with another woman.”
“Ah, yes, thank you, Mr Birkett,” the Judge said, warming to the topic. He toyed with extracting the more salacious details, but noted the crossworder staring at him. “Er, Mr Shears,” he said to Mr Simpsons counsel, “anything from you at this stage? Don’t worry, you can make a submission momentarily.”
“I’m grateful to My Learned Friend for such a balanced opening, Your Honour.”
“In that instance, I have two questions.”
“If I can be of assistance…”
“…I am quite able, Mr Birkett, of thinking for myself,” the rebuke was beautifully delivered and the Judge relished wielding it so lightly. “Perhaps you could assist me with furnishing us with the identity of the third party?”
“The third party, Your Honour?”
“Yes Mr Birkett, forgive me if I am not clear, but who was the other woman?”
Birkett was dumbstruck and the Judge knew that his hunch was correct after all. It was common for the society divorce to be triggered by the act of one party, usually the husband, being caught with another (thus satisfying the grounds for infidelity). It was also a ‘cottage industry’ for local young woman to earn a small wage by agreeing to be caught in bed with the husband, of course no actual intimacy taking place. Birkett’s response, his failure to provide a name, indicated to the Judge that potential illegality was at play here, and this was indeed a ‘country case’. Gleefully, because he found Birkett and this entire case tawdry, the Judge pressed home the point. If he was going to be pressured by the Government not to appoint the King’s Proctor to investigate the veracity of the case, he wanted proof that Ernest Simpson was not in bed with some poor local girl that he had never properly met. “It’s a simple enough question, Mr Birkett,” the Judge said sweetly, “and I am sure, almost certain, that Mr Shears will be able to assist. Would you two like a moment?”
“I’m grateful,” Birkett said, his composure regained. “Five minutes?”
“Yes, Your Honour. Mr Shears?”
Shears now rose. “Yes, Your Honour,” he agreed, “and I agree with My Learned Friend that five minutes will suffice.”
“Let’s make it ten,” the Judge said, sportingly. As everyone rose to allow the Judge to retire for a cup of tea, he saw the languid figure hurry to confer with the lawyers. This was turning out to be a more enjoyable morning than he had feared it would be.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Not far away, near, ironically enough, the New Forest town of Lyndhurst, the figure of a female could be seen walking along an area of heathland, trailed by two other figures.
“Mrs Simpson,” Sir Warren Fisher greeted his prey with a touch of formality, “I am Sir Warren Fisher, Head of the Civil Service and Permanent Under Secretary at the Treasury.” If he thought she would be impressed he was wrong, but when one is the mistress of the Monarch one, Fisher accepted, would be hard pressed to be capable of being further impressed. “I thought while we wait for news from Southampton that we could have little wag of the chin.”
“What the hell do you mean,” she said tersely, and Fisher, who enjoyed the possibilities afforded by the English language, was mildly offended that the best that she could do was offer a blasphemy but allowed that was perhaps under pressure today.
“It means, my dear Mrs Simpson, that I would like to offer myself as a Sherpa, a guide, if you will, to how we could make the next few weeks more bearable for you.”
“Like getting rid of that deadbeat husband? Like calling off the American press?”
“Heavens no, my dear,” Fisher gushed, “I am a mere functionary, I keep the files tidy, I make sure that no one messes up the records.” He looked shrewdly at her. “I give ‘em the stick, when needed. I am also, however, well versed in our, shall we say, procedures.”
Wallis Simpson, if she was honest, was slightly terrified of this theatrical figure, who seemed almost a caricature from a bygone era. He talked in riddles and conveyed an unspoken threat of something that David had hitherto kept from her; an official disapproval, a judgment from a higher authority. “What procedures,” she said, seeking time, refuge, in a question.
“A good question,” Fisher cooed, “a very good question, a most timely, apposite and indeed relevant question,” he said soothingly.
She looked at him suspiciously as they walked together along the bleak, beautiful, wind-lashed heath. For all that this odd character was from another world to Wallis Simpson, she was, perhaps pathetically, nevertheless extremely glad of the company. Mountbatten, who had arranged her exile in Hampshire to coincide with his own Naval duties, had quickly tired of the tension building and the sniping that it had engendered.
She forced herself to be pleasant. “That wasn’t, Mr Fisher,” she offered a thin smile, “an answer.”
Fisher noted her effort to hide the retort amidst an effort to be equable; he sighed theatrically and nodded. “Let us just say that no one, none of us, wants to establish you as an enemy. Nor,” he continued without allowing for interruption, “will I allow us to not try and mitigate the damage to the Monarchy,” he said it in a rush, for he too was nervous (although he managed it far better than Mrs Simpson).
“You mean,” she said with a frown, “David, don’t you?”
“I do,” he said with a sight nod of encouragement. “Might I ask you something Mrs Simpson?”
“Yeah,” she said wearily, the nervousness still there.
“Who is your confidante? Who are you, confiding in? Is there some avuncular Englishman of whom you can avail yourself?” Despite the flowery prose, this was delivered with an unexpected intensity.
“Well, there’s,” she paused, struggling to think of a Briton, at least a male Briton, not supplied by David.
“A ha,” Fisher said gently. The point was made and so he rushed to provide an answer. “Mr Goddard.” He paused to allow her to talk, and carefully navigated around a small hole on the heath. He smiled as, in the distance, he saw two New Forest ponies trotting, having taken water from a nearby stream. “Pretty ponies,” he said simply.
“Yeah, Mr Goddard,” she said in swift agreement; ironically given the events playing out not that far away, she had forgotten her lawyer.
“And he has,” Fisher said, now at the culmination of this conversation, “advised that during this separation from Ernest, and before the completion of the divorce proceedings…”
“…that damned Absolute thing?” For all her nervousness and self-enforced politeness, she hadn’t completely lost her sting.
“Just so,” Fisher said smoothly, impervious to her ‘bite’. “Our enlightened Mr Goddard has, I understand, suggested but not recommended that you might like to visit Europe during this rather difficult time.”
Mrs Simpson didn’t say anything, she just squinted her hard face at this flowery Englishman. Somewhere, in the distance, the sound of a car spluttered across the forest.
Fisher paused. “Have you thought about this, Mrs Simpson?” He couldn’t resist the slight emphasis that he placed on ‘Mrs’. “Hmmmn? Is it pastry in Paris or mussels in Marseilles?” He chuckled at his own wit. Then another, delicious logical thought occurred. “Perhaps, my dear Mrs Simpson, you might want to return to the Americas for a time, hmmmn? Burgers in Baltimore?”
“America?” She said it as if it was a mythical land.
“I know, ‘tis a fanciful place; I’m sure, though, that you would be afforded a warm welcome. Why, heavens, you’d be feted!” He nodded with a very happy smile at Mrs Simpson.
“Not with the American newspapers,” she replied immediately, “David shows me the articles. It would be hell.”
Another thought occurred in the gloriously old-school mind of Sir Warren Fisher. He looked at Mrs Simpson with a new found appreciation. “You don’t want this, do you,” he said, not in question but in affirmation. “Yes, you don’t want the notoriety that comes with His Majesty,” Fisher emphasised the ‘His Majesty’ deliberately.
She looked at him, thoroughly unhappily. She thought, for at least thirty seconds, about whether or not to trust Fisher. And then she remembered all that David had said about the British old guard, and their ability to manipulate her every word. “I am not out,” she snapped, “to be a movie star.” She nodded, seemingly satisfied that she hadn’t compromised herself.
Fisher matched the nodding, and got to the point. “Is divorce, Mrs Simpson, and a marriage to His Majesty, really that necessary? The history of the Kings and Queens of England is replete, positively brimming, with powerful, respected mistresses. You would have secure position in society, we would all ensure that you are acknowledged, discreetly, in Court matters. It would give you His Majesty, without all of the nuisance of ceremony.”
“Publicly?”
Fisher squirmed. “Have you actually thought, Mrs Simpson, about what it entails? Standing there at balls and ceremonies, everyone queuing to kiss your hand, and the speeches, at every event? Purgatory, Mrs Simpson, pure purgatory.” He looked at her keenly, hoping that he was succeeding.
“I’d just be his whore,” she snapped. “I’d have no position! And what if he marries?”
“Ah, the thorny issue, the Calais of this situation, around which all else swirls.” He took a deep breath; he had no Cabinet authority to suggest this (although he knew that Chamberlain would support him) but resolved to plough on regardless. “Let us accept that His Majesty is now unlikely, highly unlikely, to take a wife. While it would be constitutionally convenient, nay desirable, for His Majesty to commence matrimony, it is not, well, essential. He has three brothers and a sister. He has two nieces. The line of succession is secure, regardless of the issue of any relations that he may lawfully engage upon.”
They walked for a few moments in silence, the gentle breeze rustling the trees. “It really is such a beautiful country,” he said whimsically. “We’re very lucky to have all of this.”
“So, my choices are to run to Europe while I’m divorcing Ernest, or tell David the marriage is off?”
Fisher thought, for a moment, about correcting the words but keeping the meaning, but with a sigh realised that it would be a waste. “That’s putting it quite effectively, actually.”
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
It was evening, early evening, when Wallis Simpson, overwhelmed with Fisher’s suffocating attention and the news from Court, finally had an early dinner and was smuggled into an anonymous boxy little car (a far cry, she thought sourly, from the grand vehicles that came with Edward’s courtship). As ever, her escort (or prison guard, she thought), was loitering.
“My Dear Wallis,” he said firmly, with his usual wry smile and slightly diffident air. He took one look at the aerodrome and sniffed in the manner of a down-at-heel duchess inspecting lodgings well beneath her. “This aircraft will take you to France, you’ll be met there by our friends.”
“Friends, Louis?” She took a perverse pride in not calling him 'Dickie'.
Commander the Lord Louis Mountbatten, known as ‘Dickie’ (despite Richard not being one of his many names), smiled thinly. “Lady Yule, Wallis. We’ve decided to stick you on her yacht, the Nahlin. That way it will harder for the newspapers to get hold of you.” He pulled the tight smile again. “Unless, that is, we want them to.” He looked around, and seeing a crowd of people in the near distance, he pulled the brim of his hat further down. With his winter overcoat and thick hat he was more suitably dressed for the colder months than this tranquil, mild summer’s evening. Wallis Simpson wondered if he had taken David’s order to be ‘incognito’ too far, or if he was perhaps enjoying the theatrics of this too much.
She was incredulous. “A boat?”
“It’s a luxury yacht, it’s got everything on board that you’ll need. Although,” he drawled, with his insufferable air of knowing more than everyone else, “we’ll need to get you some drink. Annie doesn’t like the strong stuff.”
“No liquor?”
Mountbatten sighed. “No liquor.” He turned his head and looked her at an awkward angle. He always seemed to view her via an angle, the head was always tilted, the mouth always half smirking. Wallis Simpson looked at this urbane flunky and wanted, at that moment, to slap his smug face. Perhaps it was the combination of Fisher earlier and Mountbatten now, but Wallis Simpson was quite looking forward to leaving England far behind.
“Let’s go,” she said unceremoniously. As Mountbatten adopted the air of the long-suffering courtier, Wallis Simpson climbed into an aircraft, and in minutes was gone.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
GAME NOTES
This was always going to be a bitty update, as all of the above elements need to be covered but each, on its own, probably doesn’t merit a full update. The ‘headlines’ are that Wallis leaves the UK after the Decree Nisi is lodged and approved and Fisher persuades her to go through with the plan to leave.
Fisher never, in our OTL, met with Simpson as described although it was certainly mooted at a number of points; the small cabal that OTL managed the crisis debated Fisher having a quiet chat in an attempt to get her to quietly leave the UK. When it was pointed out (probably by Baldwin) that as a plan it would be on a par with the Scott expedition or Gallipoli it was quietly dropped in favour of a Chamberlain approach to the King (and I’m not making this up, but it was believed that Chamberlain, alone, possessed the negotiating skills necessary to win the King over) which itself was overtaken by events. But I wanted to show how this most eccentric of English bureaucrats would have made his approach to Wallis. And it’s a farce…
The other farce, of course, is the initial hearing of Simpson v Simpson. I have deliberately made some changes; the setting has switched from Anglia to Hampshire, as I note that a lot of Wallis and David’s friends had country comes in or around the New Forest, and Portsmouth, where Mountbatten is based, is a short drive away. Having switched the scene of the ‘country case’ (this really was a thing, and ladies of varying repute earned a bit of cash by agreeing to be found with wealthy men in need of a discovery of adultery) I am able to pick and choose what I wanted to. I toyed with portraying the alleged adultery (as @El Pip recently pointed out to me, it was a farce) but found it incredibly tawdry, and have skipped through some of the initial hearing stuff in favour of a simple tale of a grumpy judge reluctantly allowing the Decree Nisi. The judge is fictional but based upon someone I know in my dealings, Shears is named after another lawyer who sadly has none of our local hack’s guile, and Birkett was more used to the calm, logical London appellate courts than this local, slightly ‘down and dirty’ tribunal where our resident judge presides over almost anything and everything that needs judicial attention.
Both the Fisher conversation and the Court Case being pitched as they do overlook a key participant in Wallis’ affairs, her solicitor (and his team), Theodore Goddard. Goddard frankly overplayed his importance and his influence with his client; the reason that Fisher didn’t meet with Mrs Simpson (or, even more deliciously, Chamberlain) was that Goddard persuaded all and sundry that she could be persuaded to leave, discreetly, between the Decree Nisi and the Decree Absolute (a good few months, assuming that the judge, or, and this is an intriguing prospect, an interested party, does not ask for an investigation into the validity of the claims). He failed dismally, and Simpson remained. In our OTL, the King and Government are oddly in agreement (remember, the Government hasn’t really outrightly declared that the King should abdicate yet, so wants as little scandal as possible) and so Fisher is wheeled in. She agrees, and a few hours later is off to Eastleigh aerodrome (not far from either the Court or the New Forest) for a short flight to France. The proposed stay is, of course, my ironic twist on the OTL Summer Cruise that the King took with Wallis instead of the interminable Royal summer in Balmoral. No offence to the Scots and their beautiful country, but a pleasure cruise, even on a teetotaller’s yacht, is preferably to imprisonment up there…
The Mountbatten cameo is just that, and noting that he is mentioned in the “things we’d like to see” comments, I will endeavour to write him in more. Cue heavy sighs from Le Jones…
I have a couple of issues with Mountbatten, although there are admirable traits. During the BLM protests in the UK, my only moment of “hang on a sec” was the proposal to tear down his statute, that led to the comedy moment of two Middle Class Englishmen arguing over whether statues (if there are any) of Jinnah and Nehru (and Attlee, and Wavell) should also be torn down. I think that in India he did the best that he could, albeit with an eye to a headline and taking Whitehall’s urging to get the job done quickly perhaps too literally. He was clearly overpromoted due to his impeccable connections and Royal pedigree, more of an indictment of the British preference for mediocrity with a title than excellence without, and was never the best ship handler in the Royal Navy. Dieppe, well, yes, he fluffed that, and his treatment of Slim was appalling. But he was the perfect figurehead, was a dedicated 1SL, and…ahem. Mad rant over.
So the list, so far, is Jimmy Maxton, Mountbatten, @TheButterflyComposer with his "Oo...so many british actors and directors and authors. Maybe have a roundup of 'hang on a minute, they're still alive?' From the old fuddies from the victorian empire, coming out of the woodwork now to wage one last great battle either for or against the crown," Sir Arthur Harris, Cunningham, Mountbatten, RV Jones, Lindemann (why?! Dear God why?!), Macmillan,
So yes, this is the one card that the King has, and is played with as good a chance as it was ever likely to have. As a throw of the dice it is a risky and, as has been said, rather final one - there is no going back without one of the sides yielding, but the hope from the King that public pressure would force MPs to look back at their constituencies before (as he would see it) bullying their Sovereign might have an effect.
I think you are missing that, assuming Baldwin does resign and Attlee agrees, there can be no British government. Eddie can appoint someone, maybe Lloyd George is vain and desperate enough (Churchill most assuredly isn't), but a vote of confidence will happen almost instantly, the Speaker will ensure it (at this point it is FitzRoy and he is as establishment as they come), and then that government will fall.
At that point the King essentially has to call a general election, to do otherwise is to try to rule without Parliament and overthrow democracy. Even if you think Eddie is mad enough to do that , no-one else will let him. Remember the Royal Doctor is probably still Dawson who absolutely puts the institution of monarchy and the good of the country about his notional patient's best interests, a quiet word in his ear and he will happily find Edward of 'unsound mind' and get George VI in as regent. And to muy mind Dawson would be right in his diagnosis in those circumstances; launching a coup against the entire nation, just so you can marry the deeply unpleasant Wallis Simpson is something only a madman would do.
As above Baldwin may be tired and desperate for retirement, but he was a very sharp political operator and he's not lost those skills. Eddie has under-estimated him and that will be the mistake that dooms him.
So yes and no to the above, a pretty detailed debate and one that I post largely untrimmed.
The Royal hope is that there is a softening of the Government's position, or that enough National Government (largely Tory, but others are hanging around) split and join the loose coalition forming. There is probably an innocence on Edwards part (but not his advisors, and certainly not on the Beaver's) that if only Baldwin and his gang could be shunted aside, or embarrassed, that all would be well. Without giving away the next few months of gameplay, both sides are digging in. That means some form of clash, and perhaps a resignation (but of whom...) is almost certain.
I am planning an update in which he will at least feature.
Alas this performance lacks the whimsy...
In my defence, I have since somewhat changed my mind.
Well it's always so good to hear from you!
Well.
My rant...
Is this. When I was doing my growing up, a certain element of the media and society latched on to Bletchley Park as the "thing wot won the war". I suspected then and believe it now, that this was because code breaking and clever use of well-heeled chaps and gals is easier to sell than a Lancaster (being careful of forum rules) not-precisely-precision-bombing 'industrial' targets or infantrymen doing awful things to one another. It infuriated me, and still does. It was a combination of factors 'wot won the war', and good intelligence was certainly a part of it. If I am candid (and why not, we're all on the Trust Tree here) if I take my hat off to anyone in 39-45 it's the incredibly brave / terrified boys who manned battered tanks / warships / aircraft, those that led them with courage and a humility to try and learn new ways of not killing one's command, and the people on the home front who dug coal, made planes etc. A bunch of academics working hard to crack codes - yup, you did your bit, but you were more than just a couple of the famous faces, and others had it far worse than you.
I think you're right, as discussed above. This is a rubicon moment for HM.
I don't know - if the rebels can get some big hitters to their cause they can do damage to Baldwin and the Government; it remains to be seen whether the victory will be pyrrhic or not. Society was changing in the 30s, it was cleaner, more suburban, less formal. But this is still the 30s, not the 50s, and Church attendance matters, as do patriotism and duty etc. I guess that this crisis will show the faultlines in British society.
- 2
