History, Politics And Current Affairs

A Phoenix Needs its Ashes - 1947
Prelude

HMS Clyde was too big to be playing silly buggers in the Irish Sea. Properly such work belonged to her smaller sisters the S’s, U’s, V’s and X’s, not a ruddy great River class submarine, yet here she was not a million miles for her launching slip at Barrow. If needs must as the Devil drives, those needs had sent Clyde into dangerous waters, for the Devil’s work called for a big submarine and she was the biggest the Royal Navy still had in European waters. With size came carrying capacity, and with the Clyde long legs. Underwater she could top 12 knots since her last refit had stripped off all the deck armament and streamlined the upper works, but on the surface she could really run. They didn’t like to push her aging engines much past 20 knots without good reason. However she’d done 22.25 knots trials and anything over 18 was enough to confuse the tactical picture sufficiently to give her a serious edge in survival – on the surface.

But the surface was no place any self-respecting submariner wanted to be, particularly not on a night like this so close inshore. It would have been suicide off the American coast and wasn’t too far from it off Yorkshire either. The air fairly quivered with the excited electrons of German Radar. The Royal Navy had the coastal stations well pegged for effective range and arcs, that night’s rendezvous had been selected principally to avoid known radar threats. But mobile set were far less predictable, and with the weather as it was radar waves could do all sorts of funny things. Yet this sword of Damocles had two edges and Jerry had rather too much faith in radar. Well the Germans who hunted submarines did, it seemed as if they never spoke to their own submariners, because those wily Huns knew all about radar detectors. Clyde’s periscopes fairly bristled with antenna. HF, VHF and the enemy various radar bands were all covered in addition to her own radar, which was presently on standby with the switch wired down under a lead seal.

Like the cartoon elephant painted on her conning tower, the Clyde had big ears and could fly, now all she needed was luck. Luck could come in many forms, thick fog or rain would have been nice, half a gale would have been useful to a point, for all it would complicate the meeting. Alas the weather wasn’t cooperating this night. A sudden cold snap over warm seas with no real wind, had produced a low mist over a flat sea. It effectively blinded the submarine while offering only scanty cover in return, and no protection at all from electronic eyes. Twice in the last hour Clyde had put a periscope up to sniff the airwaves and each time airborne radars had been detected in the offing. At least the ASDIC booth had a clear plot.

++++

“Faint HE bearing Red three five…single screw, low speed – probably... yes, diesel, could be an MFV sir.”

The Captain, Commander Phillips glanced at the bulkhead clock and nodded, this looked like their customer “Yes, rig to move cargo for’ard and tell the Buffer to standby the casing party. I shall be along shortly…”

“High speed HE Red three oh!“ cut in the hydrophone operator. “Two screws sir, probable R-boat...”

“Diving Stations - Eighty feet, group down, slow ahead both”

+++

An hour later HMS/S Clyde eased her way to the surface as discretely as could be managed. There had been two German Räumboote hiding in the fog, big motor launches the Nazi’s used for things like mine sweeping and hunting foolish submarines that strayed into coastal waters. But this night it seemed their prey was Resistance fishing boats, as they had not hung around for long, the buzzing propellers drifting away shortly after they had crashed into life. But the slower single engine had gone quiet with their appearance and not been heard since.

By every right and instinct the big sub should have been running for her life at frantic six knots. Aiming to clear the area as promptly as sensible battery management allowed, not nosing to the surface under a proverbial flaming datum, or what had been one. Smell lingered under the still mist, scents of charred wood, burnt paint, and spilled oil with a whiff of stale cordite greeted the bridge crew as they scrambled though the streaming conning tower hatch, but to them it smelled of death. The weight of silent opinion was undecided on exactly whose death, the unspoken fear of their own or that of the poor sods they were supposed to have met. But the Captain had been quite blunt when he had addressed the ship moments before, his orders were clear and the package they were to collect was worth more than their ship or half a dozen like it. The Admiralty would have sent a Battleship if they had thought it would have a better chance. So the least Clyde could do was have a quick look, and then they’d be running straight for Newfijohn, Canada, and a long refit.

There wasn’t much to see in the darkness, just the usual detritus of war at sea, a few smashed pieces of wood, some floating litter, two corpses, a half sunken oil drum and a slick of diesel. Clyde had started up tide and quartered down in shallow zig-zags with three wet cold and frightened lookouts on the casing to see under the mist, and another two more, even colder and almost as wet clinging to the raised periscopes trying to peer over the top of it. The dead had been brought aboard, searched and laid out for the sea to reclaim again when Clyde dived, but they had held no great secrets, fisherman from Kirkcudbright. As faint as hope was, the job would be done, and it pretty much was done when they caught up with a riddled life ring. It was the most buoyant article seen yet, but the Skipper ordered still one more sweep to be sure.

+++

“Is he awake?” whispered Phillips.

“Not as yet sir, and if you’ll pardon me for being so bold, the mite is best left to sleep, half dead and all as he is.” replied the wardroom steward cum nurse softly.

“I can’t help that Jones, the longer he sleeps the longer we must hang about.”

“And well if you put it like that sir, perhaps he may turn for the better with a small drop of something restorative...?”

“Gin – no break out the sherry then, I say, what is that lump?”

“Lump sir? Oh under the blankets, you will find that is a toy drum sir, I could not pry his fingers from it sir, so wet and cold as it is, I thought best let him keep it.”

The two men stood looking down at the sleeping, shivering face of a boy not more than 6 or 7 years old, flaked out on the wardroom settee under a mountain of blankets and hot water bottles.

“Sherry sir?”

“Thank you Jones...” said the captain taking the small glass “...that will be all.”

“I shall just be outside sir” replied the steward slipping though the curtain, as his skipper knelt by the bed

“Lad? Lad? Wakey – Wakey, it’s alright.... come on my dear” a gnarled thumb, nails bitten to the quick and stained yellow with nicotine, stroked the boy’s pasty white forehead as fingers gentled damp tow like hair. “Come on old thing, wake up, there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s alright you are quite safe now.”

Moving his hand down under the blankets, the Phillips felt little but skin and bone, he wondered if he should order some bacon fried to see if the smell might rouse the boy. “Rise and shine my lucky lad” he tried again, giving the shoulder a gentle shake “You’ll miss breakfast!” No, the boy seemed out for the count, “poor little blighter.”

Reluctantly the Captain gently placed his hand across the boy’s face, clamping jaws shut and pinching nose between thumb and forefinger. He held the pressure as the small child started struggling for breath, releasing it only as the boy’s eyelids started to flutter awake. “Easy lad, easy now, it’s alright - no” he placed a finger softly over the child’s gasping lips, “take a moment there, no need to speak. Here have a little sip of this.” But eyes wide with fear the boy jerked free and rolled away, cowering into a ball.

“Hay now – it’s alright, it’s alright, you’re safe now. Come one, come back here. Are you hungry? Never let it be said the Royal Navy starved it guests – Jones!”

Frightened eyes peered back over a quaking shoulder, and there might have been a croak of question as the steward came in with a rattle of curtain rings “Sir?”

“Shut up man” hissed the skipper “What was that lad, I didn’t hear? Have you got a name old boy? My friends call me Jumbo, that is Taff over there by the door, and he will fetch you something hot to eat, that would be nice wouldn’t it? How about a cup of cocoa or does a big fellow like you drink tea? I think I shall have cocoa – Kai for two Jones. How many sugars in yours?”

“Wot sugar?”

“Oh my dear old thing, you do have a voice! Now tell me what is your name and how old are you?”

“’enry” the boy coughed “Henry, sorry sir, Henry Blofeld, an’ I’m nine sir, well nearly.”

“Nearly nine indeed, and we all thought you were at least twelve” lied Phillips cheerfully “and I’m please to make your acquaintance Henry” offering his hand.

But the boy kept both his hands clutched under the blankets, and Phillips moved without remarking the rudeness. “I must ask you some questions Henry... the boat you were on, do you remember a man called Belvidere?”

The boy visibly stiffened and in a tentative voice asked “Don’t you mean Bors sir?”

Phillips sat back so hard he ended up on his backside before gathering what few of his wits remained with a shake of his head. “Ahh no, perhaps I was mistaken, it might have been Tristan” he completed the countersign.

Young Henry sat up and eased the mass he had clutched to his chest out from under the blankets. Phillips could see it was the remains of a ruined kapok lifejacket wrapped around big battered old toy drum. The boy had been found clinging to an upturned dinghy supported mostly by this bundle tied around his chest and now he offered it to Phillips, asking solemnly “You mustn’t let the Australians have this promise?”


A Phoenix needs its ashes

“Well here it is at last.”

The squat canister looked quite out of place on the conference table at Rideau Hall. Its dull silver sheen and shabby label reflected in the French polished surface.

“It is in need Your Majesty, and about time too” grumbled Sir Winston Churchill.

“Now, now Winston, we are rather lucky to have it at all, we might stare at it until tea time too, but I suggest we have it out – gentleman?”

William Lyon Mackenzie King, the third man in the room, grunted noncommittally but said nothing, Churchill’s scowl deepened in disapproval. “I see no urgency Your Majesty, none at all. A little more time would cost us nothing, and we might have the opportunity to turn this moment delayed to our advantage.”

“Action this day Winston, we agreed last night did we not? If our information is correct then it would hardly do to publicly reveal the contents in their entirety, for all you do like a show. Mister Mackenzie King, the vote is tied, would you care to cast your lot in either direction?”

“Frankly no sir, this is quite clearly a Home matter, not a Dominion one, so it is hardly my place to interfere. I am present at Your Majesties’ kind invitation, but my role is that of an observer.”

“Come now William, ‘Not a Dominion matter!’” Churchill gushed charm like a burst steam pipe “Rubbish man, Canada has as much at stake here as any one, you might hardly say…”

“Oh but I can Winston, and I do. You are right, Canada has as much tied up in that tin can as any other, and I maintain our interest in the greater sense. But the details are for the custodians, not the host. I have kept out of this business, as far as has been possible, until now, and I don’t propose to change a sound policy at this juncture. Your Majesty, Canada abstains but offers its support to the crown.”

“How very courageous of you Prime Minister. So there were are” Albert Frederick Arthur George Windsor looked across at his Prime Minister and smiled.

“I say we wait sire. It may be opened privately by all means, anything awkward removed and the container resealed for a more public moment which we can organise to take the greatest benefit from such a windfall. Anything else…”

“Winston, we have been lying about this for five years. I supported you when you first lied, just as you supported me and I have done so to this day, to this second and to the end of time – in public. Providence has returned to us that which was lost, so let us cease the lie at least in private. It will be opened and it will be done now.”

“Very well then sire, I shall have the engineers called in to deal with…”

“No” the king stood and paced towards the window, resting his hand on a small side table “Now.”

“How…”

When his royal master produced a 12” file from the side table’s ornamental draw, Churchill knew he’d been bested. “You have the advantage of me sire.”

“Of course, we agreed last night. Now this is apparently a ‘double cross bastard’ file. Most appropriately named, and according to the groundsman I spoke with, it should do just the trick.”

The file was certainly effective, but the same couldn’t be said for two Prime Ministers and a reining Monarch who couldn’t work out which hand to use. When French polish and the potentially delicate contents of the container were taken into consideration the result was equally frustrating to all three. Eventually, the King carried the can over to the wall, wedged it against the skirting board with his foot and knelt stiffly to file at the lid. It took the better part of twenty minutes and ruined a perfectly good handkerchief not to mention a patch of plaster, but George Rex in his shirt sleeves removed the rim all the way around and carried the canister back to the table in triumph, flexing some very sore and grubby fingers.

It took a little longer still to pry the lid lose, and a much beloved penknife snapped in the process, however three heads variously bald, balding and Brill Creamed were soon peering down at their prize. Claiming family business the king plucked the lid aside to reveal three dried leaves one each of Oak, Ash and Thorn, atop a layer of small tightly packed red cloth bags.

“Hrumph, someone has been reading too much Kipling I believe” observed Churchill sourly.

“Oh damn it I said I’d buy you a new cigar-cutter, there’s no need to carry on like you lost a child” snapped Mackenzie King.

“That knife cost me a rather fine watch in Pretoria and it has served me faithfully ever since, I have lost a child rot you…”

Scratching his regal nose George VI commanded mildly “I say, would the two of you please show a little respect, if only for yourselves?” Placing the leaves to one side, the monarch lifted a red pouch from the middle of mass and emptied it into his palm with a sigh of pure pleasure. Sliding a lumpish spinel the size of a small egg onto the table he muttered ‘oldest first I see.’

“So it is real then” asked Mackenzie King breathing softly.

“Indeed” Churchill’s wrinkled baby face broke into a grin “The Black Prince’s Ruby, d’you see the small stone set into the hole there, quite unmistakable. I75 carets I believe…”

“170 and mortgaged with the Bank of New York…” corrected the King and placing a sliver of glittering starlight on the polished mahogany next to the ruby added “…along with the Koh-I-Noor here and all the Cullinans of course.”

“Yes your Majesty” agreed the Canadian PM soberly “but the Crown Jewels are HERE, we – you have them at last. The only thing I don’t understand is that red stuff, it looks like someone made those bags from an old Hudson Bay blanket.”

“It is broadcloth” chuckled Churchill. “Your Mounties wear red, and this is the original article. Some guardsman has cut up his tunic d’you see…”

“No, not a guardsman, a Yeoman” stated the George VI flatly, pulling what looked like a witchdoctors fetish from the container he threw it on the table, stood up and walked away to gaze out over the lawns.

Churchill flattened out a rosette of red and dark blue wrapped around three black feathers. “Beefeaters” he murmured to Mackenzie King. “You Majesty” he called softly “if we are to do this sire, then let us finish it and be done.”

Grudgingly the king retuned to his seat and removed the rest of the top layer from the canister. Churchill fell into the task of taking each pouch, peeking at its contents and arranging them in rows by type; monumental diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds mounded up in neat lines. The second row of pouches presented more of an obstacle and it was with some effort the King extracted the central bag. Almost reluctantly he opened the pouch himself and this time his sigh was bitter sweet with emotion. To Churchill and Mackenzie King it was as if Polaris itself had come down to rest on the table, and the Great Star of Africa took even Winston’s breath away in a slow wheeze.

“Good god! It’s huge…” whispered William.

“You should see it in the Sceptre man, mesmerising, utterly mesmerising” said the gentleman best placed to know. “One sits there holding it and trying to pay attention, but the eyes just drift into… Damn it! We have the Crown gems, pretty baubles –“

“And a much better than nothing sir.” Mackenzie King coughed, “The finer points may be lacking sir, but that there is a nation’s ransom in a twenty pound can and the lord knows we need to shore up our credit.”

As the second layer was removed it uncovered a circle of green baize on the bottom of an upside down statuette base. The bags were far larger too and between their tightly packed bulk and the item attached to the base, the remaining gems seemed locked in.

“It looks like we could snag that end and pull…” suggested William.

“I rather think we have come about this the wrong way around” His Royal Highness scratched his nose again. “Perhaps we should have opened it at the other end… Any ideas Winston, perhaps we might call in those Sappers of yours?”

“No Your Majesty, we have gnawed our way into the belly of the beast, now all that remains is to decapitate it. Once we have breeched both ends we may push from one end and pull from the other.”

“That sounds workable to me” agreed Mackenzie King.

“Yes… but you are not the one doing the filing” remarked the Emperor of India with a tired smile. “However I must agree, it appears too tightly packed to extract any one part, so best we deal with it all together. Oh and Mister Mackenzie King, might I beg your handkerchief?”

His Britannic Majesty had both sleeves rolled up to the elbows and braces slipped off to dangle about his knees by the time the other end was ready. Refusing to be rushed he carefully dressed off the burrs with his file, and testing the edges with a dirty thumb he demanded Churchill’s handkerchief to wipe the surfaces clean before being satisfied. Lying padded with the royal jacket, this time the broken stub of Churchill’s pen knife had the end off the can with a twist of the royal wrist, and relieved of constraints a pouch fell out to skittered its contents out across the table. “Elizabeth’s Pearls I expect”

Winston only grunted, and that was an effort for a man of his age and girth when scrabbling about on his hands and knees after stray pearls that had seen the Spanish Armada come and go. True to his word, the King thrust his fist into the open base and gently pressed the remaining mass slowly out onto the table, as Churchill, red faced and puffing, resumed his seat and the role of sorter.

“Someone has done my work for me” grumbled Winston and true enough the larger bags were all filled with twists of paper each neatly labelled with aggregate weight and the location those minor stones had been taken from. Churchill opened each little packet in turn, as if to verify with his own eyes they actually held anything of worth, then slid them across to Mackenzie King who grouped them by crown, sceptre, orb and sword. The Canadian PM had taken out his pocket book and started a running tally.

As the pile whittled away under this political attention the King turned to the last object. When he’d first seen the mysterious item under its wrapping of paper and cotton wool, a burst of hope had suggested this might be the Ampulla, but it was the wrong shape, cylindrical and lacking wings, in any case the Ampulla had never been mounted on a wooden base. Standing it upright George VI snipped a knot of string and unwound the outer jacket of writing paper. It was a letter, and by the time he’d finished reading the short note, the king was back on his feet and heading for the sideboard and a decanter.

Churchill reached over and sized the letter, scanning it rapidly before offering it silently to his Canadian counterpart.

O.H.M.S

Yeoman Warder and Ravenmaster Clarke MM (ex-TE9706-3447) as the last remaining guardian of the Tower in the earnest hope this finds His Majesty both safe and well, begs leave to report and discharge his office.

Your Palace of the Tower remains in good condition although sadly returned to its previous use and at present occupied by a German Garrison. The Ravens were evicted in the autumn of 1942 at the same time as your humble servants, and I grieve to report we lost Freddie, Black Jim and Whistler before their wings grew out, but as of the last week in January 1947 the flock is prime and remains, though wild, in the vicinity of the Tower and seems to prosper.

The Jewels which have rested these five years past in my care, I return to His Majesty less the deduction of two small diamonds and an emerald needed for His Majesties service to convey said stones to your hands. The regalia remains safe in a place I leave it to others to reveal in cipher. However the Keys were taken in the absence of the Guard Detachment during the evening procession and remain in traitorous hands. On behalf of my comrades and myself I beg forgiveness and mercy for this lapse, casualties sustained as per margin.

In the hope of His Majesties speedy return,

I remain

Your loyal, humble and obedient servant

J. C. Clarke

God Save the King

Casualties incurred in action on the night of 18/19th of October 1942
Atwood G. Yeoman DOW
Brown F.A Yeoman DIA
Brown T.M Yeoman WIA
Bates P. A Chief Warder DIA
Clarke J. Yeoman RvM WIA…

“Not a man of them would have been under sixty” growled Churchill in fury.

“How…”

“How what?” snapped the King, returning with a stiff drink and cutting the Canadian PM off sharply. “How were pensioners expected to defend themselves? They were not sir, magnificent bloody pride is all. In near five years I can’t say the Yeoman have crossed my mind once, not specifically. Oh, Elizabeth and I have wondered about their welfare along with all of our other extended staff and servants, certainly, and say what you may Winston, Edward did a fine thing in keeping up the Royal List. I know he was intending to cement his own legitimacy, just as I know you still cannot see past the politics of it all. But he has given MY people and their dependants in Britain something to live on and that is a damn sight more than I have managed!”

The king paused to light a cigarette and with the smoking lamp officially lit Churchill reached for a cigar too, only to come up short and glare at the end before biting it off. “I am a political animal your Majesty, a leopard don’t change his spots and Edward Halifax is still an evil, despicable, bastard, and I shall have his head in time too, you see if I don’t.”

“But don’t you see Winston - yes he is a traitor of course he is, I was the one locked up in me own damn house after you lit out for Canada. His wider actions are unsupportable by any standards, yet for all that I must believe on evidence his heart is in the right place, he does the right thing, the proper thing, at every opportunity. Wrong yes, misguided yes and a traitor doubly yes, but an evil man – I think not.”

“If you’ll pardon me sir, all I can see is Halifax paying you, indirectly, to fight him, and that makes him the biggest fool this side of Canberra.” Mackenzie King said calmly.

“Well add stupidity to his list of sins then, Winston desires his head and I know well enough not to get between a leopard and his prey. But he is not in my position, neither are you William; my care, my charge are those people and so far as I can tell Edward is doing his best to see to their welfare.”

“And sending black shirted commandos to slaughter pensioners” suggested Churchill grimly. “Do you forgive him for that sah?”

“Damn me, damn you – damn the both of us, NO. You want his head; I want his eyes man, and his family jewels to stuff down his rotten neck! But that doesn’t blind me to the facts. You are the one who likes to break eggs to make omelettes Winston, we might not have made THAT choice, thank god, but we have made our share and worse over the last years, or have you forgotten the Washington Agenda - no? So I will thank you not to bandy words with me on that score.”

“I was actually wondering how this Yeoman Clarke came to be holding the baby in the first place?” Mackenzie King’s inquiry was polite and gentle but his tone firm in an effort to shift things to less stormy seas. “It seems more than passing odd that the Crown Jewels of all things were not secured….”

“They were William,” sighed Churchill. “they were. We had them evacuated to a nice little bath stone quarry safe and sound just before Dynamo started, with a platoon of Royal Marines to keep an eye on things and a half a dozen of Yeomen for tradition’s sake. I sent word to move them, along with the Royal Family as soon as Butler’s office leaked word of the coup. If I had my spies, Rab had his and they seem to have been rather better at their work. His Majesty never received my warning and I’d not thought the guard party had either until SOE informed us the goods had resurfaced. When Edward claimed to be holding the regalia I had no reason to doubt him, but then he never put them on show and that struck me as most odd. My only suspicion was that some latter day Colonel Blood might have done a runner…”

The king nodded in agreement “They thought I had them, or knowledge of where they might be, and heaven knows I tried to find out for my own ends. All the Admiralty would tell me, and I was certain they should know, is that their Marines had vanished. When I pressed Dudley-Pound he suggested they were safe and naturally he couldn’t admit knowing any more, certainly not through the intermediaries we had to use and I don’t believe he knew for certain either. But then nobody else would speak to me on the matter, didn’t trust me I suppose.” The bitterness in those last few words was palpable.

“Yes well” Churchill broke into cover the awkwardness “we still can’t pin down exactly what happened, need to ask Yeoman Clarke in person I rather think, but the best our brains can suggest is that the guards received some warning and the Yeoman took control.”

“You’re saying a group of these old men overpowered a platoon of Marines and ran off with half a ton of jewellery?” Mackenzie King sounded more than a little dubious.

“Well, not exactly” Churchill’s face crumpled into an evil grin about his cigar. “You do understand these fellows are all retired Sargent Majors what? A minimum of twenty-two years distinguished service I believe is the qualification, authority personified old boy, down right scary if you ask me. Put six of them together with a bee under their collective bonnet and thirty Jollies with some young pup of a subaltern would be nought but putty in their hands.”

“But if the Yeomen then, and the Navy had some idea, why didn’t they bring them out in 42? If anything of this doesn’t make a lick of sense, why did they hold on to them when they could have escaped?”

“Ah and there is a question I can not answer Willy my dear chap, your Majesty?”

George Rex snorted in a rather un-regal fashion. “Have you no idea how chaotic events were William? Personally I had four hours notice that something might happen and twenty minutes to move. Frankly, if they had managed to warn whomever was holding the Jewels, and they in turn managed to convey them to the Clyde in time to join us, it would have been a ruddy miracle. You must understand sir, the majority of the preparations had been done very quietly under routine orders, and I must believe of the two priorities the foremost was to prevent the regalia from falling into the wrong hands rather than evacuating them to safety. If their concealment was sufficient to withstand Rab’s sniffing about for almost two years, it must have been sound, the proof being here before us one supposes. So perhaps they had no time, no notice or just believed it too hazardous for them to be moved, I certainly can’t say.”

“No, but you did claim to have them all the same your Majesty.” The Canadian PM sniffed a little in retrospective displeasure, he had only found out about the deception after the Royal Party had landed on Canadian soil.

“Why of course I did!” exclaimed the king. “Good grief man we wanted to get out of there, we had to, and there was one and all in a great tizzy about the regalia. Of course nobody knew anything themselves, and they were all asking me, as if I had any idea. So rather than adding to the problem I merely suggested such things had been taken care of, once, to a single officer- piff the word spread and we were on our way. At the time I had some hopes that anyone crafty enough to organise such an enterprise as our escape would have taken such things in their stride, but as soon as I realised that was not the case – well we could hardly turn back.”

“Then I took up the deception of course” Churchill knocked a good inch of ash from his cigar and shrugged. “If they were not in our hands, and by then I some idea Halifax did not control them either, a point his Majesty confirmed on arrival, well the course was obvious, the Princess Royal was kind enough to donate her personal jewellery,” he nodded consolation at the Kings wince “no small hoard in itself, as a ‘sample’ and then William, you were so good as to swear black and blue you had seen the whole collection with your own eyes… and we pawned them in absentia, well mortgaged, the cloak of security does come in handy form time to time.”

“Eh” Mackenzie King shook his head “I still think old Roosevelt put those bankers up to it, I simply can not imagine New York money men not wanting to appraise their collateral like that.”

Churchill nodded “I tend to agree William, but I don’t see it making any great difference. We secured the funds, shored up royal credibility and eroded that of those bounders in London, the bankers gained a lien on 100% of the Crown Jewels for less than 50% of their value and everyone was happy. Now we might actually show them the goods, it may well be possible to extend our credit to the full value, lord knows we could use the funds.”

To the surprise of both politicians the King laughed. “Why I never though of it… ha! Winston why did my father have the Imperial Crown of India made?”

“For his Indian tour in ’11 sire, the Delhi Durbar.”

“No man, it was because the regalia can not be taken overseas under law, specifically, if I remember rightly, to prevent it being pawned! Yet here we are with the gems, but not the regalia itself, d’you see Winny, d’you see? Whoever held these for me couldn’t have sent them off to for us to carry over here, not if they were to stay within the letter of a law and it was all still intact. The gems count separately from their mountings, before my grandmother’s time, as often as not they were hired in for special occasions or they used paste in the settings. The law holds the Crowns and regalia in Britain, where it still is, yet the greater monetary value is in the stones, which we have here. Unseating this lot would take a jeweller weeks, months perhaps, not something to be done lightly or in a hurry.”

“Well that is as may be sire, but the letter of the law is apt to be-“

“Upheld” interrupted Mackenzie King “or upheld by the sort of men who would still be locking the Tower gates every night in 1942, and offering a fight for the privilege, wouldn’t you say Win?”

Churchill nodded, conceding the point “Perhaps so, it is no less likely than any other alternative. However, that…” he pointed his cigar at the still mysterious object standing on the table “remains to be explored.”

“Why so it does” the King resumed his seat and pushed aside the detritus of the last quarter hour, empty jewel pouches, the can, its ends and his jacket, to clear some working room. “Now, any wagers on what this thing is – anyone?”

“Well I must say that ribbon looks familiar” grunted Churchill “ but otherwise no sire, you William?”

“No, not a clue.”

Having been ignored since its outer wrapper had been read, the inner packing now received the full Imperial glare and ministerial scrutiny, not that there was much to see. A cylinder eight inches high and perhaps three and a half in diameter, it looked like a roll of paper tied with ribbon, cotton wool sticking out one end and the other filled with a wooden plug of which only a raised rim around the very base could be seen. A royal chuckle proceeded a jibing question “Come now Winston, don’t you recognise blood and vomit when you see it?” Pulling out the bow, George VI handed the wisp of striped silk ribbon across to Churchill “You’re not a member though are you?”

“Well don’t leave a poor colonial guessing here, blood and vomit?”

“The ruddy MCC” swore Churchill “Cricket William, cricket, the Marylebone Cricket Club whose gentlemen members sport this garish heraldry in red and yellow. The lighter tone runs from buff to the more bilious shades according to taste, but the red is always this dull brickie hue and fine match it is for their ill-favoured complexions.”

“Thank you Winston I do know who the MCC are, I had just not made the connection in this context. As a matter of fact I used to bowl a little spin myself in younger days and I’ve been a guest at Lords on occasion.”

“And you a Harvard man, well you had best take custody of this thing then.” Churchill extended the ribbon to Mackenzie King between thumb and forefinger and dropped it into the Canadian’s palm like it was infected with plague.

“Temper, temper Winston” smiled the king gently unwrapping the parcel. “You’re in danger of assuming the purple yourself old boy. Now what have we here, I have half a mind…” stripping off the swaddling of cotton wool revealed a small terracotta urn mounted on a wooden base and decorated with a label cut from a newspaper.

Churchill exploded to his feet in a hail of expletives as George VI was forced to suppress a giggle by lighting another cigarette.

“Is that what I think it is” the Canadian PM asked of his monarch under Churchill’s continuing barrage of invective aimed at sentimental buffoons, cricket and Colonel Blimps in general.

The king nodded solemnly “Oh yes, lord knows what I’m expected to do with them, but the MCC have sent me The Ashes wrapped up and padded in the Crown Jewels of the Realm.”

“The effrontery of it” steamed Churchill stomping back to this seat, “I cannot conceive what the fools thought they were doing...”

“Well here, read their covering letter then” his Majesty extended the paper to his Prime Minister “ and I shall fetch us all a drink.”

Somewhat mollified by being given something to do, yet equally uncomfortable being served by his king, Churchill shuffled though the MCC’s crested notepaper until George Rex returned with a snifter of brandy in one hand and in the other two glasses and a decanter. “I know you prefer Rye William, but this is the last of the Glenmorangie and so the last drop of single malt in the house.”

Churchill took his brandy with thanks and waited until the each man had a drink in hand. “This sheet is coded, so we must pass it though SOE for the details, but I expect it covers the present whereabouts of the Crowns and like, buried under a yew tree in a churchyard if I am any judge of character. Now this second one is most peculiar, it appears to be a form of last will and testament, leaving the assets, goods, chattels and so forth of the MCC in trust to their Patron of Record. I believe that is you sire is it not?”

The King nodded in conformation “I have that privilege, but is there any explanation as to why?”

“I expect it to be covered in this last page here, but I’ve not looked as yet” replied Churchill.

“Then proceed Winston, proceed.”

Churchill adjusted the reading glasses on his nose, cleared his throat and flattened the page out on the table. “The form is regular and formal, looks like they have copied the example out of Debretts. Ahem. To His Majesty King George the Sixth of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Emperor of India etcetera etcetera, from the Secretary of the Marylebone Cricket Club St’Johns Wood London NW8…” by the time he’d finished the address Churchill’s voice had dropped into that that well rounded timbre that broadcast so well.

“Be it please your Majesty as our Sovereign and Patron, to accept as a token of your loyal subject’s regard, a turf of the native heath from which he has been so long absent, cut from the members end of our pitch with the silver trowel gifted unto us by Her Majesty Victoria Regina. In the hope that such a paltry offering may provide a comfort and reminder to His Majesty of kinder times and a promise of the future.

In the expectation His patronal duties may have recently expanded pursuant to the Marylebone Cricket Club, said turf is enclosed in the Darnley Urn, the preservation of which has been in our charge and now falls due to His Majesty… oh what utter rot!” spat Churchill, “A bricklayers clerk could have done better, pompous verbosity in the service of sentimental Tom foolery!” his voice twittered in derision “Please sir, could you lift our chestnuts out of the fire, here’s clod of earth you might like in a pretty pot, but don’t become too attached to it as you’ll have to give it back. Pah.”

Mackenzie King had taken the ‘will’ and been scanning it, turning to the Secretary’s letter he rapidly read that too and looked up grimly. “How many beans make five Winston?” He taped the coded message with a ridged fore finger, “a bean,” the other two documents “ half a bean,” the finger flicked towards the Ashes “ a bean and a half, and two beans” as his had swept across the neatly arranged gems. “On the evidence…”

“On the evidence…” repeated Churchill nodding slowly, “you are suggesting the MCC have been holding our nuts out of the flames Willy? They have been hiding the Crown all this time?”

“Well they certainly had something to do with moving the stones, wouldn’t you say? A secret has to be held damn tight to last five years, no one would have been playing hot potato here, and that suggests those who packed them in this can were holding them the whole time.”

“Blast!” Churchill chuckled “Now we shall never hear the last of this, the MCC, the RMCC now I suppose?” he glanced over at the king with a smile. But the King wasn’t smiling; he was actually staring at his tumbler of whiskey with something that approached loathing. “Your Majesty?”

“They are dead Winston.”

“Who are dead sir?”

“The committee of the MCC. They knew they were going to die, and now they are dead.” The man who never wanted to be King threw his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Colonel Hawker told me that this operation cost the Resistance two cells, one in Yorkshire and one in London. Which most probably means Yeoman Clarke is dead too. You may need another to tell you the tale of the ‘Warders, the Jolly’s and the Gems.’ We needed some money, so they put their affairs in order and bled, that we might sit here and drink matured Scottish swamp water… “

“Sire…” Churchill coughed and tried again. “That is the nature of war sir. More men have died in a single second for less result on the fields of France, Egypt, Russia… all just as bound to the courage of their convictions. After so long at…”

“Winston please... I am well aware of realities we face, really I am, but it is quite one thing to read the numbers and a different matter altogether when the dead address personal notes to you. You think me a maudlin I know, but if you are a political animal, I am a sentimental one, your profession carries its cross as does mine.” The king stubbed out his cigarette and lit a new one.

“With due respect Your Majesty, sentiment is not something either one of us may afford at this juncture. The Centurion said cometh and they came, we said goeth and they are gone. We the government have our duty, there will be time aft…”

“Winston, my dear Winston. As King I accepted three responsibilities, the first and greatest was to hold powers thought too dangerous to entrust in politicians, and at that I have failed – please I have. I was the only person who could have stopped Edward, it was my responsibility to stop Edward Halifax and I did not. The one time in our modern era the Crown was called on to act in primus I quibbled - I could not bring myself to break with tradition and speak up. My second…”

“Sire, I can not and will not argue with you on that matter, I still say better you than your brother, and we have agreed, I trust, that the constitution must be addressed as soon as we have the peace to do so. As for…”

“Hear, hear.” Mackenzie King growled. “The British constitution is not my affair nor any of Canada’s business, so long as you leave the Privy Council and Lords be so far as they cover the Dominions, but I thank god almighty we have George the Sixth not Edward the Eighth…”

“And I say you are both far too hard on David, but you miss my point gentleman” the king sighed. “You miss my point entirely. Of my three roles, the first I have failed and so lost, taking the second with it. One can hardly style ones self as ‘Defender of the Faith’ since poor old Cosmo Lang’s passing…”

“Bugger Lang” cursed Churchill softly.

George Rex ignored his PM’s comment and ploughed straight on “The one role I retain as King is the Symbolic. Symbolism and ceremony Winston, the life and soul of sentiment, with the royal ‘we’ as the embodiment of it all. I am a figurehead and for that to be anymore than a sham I cannot afford to become so clinically detached. You must, your duty demands choosing the eggs to crack for breakfast, mine is to feel for the eggs and wince for the chickens. It is the duality of our partnership Winston, as it is mine with yours William and with my other Prime Ministers.”

“True enough sir,” agreed the Canadian PM “but we have had this discussion many a time, I doubt old Iron-Skull over there is any more likely to take Your Majesty’s point.”

Churchill grunted around his Havana “And you are a dusky pot to be calling me black William. Yes Your Majesty, I do take your point, I just do not accept it. The Crown may abdicate or die but failing either of those, your duties today are just as they were and always have been. The care of the Realm is all encompassing, as it shall always be. That some matters might have been conducted differently in hindsight is neither here nor there sire.”

“Always is a very long time Winston, and the role of the Crown will be as it may.” George Rex picked up Churchill’s broken penknife and turned it between his fingers. ”Rodgers of Sheffield” he looked up “However priorities change sir, I cannot wield my political power to any greater effect in our cause, for the Commonwealth we have returned to our traditional aspect and there is little to be done at home for the moment. With our spiritual duties in abeyance, we must concentrate on what remains, the wider welfare of our subjects – and it strikes me that I’ve not been doing a very good job of that either. Egypt was never really ours, South Africa has never sat comfortably with the Crown and India will find its own destiny. But if I have failed the British people, I have also failed our subjects in Hong Kong and Gibraltar, and I would that the list ends there for any want on my part.”

“Your Majesty.” Mackenzie King’s tone was firm almost to the point of being harsh. “Hong Kong was never defensible and doomed from the minute France collapsed, as appeasement it galled, but it bought us all time. As for Gibraltar… sir we could have held it and Franco might have kissed the moon than take it without German help…”

“Yet with German assistance Gibraltar presented an open invitation to battle on such unfavourable terms as to be suicide” rumbled Churchill. “Forcing Black Edward to cede Spain the Rock was the wiliest bit of cunning I believe Herr Hitler has ever displayed, though it came to nought in the end.”

“And if I had stood up to Edward Halifax, would either of those things have happened? William, you made me an offer five years ago of Canada’s last penny, I shan’t need that much but I will require a cruiser for half a year – no too slow. Winston, will the RAF loan ‘us’ a B-29? A figurehead needs to be seen or the magic don’t work and I have been in Canada too long. If the American’s calendar allows us the time, and they seem in no hurry, I would make a tour, just the greater Dominions if that is all that can be done.”

Mackenzie King nodded thoughtfully. “The RCAF certainly will sir, why we’ll make it a personal gift and paint it in your livery for good measure.”

“If you supply the paint William, we shall provide the aircraft, although a little help with the fuel account might not go astray.” Churchill ground out his cigar and drained his brandy.

“Why bless me… you don’t object Winston?”

“Oh but I do sire, I do object most strongly indeed – to your motives. But the idea is sound for all that. I shall cheerfully confess to obstructing, to the very limit of my powers, all of your previous attempts leave North America. The time was not ripe and risks outweighed the rewards, but I doubt we shall find a more auspicious time and if the Americans have not misplaced their confidence we shall soon be far too busy at home.”

“Surly you mean that with the American’s plan, you no longer need me and I have become expendable?”

“There is that too sire. Such is the shock America will soon deliver to the world that the death of any one man would be as dust in the wind, and the line is sufficiently secure to give dame fortune a fling” agreed Churchill gravely.

“That is not quite what I meant, Winston…”

“No Your Majesty, but it is precisely what I meant. To raise Britain from the ashes of war we must have the support of the Commonwealth, and for that purpose the Monarchy is indeed a potent symbol.”

“No Winston, that may be where we start, but in time we must be more than a symbol. If another Coup is to be avoided the Crown must become accustomed to acting. If we are to continue holding the power and carrying the responsibility, we must develop the habit of action or it is nothing but a promise proven hollow. Gentlemen, the Monarchy simply cannot return to 1939 and retain the public confidence.” The king was addressing both PM’s now and they did not look very happy, but he raised the royal hand to stave off interruption. “William, I am not suggesting any more than those powers already written into your Constitution and that of the other Dominions, nor am I looking to poach on any Government’s preserves. I speak only of the processes, not their substance. As King I am called on to make political decisions almost daily, assenting to Acts, making appointments, approving this and that. Yet the only practice I get is in deferring to the advice of my ministers and councillors. A muscle unused atrophies, and Royal prerogative has withered almost to death, are we not living the proof? I knew Edward was wrong, for all we agreed on more politically than ever Winston and I have. I knew I could not agree to his Prime Ministership. But it was all I could do not to say ‘Yes’ out of pure reflex. Actually saying ‘No,’ opposing precedent, custom, protocol and practice was utterly beyond me. D’you see? How can the Crown look to the greater good if it cannot see beyond a rubber stamp?”

“Once in a hundred years Your Majesty, one mistake out of how many tens of thousands, is a small price to pay –“

“For THIS?” The king cut off his PM passionately.

“For all the tens of thousands of mistakes you, and your predecessors, have not made sire” corrected Churchill. “We politicians come and go, taking the odium of our inglorious moments with us. The Monarchy is eternal and infallible, such is the Faustian bargain we have struck. As you are never called on to make a choice, so no blame attaches to you for the errors made in your name but under our advice, and you would change this for a moment of personal weakness?”

“That - Prime Minister was beneath you sir. Have I ever, ever, disclaimed responsibility for what I freely admit was my own lack of decision? I KNOW that I shall go down as George the Procrastinator, right beside Ethelred the Unready as a figure of fun. If there is ever another ‘George’ expect to see a ‘John’ and dare I say it an ‘Edward’ in quick succession and I don’t give a damn for my part. I do care, I care very much, that the next Elizabeth William Harold Albert Fredrick Victoria Joe Soap has a far better chance of avoiding my footsteps. I don’t want your power Winston, I do not desire to meddle in state affairs or run the ruddy country, we can at least agree that is not the Crown’s job nor should it ever be.”

“Then what do you want sir?” the Canadian PM asked quite bluntly. “Every occasion on which you exercise your authority in an independent fashion diminishes the democratic principal and undermines the checks and balances we have evolved, be they written or understood.”

“But what about my democratic right William? I have my vote too and my vote holds the ultimate veto, that is the system’s doing William, your checks and balances swing in both directions. All I ask is to let those balances work from time to time, to wield the same authority granted to every enfranchised subject, the right to cast my lot occasionally according to the best of my ability and judgment. You needn’t tell me that such power must be used with the upmost caution, politics is a vocation, Royalty is a family business, it is bred in the bones, I know the stakes of the game, but there must be some substance to the position.

See here, hypothetically I must appoint the Governor General of Canada. The responsible minister, William in this case, provides me with a name, perhaps two if he is feeling particularly generous. What is the harm in offering up a list of five, ten, twenty names, that I can winnow down to two or three for William to make his selection for my approval. If I cannot add candidates, only eliminate them, why, I can hardly approve a man that is unacceptable to the Government or he would not be listed in the first place. Nor for that matter am I forcing any choice on William, he has two opportunities to take his pick and the final word falls under the existing arrangement. The only difference is that the Crown gets to think a little, take some productive interest in matters, and exercise a pinch of judgment – is that so terrible?”

The two politicians exchanged pained glances but it was left to Churchill to answer plainly. “Yes sire it is. As a man you have my every confidence sir, but I cannot extend that same commitment to your line in perpetuity, nor bind the nation to such folly. Your Majesty spoke of a duality where we have a dichotomy. I fear you are quite correct about the difficulties the Crown finds in acting on those rare occasions it should. However the delay created by this uncertainty provides yet another layer of protection. For my part I cherish the notion of ‘George the Procrastinator,’ as much as your reluctance to act allowed Halifax to proceed, ‘George the Decisive’ would have presented a far greater peril. To have acted Your Majesty could only have gone one way or ‘tother, gamblers odds sire. What if you had sided with Edward? William and I both suspect your brother could well have done so and where might that have left us today? No, they old ways are best sire and think of the precedent.”

William added his support “And it is not like the Crown has no say in these matters sir. Were I to propose a new Governor General, the list is subject to informal revision by the Crown before it is officially submitted. I would never force an unacceptable candidate on you.”

The King sighed in deep frustration “You will not place your faith in the Crown that changes hands once a generation, yet the Crown is expected to trust in politicians who revolve every few years… mundane matters are well handled by the established system, yet it is the crises we falter at. By Winston’s tally I had one chance in three of making the situation worse and those are not favourable odds? William offers me informal access to formal powers I am constrained to avoid by precedent and custom. But I must trust his successors to stand by that arrangement when I am not to receive a similar confidence in return. To be blunt and I mean no reflection on present company, the Crown’s role is to hold powers politicians cannot be trusted with. Just as your role is not to trust me to exercise that authority, our balanced mistrust and caution prevents the King from becoming a tyrant or the PM assuming the mantle of a dictator. On this principal I believe we agree yes?

All that I am saying amounts to that balance being out of adjustment in your favour. The scales must be weighted in favour of the Commons and Lords, but one couldn’t slip a cigarette paper under your tray, where a bus might drive under mine with room to spare. Our system failed gentleman, it failed, and a Prime Minister became a dictator because the checks were worn smooth and the balances out of kilter. Events may have put a new edge to the obstacles, but I am still dangling in the stratosphere without a step to stand on for leverage. The Australian’s…”

“Are damned fools” rasped Mackenzie King. “They leaped when they should have looked and are stuck with a mess they will be a decade in straightening out.”

“And yet” remarked the King mildly “if Legal opinion is correct, I would have more direct influence in matters there than I should have in my own country.”

“Then there is your solution sire” suggested Churchill genially “appoint the heir Governor General of Australia, as an apprenticeship, to develop those decisive muscles…”

Mackenzie King almost choked “For heaven sake no! If they invite a Royal presence then it may be worth thinking about, but otherwise the Crown must be even more cautious in Australia or risk the convicts taking over the prison. I fear the days of the Crown imposing an appointment on the Dominions are long gone…”

The King coughed “It has been eighty years since the last transport sailed for the colonies William. But you are saying I have less control of matters now than I did before, and I happen to agree Winston’s idea is hardly tactful. However can you see how unsupportable this all is? On every side you gentleman are walling me in and bricking the shop shut when the Monarchy has already been muted – nay neutered – into a cipher. To act as a proper check on Parliament the Crown must have the means, yet all the two of you suggest is taking away those few the Crown have left! Reform of the British constitution can only mean writing it down and so ending what informal channels of influence the Crown retains, treading softly in the Dominions equates to doing nothing and all the while we are expected to retain the potency of the Monarchy as a force for cohesion and stability… you like the jam, but are none too keen on the vegetables and as Nanny would say; ‘how can you have any pudding if you won’t eat your meat?’”

“Sire let me speak plainly” rumbled Churchill “as William so roundly put it, for the Crown to exercise authority, it must be at the expense of the Government sir and that is intolerable. We do not question your right to rule, in turn you may question but not interfere in how we conduct your business. It is that simple sir. For the Crown to poach…”

“Poach? Poach! Oh please Winston, for a dusky pot throwing stones in glasshouses you must think me a prize Daffodil. Poaching is certainly the issue and from my perspective the poachers, that is you political gentlemen, are setting the game laws. You may have as you please, but I may have nothing and should be duly grateful. Parliament has been undermining the Crown’s position since poor old George the Third; my grandmother had far more influence than my father and he more than I. If the process goes much further the Crown will exist on sufferance alone and we might as well adopt the Dutch or Scandinavian system and be done with it. If you remove the Reserve Powers and gut our Royal Prerogative, the family can settle down to be the idol figureheads you seem to so want – or give me the tools to do my duty! But please don’t pretend this current situation is anything but convenient for you or tell me about shielding the Crown behind political responsibility. For all you might shoulder a hundred and one minor sins, the heart of the matter is still on my account, to borrow a phrase; the buck stops with me. Are you, the out manoeuvred PM to bear the final blame for the Coup, or am I? Oh and before you bring up my brother or the failings of my house, do ask yourselves why men with nothing to do should bother themselves in attending to business. If you ask nothing from the Crown, how can you expect the Crown to have anything to give?”

“Your Majesty I cannot express how distressing I find it to hear you speak this way…”

“And I beseech ye in the bowls of Christ to think that ye may be wrong Prime Minister. If you think me mad and I am to be nothing but a conjuror of emotions, then I might as well be properly potty one and try my hand at a trick or two!” With that the King pulled the cork from the Darnley Urn and poured a little dust into his palm. “I say, a damn dry pitch, there should be plenty of movement in it for the bowlers.” Dumping the earth back in the jar, he swept up the three leaves and crumbed them in on top. “Abraca… No, I’ve forgotten something… oh of course.” Taking up the blade of Churchill’s penknife he nicked the side of his thumb, dribbled his blood into the mixture and set to stirring it. Leaving the blade in the muddy brew he gently tapped home the cork and placed the urn down firmly on top of the Yeoman’s rosette “There you are gentleman a little royal magic for all the goo-“

The knock on the door was as startling to the two politicians who had been staring at this little scene amid a rising tide of horror and despair as it was to the King.

Colonel Hawker didn’t even pause for permission to enter, he just strode purposefully into the room like a coiled spring on the verge of release. “Your Majesty” he bowed, “Gentleman. It is time. Washington has just telexed, the bombers fly in three hours.”

John Hawkwood could never figure out why the three men turned to stare at a little terracotta pot.

shane