The Peoples King (3 page)

Ted Rowlands has taken a real interest in this book and provided
me with information about the history of South Wales. Chandrika
Kaul, a historian at the University of St Andrews, shared with me her
unique knowledge of Edward's tour of India. Philip Williamson of
Durham University has generously shared sources and information,
and we have enjoyed discussing the subject of the abdication together.
Andrej Olechnowicz, also at Durham, gave me a set of the Hilda
Runciman and Trevelyan papers; he organized a conference on 'Mani­pulating the Monarchy' at Durham University in April 2002, where I
had the opportunity to air some of my ideas and to participate in
stimulating debate. Barbara Naegele in Ottawa sent me details about
Edward's time in Canada. I am grateful to Steve Bailey and to Bill
Barrell for information about postage rates in the past. Access to the
photographs in the Windsor Albums was provided by the Victoria &
Albert Museum, where Martin Durrant was especially helpful. Ann
Towns made some excellent suggestions on searching for diaries.
Bernard Welchman searched various local archives on my behalf; and
Elizabeth Murray, with her characteristic efficiency and reliability,
carried out some vital research. At moments of computer crisis I have
been expertly bailed out by Alisdair Duthart.

Newsreels are an area of special expertise, and I was fortunate to
meet Luke McKernan, Head of Information at the British Universities
Film & Video Council, who helped me with all kinds of information.
So did David Haynes of British Pathe, who also arranged for me to
view numerous Pathe newsreels. Barbara Heavens, Senior Librarian
at British Movietone News, answered all my queries and thought­fully sent me shot lists. At the British Film Institute's National Film
& Television Archive, I was ably assisted by Steve Tollervey, Chief
Viewing Technician

Philip Ziegler's brilliant biography of Edward VIII is an essential
source for anyone working in this area. I am heavily indebted both to
the book and to Philip himself, who kindly set aside some time to talk
to me, at my request. At the time I had been concerned about some
aspects of the book; I emerged from our discussion thinking more
clearly and feeling much happier. I am also grateful to Michael Bloch,
whose books have made an important contribution to scholarship on
the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Michael generously shared his
ideas with me and also went to considerable trouble to find the
print of the image that appears on the jacket. I should also like to
acknowledge a debt to Greg King's outstanding biography of the
Duchess of Windsor.

Many friends and colleagues helped me with this book. It is a
pleasure to thank the kind and generous people who read and offered
criticism and comments on the various drafts: Dennis Dean, Gervase
Hood, Jackie Lee, and Margaret Wynn. All these readers improved
the book immeasurably.

For their interest and encouragement, I am immensely and especially
grateful to Monica Ede, Jackie Lee, Elizabeth Patience, and Margaret
Wynn. I also thank Barbara Bamber, Dennis Dean, Theresa
Hallgarten, Ferelith Hood, Tom Hooke, Lesley Hall, Ornella Mos-
cucci, Jennifer Pader, Tina Perry, Desna Roberts, Sandra Stone, Alfred
Thomas, James Thomas, and Joan Williams, and also my colleagues
at the Institute of Education, University of London.

I am deeply indebted to Mr Eric Ezra of Moorfields Hospital, who
rescued my sight during the final stage of producing this book.

It is a privilege and a pleasure to write for Penguin. I am grateful
beyond measure to my editor, Margaret Bluman. She was always
willing to read and comment on drafts, despite her own busy schedule.
At every stage we discussed the implications of new findings and the
way forward. Her advice and guidance were unfailingly right. It is no
exaggeration to say that without her involvement, this book would
not have been written. Cecilia Mackay is a brilliant picture editor
whose detective skills deserve special mention. John Woodruff is a
gifted copy-editor who not only picked up blunders but also made
important suggestions which have improved the book's readability.

My daughter, Tendayi Bloom, was instrumental in the decision to
write about the abdication. I was still wondering whether or not to do
so - and talking incessantly about this - when we went together to
visit Horace Walpole's home at Strawberry Hill, Surrey. While there,
we had a cup of tea in the cafeteria. She told me to look up at the wall
- where I saw a portrait of Edward VIII - and observed that I must be
destined to write the book because he seemed to follow us everywhere.

She cheerfully accepted the book as a new member of the family circle
and came with me to South Wales on a fruitful mission of research.
Benedict Wiseman offered useful insights on the politics of the interwar
period and encouraged me in my efforts during the long days of
writing. His thoughtful gifts of music gave special pleasure to those
days. Gervase Hood, my husband, contributed to the book in impor­tant ways that are too numerous to list. His loving presence kept me
going when I faltered; and his delight at my growing excitement
multiplied the joy.

More than two thousand people were waiting for King Edward VIII at
the abandoned steelworks of Dowlais in South Wales on Wednesday,
18 November 1936. It was a damp and chilly day: jackets were tightly
buttoned and shawls held close. As soon as the royal car was seen
driving up the hill from Merthyr Tydfil, everyone cheered in delight
and the Dowlais Aged Comrades' Choir struck up
God Save the King.
Excited children jumped up and down, waving their Union Jacks in a
sea of flags. The King - a short, slight figure, with deep blue eyes and
a shock of thick, golden hair - stepped from his car, smiling, and
waved his hand in greeting. Forty-two years of age, he was sovereign
of over 600 million people, the citizens of Britain and its Empire. And
today, just ten months after his accession to the throne, he had travelled
through the night to visit the people of South Wales.

But once the King had looked about him, he stopped still. He was
evidently distressed and stood quietly for a few minutes on the road,
his bowler hat in his hand. He was facing a scene of desolation -
hundreds of gaunt and weary men sitting on heaps of twisted metal.
Their clothes were worn and their boots were broken. Three-quarters
of the men of Dowlais were unemployed: once a symbol of industry
and prosperity, the Dowlais steelworks had closed down six years
before and was now a derelict ruin. The King stood gazing in silence
at the wreck of the huge blast furnace; few people, observed a Pathe
Gazette newsreel, would ever forget His Majesty's expression at that
moment.' Then he went slowly among the men, who rose to their feet
and removed their caps. Some of them started to sing the Welsh hymn
Crugybar,
and the strains of deep male voices lifted into the air. The King walked down a gangway into the centre of the works, through
the roofless buildings and in the shadow of a skeleton of steel girders.
Doffing his hat again and again to the crowds, he turned to the officials
walking next to him. 'These steelworks brought the men hope', he
said. 'Something must be done to see that they stay here
-
working.'
²
The royal visit to Dowlais was just one stop on a hectic two-day
tour of the industrial valleys of Glamorgan and Monmouthshire,
South Wales. The King had left London shortly after midnight on a
special train, arriving in the morning at the tiny railway station of
Llantwit Major, a little town on the coast of Glamorgan. Being in
Wales in the autumn of 1936 was a powerful reminder to the King of
his investiture as Prince of Wales in the summer of 1911, when he was
sixteen years of age. 'From Llantwit Major, where I got off the train,'
he commented later in his memoirs, A
King's Story,
'it is not over one
hundred and fifty miles to Caernavon where, one July morning, a
quarter of a century before, in the pomp and splendour of the medi­aeval setting of the ancient castle, my investiture as Prince of Wales
had taken place.'
³
His style and titles had been proclaimed from the
battlements of the castle by Winston Churchill, who was then Home
Secretary. This was the start of a steadfast friendship between Edward
and Churchill, characterized by mutual admiration and respect. Ever
since the investiture, said Churchill, years later, Edward 'honoured
me . . . with his personal kindness and, I may even say, friendship . . .
In this Prince there was discerned qualities of courage, of simplicity,
of sympathy, and, above all, of sincerity, qualities rare and precious.'
⁴
The investiture had taken place twenty-five years before. This time,
Edward was no longer Prince of Wales but King of Great Britain,
Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas, and Emperor
of India. And this time, he was not greeted by pomp and splend­our. Instead, he was met 'by humble arches made of leeks from
Government-sponsored co-operative farms, and of unlighted Davy
lamps strung together by jobless miners.' The people looked thin and
weary and were dressed in shabby clothes. Even a King, 'who would
be among the last to feel the pinch of a depression', said Edward,
'could see that something was manifestly wrong.'
⁵

There was indeed something wrong. Industrial South Wales had been unable to pull itself out of the economic depression that followed
the collapse of the New York Stock Exchange in 1929. By 1936
most parts of Britain had recovered from the national slump, and a
Government leaflet issued the previous year had claimed that over a
million workers had got back into employment and wages had started
to rise.
⁶
But this recovery had not spread everywhere. In South Wales,
West Cumberland, Durham, Tyneside and industrial Scotland un­employment was still very high, and desperate families were forced to
depend on the meagre dole provided by the Unemployment Assistance
Board. King Edward was deeply troubled. He looked upon unemploy­ment 'as the one black spot in the country' and was anxious to help
in any way possible, wrote Major Alexander Hardinge, his Private
Secretary, to the Minister of Labour in October 1936. Referring to
Edward's coronation, which was planned for May the following year,
he added that it would give His Majesty 'the greatest gratification' if
the celebrations were to coincide with 'a real improvement of the lot
of these unfortunate people, whose share in the general recovery has
as yet been so very limited.'
⁷

Even when their men had been in work, for families in South Wales
life was a daily grind. Many of their homes had just two rooms, one
bedroom and a kitchen, while some families lived in a one-room cellar
dwelling. Almost every home lacked electricity. Water was carried
in from a tap in the backyard, and the toilet, which was also outside,
was shared by several families. These harsh conditions had been
worsened by long years of unemployment. Families could not even
afford to buy the coal that lay at the centre of their lives and had to
scour the tips daily in search of bits of coal for a fire.
⁸
Children
were dressed in ragged clothes and broken boots, handouts from
organizations such as the Mayor of Merthyr Tydfil's Distressed School
Children's Fund.
⁹
Short of money for food and fuel, women were
unable to provide their families with nourishing meals. 'Two tin mugs
and one plate were the whole equipment of a family of nine', reported
the
Evening Standard
in an article on South Wales. 'There was no pot
in which to warm the soup. Neither could the neighbour provide one
. . . Both households had been unable to cook anything at all for
months, and had apparently lived on bread and margarine and tea.
¹⁰

Men and boys with no jobs and no money for hobbies and entertain­ment spent their days hanging around on the streets.