Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris & Mrs. Harris Goes to New York (24 page)

Now it sometimes happens when a press conference is as unruly as this one was, chiefly because most of the press corps had had to get up very early in the morning to go down the Bay in a choppy sea to meet the ship, and many of them had hangovers, that in a barrage of shouted questions, none of which can be heard or answered, one of them will take place in a momentary lull, and thus stick out and, anxious to get
some
question answered, the reporters will temporarily abandon their own and pick up that particular one.

Thus it became: ‘Who’s the kid? Who’s the kid? That’s right - who’s the kid, Your Excellency? Who’s the boy, Mr Ambassador?’ and then everybody quieted down to await the answer.

Seated together behind the conference table at the head of the room, the venerable statesman turned and looked
down at the strange small boy with the somewhat too-large head and plaintive face, half as though he expected the explanation to come from him.

The small boy likewise turned and looked up into the august countenance of the venerable statesman out of his liquid, sad and knowing eyes, and buttoned up his lips. The Marquis saw them being firmly pressed together, remembered what Mrs Harris had told him about little Henry’s disinclination for speech, and knew that there would be no help forthcoming there. Also, the wait between the asking of the question and the time when he had to reply was waxing heavy and intolerable; it was becoming absolutely necessary to say something.

The Marquis cleared his throat. ‘He - he is my grandson,’ he said.

For some unknown reason, but characteristic of some press conferences, this statement appeared to create a sensation. ‘Say, it’s his grandson! Did you hear that - it’s his grandson? What do you know, it’s his grandson!’ Notebooks appeared, memos were scribbled, while the photographers now surged forward shouting their own war cries as their flash lamps began to go off in the faces of their victims, blinding the Marquis and confusing him even more. ‘Hold it, Ambassador. Look this way, Marquis. Put your arm around the kid, Marquis. Hey kid, move up to your grandpa - closer, closer. Give us a smile now. That’s it. Just one more! Just one more! Put your arm around his neck, son! Get up on his lap, bub. How about giving him a big kiss?’

Added to this bedlam were the further questions engendered by the revelation that the French Ambassador had a member of his family travelling with him. ‘What’s his name? Whose kid is he? Where’s he going?’

The Marquis found himself caught up in them. ‘His name is Henry.’

‘Henry! Henry or Henri? Is he French or English?’

The Marquis was aware that sometime, somewhere, little Henry would have to open his mouth, and so he replied, ‘English.’

The press conference now had settled down into some kind of semblance of order and a man in the rear of the room arose and, speaking with the British accent natural to the correspondent of the
Daily Mail
, asked, ‘Would that be Lord Dartington’s son, Your Excellency?’ As a good English reporter, he was up on his Burke’s Peerage and knew that one of the daughters of the Marquis de Chassagne had married Lord Dartington of Stowe.

Diplomats ordinarily are supposed never to become flustered, and in the conduct of his official life the Marquis had ice-water in his veins, but this time it was a little too much and too unexpected, and the disaster engulfing him too unforeseen and unprepared for.

To tell the truth was, of course, utterly unthinkable. To reply ‘no’ would lead to further embarrassing questions, and so without reflecting further the Marquis said, ‘Yes, yes.’ All he wished for now was to conclude this ordeal as quickly as possible and reach the friendly shelter of the shed on the pier, where Mrs Harris had promised to come and relieve him of the now embarrassing presence of little Henry.

But this latest revelation caused even a greater sensation, and once again the photographers surged forward, their flash lamps winking and flaring, while the shouts of the cameramen rose to a new pitch: ‘What did he say? He’s the son of a Lord? That makes him a Dook, don’t it?’

‘Brother, are you a square! That makes him a Sir. Only relations of the Queen are Dooks.’

‘What’s that?’ somebody said. ‘He’s related to the Queen? Hey, Dook, look this way! Give us a smile, Lord. What’s his name - Bedlington? How about you giving the Marquis the high sign?’

Beneath his dignified exterior the Marquis broke into a cold sweat at the horror of the thought that now that the press had him indissolubly linked by blood with little Henry it was not going to be quite so simple for these ties to be severed on the pier when Mrs Harris came to collect him.

The reporters and radio men now crowded about urging, ‘OK, Henry, how about saying something? Are you going to go to school here? Are you going to learn to play base-ball? Have you got a message for American youth? Give us your impressions of America. Where does your Daddy live - in a castle?’

To this barrage little Henry remained mute and kept intact his reputation for taciturnity. The interviewers became more and more urgent, and little Henry’s silence thicker and thicker. Finally one impatient inquisitor said facetiously, ‘What’s the matter - has the cat got your tongue? I don’t believe the Marquis is your grand-daddy at all.’

Thereupon little Henry unbuttoned his lips. The veracity of his benefactor was being impugned. The nice bloke with the white hair and kind eyes had told a whopping big lie for him, and now corroboration was being demanded for that lie. As Mrs Harris had said, little Henry was always one to back up a pal.

From the unbuttoned lips, in the expected childish treble, came the words, ‘You’re bloody well right ’e’s me grandfather.’

In the back of the room, the eyebrows of the correspondent of the
Daily Mail
were elevated clear up to the ceiling.

The Marquis felt himself engulfed by a wave of horror. He did not know that the catastrophe was just beginning to warm up.

B
ACK
in Tourist-Class, all packed and dolled up in their best clothes, their passports and vaccination certificates clutched in their hands, Ada Harris and Mrs Butterfield stood on deck by the rail, thrilled with their first real look at this new and exciting land, and gazed down upon the bustle of tugs, cutters, and small boats crowding around the gangways of the
Ville de Paris.

Earlier in the morning little Henry had been escorted forward to the cabin of the Marquis, his head filled with instructions to cover every possible contingency should Mrs Harris be delayed, etc.

Mrs Harris was triumphant, Mrs Butterfield nervous and perspiring now that action was again demanded of them and another crisis to be faced. She said, ‘Ow Ada, are you sure it’ll be all right? I’ve got a feeling in me bones somefink ’orrible is going to ’appen.’

Even if Mrs Harris had been able to avail herself of the prophetic nature of Mrs Butterfield’s skeleton, it was anyway too late now to alter the plan, and whilst she was not entirely at her ease with little Henry away from her
side - during the five days on the ship she had become more than ever attached to him - she refused to be depressed. Nevertheless, just to make sure she went over the planned routine.

She said to her friend, ‘Come on love, buck up and keep your hair on - what’s to go wrong?’ She ticked off the sequence on each finger of her hand: ‘ ’E goes through with the Marquis, no questions asked. Once he’s on the pier ’e goes and stands under the letter “B” - “B” for Brown - where we collect him. There’ll be a taxi for us. ’Enry plays the standing-next-to-somebody-else game until the Schreibers have gone off. Then ’e gets in with us. We ’ve got the address. When we get there he waits down on the pavement until we ’ave a look about. When the coast’s clear we’ll have ’im upstairs with us as quick as wink. Didn’t Mrs Schreiber say there was enough room in the flat for a regiment to get lost in? It’ll only be a couple of days ’til we find ’is dad, and then Bob’s yer uncle. Garn now and forget it, and enjoy yerself. What’s to go wrong?’

‘Somefink,’ said Mrs Butterfield firmly.

Looking down over the side and a little before them they could see a gleaming white and grey U.S. Government cutter with a three-inch gun mounted forward, radar mast, and huge American flag. She was connected by a gangway to an opening low in the side of the ocean liner, and as the two women watched, obviously something of importance was about to take place, for the musicians aft pulled themselves together at the behest of their leader, a guard of sailors, and marines ranged themselves at the gangway in charge of a much beribboned officer, the bandleader raised his arms, the officer shouted a command, rifle bolts clicked, arms were presented, the bandleader’s baton
descended, the band crashed into ‘The Star Spangled Banner’, to be followed by the stirring strain of ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever’.

To this rousing Sousa march there appeared a procession of gold-braided and uniformed
aides
provided by the Army, the Navy, and the Air Force, followed by dignitaries in striped trousers, frock coats and top hats, all emerging from the hole in the side of the
Ville de Paris
and marching down the gangplank on to the cutter. Then came a momentary pause, the bandleader again raised his arms and brought them down violently and his musicians dutifully and loudly went into a rendition of ‘La Marseillaise’. The figure of a handsome, erect, and elegant old man likewise in striped trousers, grey frock coat, and grey top hat - an old man with white hair and moustache and piercing blue eyes under tufted eyebrows, the rosette of a Chevalier of the Legion of Honour in his buttonhole - appeared at the exit and stood there for a moment, removing his hat and holding it against his shoulder during the playing of the French anthem.

‘It’s me friend - it’s the Marquis!’ said Mrs Harris, not yet aware of what was happening.

Not so Mrs Butterfield, for as the anthem ended and to the strains of another tune the Marquis marched down the gangway, the stout woman uttered a piercing scream and pointed a fat and shaking finger, ‘Look,’ she cried, ‘it’s little ’Enry - ’e’s going wiv ’im!’

He was, too. His hand clutched firmly in that of the imma culately uniformed Bayswater, and followed by secretary and valet and lesser members of the Embassy entourage, little Henry was following the Marquis down the incline and on to the cutter, where he likewise graciously accepted the presented arms of the marines’ guard of honour.

With a sinking sensation in her stomach, Mrs Harris, began to twig what was happening. Just before they stepped on to the cutter, Mrs Harris saw the grey, refined face of Bayswater looking up and anxiously scanning the topside of the ship. By one of those minor miracles of communication he spotted Mrs Harris, and for an instant their eyes met, at which point Mr Bayswater delivered himself of a shrug which told Mrs Harris plainer than words that he was in the grip of something bigger than himself, and was messaging his regrets.

It was indeed so. What had enmeshed Bayswater, little Henry, and the Marquis was not only the high esteem in which the Marquis Hypolite de Chassagne was held personally in Washington, but the fact that the Administration had thought it a good idea to butter up de Gaulle, who had been acting somewhat peculiar of late, by according extra honours to his Ambassador and disembarking him and his entourage at Quarantine.

The Marquis, his luggage, and all those with him were taken off the ship and sailed in state through the Narrows and into New York Harbour, where another guard of honour awaited them at the Battery, along with a fleet of Cadillacs. They were then rolled uptown through the awesome chasm of Lower Broadway, where a small ticker-tape welcome had been organised, and bits of torn telephone books and festoons of paper ribbon covered with figures testifying to America’s financial grandeur floated down upon little Henry’s head. The cavalcade thereupon proceeded across the Queensboro Bridge and out to Idlewild Field, where the President’s private aircraft, the
Columbia,
waited, and the Marquis and all those connected with him with the exception of Bayswater, who remained behind to drive the Rolls down - were flown to Washington.

Little Henry went too. He had never had such a wonderful time in all his life. This was a bit of all right.

Little Henry was gone, but one could hardly say that he was forgotten, for the afternoon papers and those of the morning following gave full coverage to the arrival of the new French Ambassador and his grandson, complete with pictures of same in the various artful poses into which he had been enticed by the veteran ship news photographers - hugging his grandfather, kissing his grandfather, sitting on his grandfather’s lap, or staring solemnly with his large, disturbing eyes directly into the camera.

The austere
Times
reported Henry’s presence with a single line in which it said that the Marquis was accompanied by his grandson, the Honourable Henry Dartington, youngest son of Lord Dartington of Stowe, but the other newspapers, particularly those employing female feature writers, did some embroidery upon the story: ‘The handsome, white-haired, still virile French Ambassador, who caused many feminine hearts to beat faster during the voyage, brought along his little grandson, Lord Henry Partington, who is related to the Queen of England.