SUSAN'S STORY by Peter David Morris

This extraordinary story had its origins in the late 1980’s while I was living in Summertown, a rather nice suburb of the famous university city of Oxford in the South of England. I was recently out of a bad marriage and renting a small place in a 1950’s block of apartments.

My next door neighbour was an elderly dapper man, who I always addressed as Mr Coburg, until one day, he gently admonished me. ’Eddie is my name,’ he smiled, ‘Mr Coburg makes me feel old.’

To be quite honest, the old man was very likeable. When I noticed him checking the horse racing results one day, we had an interesting discussion about horse racing. I made the mistake of telling him that my father had once worked as a bookmaker. Eddie seemed to think that made me an expert, so from then on he was always asking my advice on horse related matters. I soon got into the routine of collecting his evening newspaper from the main lobby and pushing it under his door. I’d see him occasionally coming back from the shops and such like, he would always thank me for the newspaper.

Eddie was a nice inoffensive man; we’d stand and chat for a few moments, but in that uniquely British way, we would rather spend ten minutes talking in the lobby, than invite each other into our respective apartments.

It was one of those late November days, when the sun is low in the sky, even the trees looked cold. The ambulance was parked outside the block as I pulled into the car park. I’d just reached the entrance as the stretcher came out, Eddie was laid upon it; his eyes were closed, but I could see he was still breathing; he looked very old and frail.

I nodded to one of the paramedics. ’Is he bad?’

He hesitated, I encouraged him, ‘Mr Coburg lives next door to me. I keep an eye on him?’ The paramedic relaxed a little. ‘He’s not very good. You know about his weak heart?’

I didn’t. But nodded sagely. He told me which hospital they were taking him to. I thanked them and went about my life.

Two or three days later I tried his flat to no avail, I decided a hospital visit was required.

The John Radcliffe hospital was state of the art in those days. The famous Oxford colleges had donated large sums of money into making it one of the world’s premier teaching hospitals. Eddie was in a small modern ward with beds for four patients, he was sat up in bed reading a largish book entitled, ’An Anthology of English Poetry.’

I said hello, Eddie smiled weakly and gestured towards the chair next to his bed. I sat down and then realised that I didn’t really know what to say to him, that’s the big problem with hospitals, they exist in a different time zone to anywhere else. One minute visiting someone in hospital, is the equivalent of ten minutes in the outside world? sheer desperation made me point at the book. ’Do you like poetry?’ He grinned at me, which made him appear much younger. I appraised Eddie carefully, I hadn’t really looked that closely at him before, he’d very light blue eyes, a prominent nose, there was real strength around his chin.

With a slight shock, I realised that Eddie must have been an exceptionally good looking man in his younger days.

Eddie inclined his head towards the book, which he’d now laid next to him, ‘Tennyson? Do you know his work?’

I nodded, I’d read some of Tennyson’s work for my ‘A’ Level English exam. ‘Yeah, The Charge of the Light Brigade, and one or two others.’

Eddie was interested. ‘Really?’ A little too bombastic for me. ‘Have you ever read, All Things Must Die?’ I searched my memory while looking at the floor for inspiration, something fell into place; I quoted:

I looked up. ‘That the one?’

Eddie gazed thoughtfully at me. ‘Very good. Do you know the next line?’

I considered for a moment, ‘All things must die?’

He shook his head, ‘Nearly. For all things must die.’

Eddie closed his eyes, continued reciting,

He opened his eyes and gave me that boyish grin again, ‘Very apt, seeming that I’ve not got long.’

I shook my head; ‘Don’t be silly, you’ve got years yet.’

Eddie gave me a dismissive wave of his hand, then gently sighed, he laid back suddenly fixing me with a penetrating stare. I had a growing realisation that he was also examining me for the first time. He spoke, his voice surprisingly strong, ‘You’re from up North? Where exactly?’

I told him I was from Yorkshire, his attention sharpened, he spoke again, ‘She was from Yorkshire.’

I was intrigued, ‘Who?’

Eddie was staring sightlessly ahead, ‘Susan. She was from Yorkshire?’

I pressed,’ Susan who?’ Eddie was not looking at me; he was still somewhere else in his mind.

I waited wondering if I should say more. It was a good minute before he spoke again. ‘Susan? Listen I’m tired now. Come back tomorrow, I will tell you Susan’s story then.’

I left the hospital thinking about Eddie, in the past he had only been too eager to talk. I was slightly frustrated that now I was interested in what he had to say, he’d effectively dismissed me. I wondered if it was a sly tactic to get me to visit him again.

Curiosity got the better of me; at seven o’clock the next evening, I was sat on the seat next to Eddie’s bed once again. I handed him a package, I’d visited a bookshop in my lunch break. He raised an eyebrow in inquiry. I gestured towards the package. Eddie opened it slowly, then sighed audibly with pleasure. He smiled at me before speaking, ’How did you know? That this is my favourite?’

I grinned back at him, ‘Wasn’t sure, but you saying that you’d tell me Susan’s story gave me the idea, my English teacher loved " Idylls of the King." He said it was Tennyson’s masterpiece.’

Eddie nodded in agreement, ‘Your teacher was right. It doesn’t matter if King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table existed or not, Tennyson’s narrative poems make you believe it.’ I watched him leafing through the book, grunting in recognition at familiar passages and sentences. With a decisive gesture he shut the book placing it carefully on the bedside cabinet.

Eddie gave me his full attention. I was suddenly struck by how much power and strength seemed to radiate from him. In all our previous encounters I’d thought of him as an unremarkable person, the change was quite extraordinary.

Eddie seemed to sense my thoughts. He smiled grimly, ‘Yes. You had me down as a sad old man, just waiting to die in my lonely flat.’ He raised his hand to still my protest, ‘Never mind about me. Susan? You wanted to know about Susan?’

***

It was one of those bitter cold pre-central heating nights, the ice was forming on the maternity ward’s inside windows. The only heat came from a small coal fired stove in the centre of the room. Susan’s bed was the furthest away from the stove, she watched the duty night nurse poking some life into the reluctant embers of the fire.

Susan looked at the wooden beamed ceiling, her thoughts firmly in the past, it was always easy to remember how old she was, not many people are born on the first day of a new century. Her mother had been inordinately proud that her daughter was born on the 1^st of January 1900. Her mother wasn’t very proud of her now. Susan’s cheeks burned with the memory of their last meeting.

Susan would be nineteen in a few weeks. What did she have to look forward to? A life of shame and struggle. She pushed the future to the back of her mind, instead, she thought about David.

Susan had been a fortunate girl, having left school at the age of twelve in her native Yorkshire, she had escaped the grind of the local wool mill thanks to the kindness of her Aunt Mabel, who had found her a position as a kitchen maid at the big house in the Norfolk village, where her Aunt worked. Susan had progressed rapidly, her nimble mind and appetite for hard work had quickly brought her to the attention of the housekeeper who’d championed her cause.

At seventeen, Susan was a parlour maid, a lofty position for one so young. That was the summer she’d met David. She knew who he was.

David was the eldest son of the family. He was known to be friendly and sociable, he was also extremely good looking. David was twenty four and extremely eligible, there were always girls at the weekend parties. He was heir to a title and a fortune. Although all the female servants were obliged to courtesy whenever a member of the family entered a room, David himself was very informal, he had laughed and teased Susan whenever they were alone.

The country was three years into the Great War that beautiful summer of 1917. One sunny afternoon Susan had taken tea into the main drawing room, she was surprised to see David sat alone at the table reading a newspaper.

She noted the anguish on his face. Susan gently put the tray on the table next to him. She curtsied and started to back out of the room. David’s voice stopped her, ’What do you think about the war Susan?’

She hesitated a moment, then spoke uncertainly, ‘We’ll win Sir. It’ll take time, but we’ll win.’

David gazed keenly at her for a long moment, then he nodded, ‘Yes, but at what cost?’ Susan blinked, David continued, ‘I’ve just been reading the Times. Toby Jarrod died at Ypres in the last offensive. I shared rooms with Toby at Magdalen College. He was a good chap.’

David’s face twisted with anger and frustration, he banged the table with his hand, then he started to weep. Susan was shocked, without thinking she moved forward and embraced him closely, she found herself holding him tightly while murmuring comforting words into his ear.

After a few moments David pushed Susan gently away obviously embarrassed at his show of emotion. He considered Susan carefully, then spoke quietly. ‘Sorry about that. I’m just so frustrated that they won’t let me go to France. What’s the point in being in the bloody army, if they won’t let you fight?

Susan knew why David wasn’t allowed to join his regiment in France. His father was that important, that if David was captured by the Germans, it would be a massive propaganda coup for them. Lord Kitchener himself had forbidden David to endanger himself. Susan composed herself before speaking, ‘You’re doing your bit Sir, everyone knows how much you care. I’ve only ever heard people speak well of you.’

David looked slightly abashed. He smiled at Susan. ‘Dearest Susan. I swear you’re the nicest person I know. I can always rely on you to tell me the truth, everybody else tells me what they think I want to hear.’

Susan lowered her eyes, but she was smiling as she backed out of the room.

***

Eddie laid back on his pillow. He noticed the puzzled look on my face, he smiled thinly, ’You want to ask some questions?’ I had a hundred questions. Eddie shook his head, ‘They can wait. I get easily tired at the moment, must be the drugs. Come back tomorrow. I’ll finish the story.’

The next day was a Saturday. I’d arranged to go Christmas shopping with Rebecca, my fairly new girlfriend. I was dragged around a very busy Oxford city centre, full of fellow harassed shoppers and the inevitable Japanese tourist snapping everyone within focus distance.

While we were having a well earned lunchtime coffee, I mentioned my visits to Eddie and the story he was telling me. Rebecca was what we used to call a ‘Yuppie’ in those days; it had originally meant ’Young Urban Professional’ but it had quickly become a term of abuse to define anyone with a mobile phone and ideas above their station.

Rebecca had remarkably fixed views for someone in their mid twenties; she’d listened, then gave her unwanted opinion.

That’s another trait of Yuppies, they have an illusion that you want to hear their views. Rebecca had folded her arms in disgust. ‘ He sounds positively ghastly. Why are you wasting your time?’ She’d carried on remorselessly, ’It’s a story as old as the hills. A common girl gets herself into trouble with the footman or such, then tries to blame one of the family who generously employed her. You can see exactly where the story is going.’

It was at that moment, that I knew we didn’t have a future together. It was nothing to do with me being from solid working class stock (or perhaps it had everything to do with it.) I was appalled at the casual way that she’d dismissed Eddie. I tried a different tack, asking Rebecca if she wanted to visit Eddie with me. She’d refused point blank. We had the obligatory fight. She stormed off.

Eddie had looked stronger that evening, we’d chatted politely for a few moments, then he smiled at me. ‘Where was I? Oh, yes, 1918.’

***

Susan didn’t see much of David for the remainder of the year, he was away a great deal on army business.

The week before Christmas the family at the big house began to gather for the yuletide festivities. Christmas Eve was the traditional highlight for the servants over the holiday. The family always held an informal party for the household and estate staff in the afternoon, followed by a ball in the evening for the local landed gentry and assorted invited guests.

Susan enjoyed these celebrations even though the servants were worked off their feet in the days running up to the holiday.

The atmosphere was light and joyous, the staff party was going well, Susan was dancing with one of the estate gamekeepers who’d taken a shine to her. Gordon had been wounded badly in the first months of the war, after convalescence, he’d returned to his pre-war duties on the family’s Scottish estate. However, the damp climate wasn’t good for his health, so he’d come south on the master’s express instructions. Gordon was considered quite the catch below stairs, Susan saw some of the other maids looking on enviously. The music stopped.

Susan was that caught up with the dance, that she actually took a couple more steps before she realised that the room had gone quiet.

She turned to see why the music had been brought to a standstill. The staff were all bowing and curtsying. Susan couldn’t see because of the press of people in front of her, but she knew the family must have entered the room.

Gradually, the crowd thinned as the staff left the dance floor.

David was stood to the right of his father, he looked paler and more tired than the last time she’d seen him.

David’s father walked forward and took the hand of the housekeeper for the traditional waltz. David’s mother gracefully extended her hand towards the Butler.

Albert, David’s younger brother took the arm of the head cook, a cheery buxom woman who beamed with delight.

Susan was astonished when David walked towards her and bowed deeply. She nodded in acceptance, moments later she was gliding around the dance floor. David was a graceful and elegant partner, custom dictated that she wait for him to speak. He smiled at her thoughtfully, ‘Hello Susan. You look very sweet today. I love the ribbon in your hair.’

Susan delighted, laughed nervously, ‘Thank you Sir. That’s very kind.’ All too soon the dance ended. David escorted her back to Gordon before bowing low again, he moved away to join his family.

The Boxing Day shoot was a long established custom of the Big House. The men went off with their guns and dogs after a hearty breakfast. The women joined them for lunch outdoors on the estate, before returning in time for a short rest before the evening amusements.

There had been an accident while out shooting; David’s valet who also doubled as his gun loader had stepped into a rabbit burrow and badly sprained his ankle. Susan was summoned to the housekeeper’s office and instructed that she was to look after David until they could get a replacement valet up from the London house the next day.

Ten minutes later Susan knocked uncertainly on David’s bedroom door. She heard the faint order to enter.

David was sat on a easy chair near the crackling fire smoking a cigarette as she entered the room, he was still dressed in his shooting clothes. While she waited for him to speak, Susan covertly studied David from under her lowered eyelashes. His ash blond hair was fashionably cut fully showing his high intelligent forehead. His eyes were a very light china blue, David was a very handsome man, the only flaws were his slightly weak chin and the shadow of slight petulance around his lips. He finished his cigarette and threw the butt into the fire. He grinned at Susan, ‘Hello, you drew the short straw then?’

Susan bobbed in a curtsy, smiling mischievously at him, ‘Yes Sir.’ David roared with laughter,

‘Excellent! Well said, that’ll teach me!’ He pointed at the fire.

‘You’ll find it easy with me. Just draw a bath and lay out my evening clothes. The civilian ones, not my army dress suit. If you could make sure that the fire is well banked, for when I retire around 11.30p.m. and that will do for the evening. Thank you Susan.’

It was just before 11p.m. when Susan entered the bedroom, she was startled to see David stood near the large window looking out over the rear courtyard. He had taken off his bow tie which made him look very romantic, he turned towards Susan, she could see that he was slightly drunk. He spoke a little clumsily, ‘Hello Susan, is your father a swine like mine?’

Susan was slightly confused, I couldn’t really say Sir.’

David clenched his hands together, he turned towards her speaking angrily, ‘I asked him again to let me go to the front. He was a beast towards me! Said it was my duty to inherit. Not go risking my life on a foolish romantic whim!’

He stepped forward gripping Susan by the shoulders, he held her gently while looking into her eyes, his voice lowered, ‘You’re very lovely.’ he tenderly kissed her. Susan was momentarily rigid with shock, but it wasn’t unpleasant, she found herself responding instinctively.

It was well after 3p.m. when she left David’s room, it had been the first time for Susan. The most magical wonderful night that she never expected to repeat. Susan was wrong, David and her were able to arrange frequent clandestine meetings over the next few weeks, they made love every time.

It was February when she saw him for the last time. David was called away on army business. It was April before she was sure that she was pregnant, she confided in her Aunt who spoke to the housekeeper, they had both asked her who the father was, Susan was determined to protect David, she refused to name the father. She had told them that he was a married man and she wouldn’t break up a marriage.

Susan had been sent home to Yorkshire. Without a reference.

Susan was woken from her reflections by raised voices from outside the maternity ward, a nurse rushed in shouting, ‘The Germans have surrendered! We’ve won! The war is over.’

***

Eddie gazed tiredly at me. I shook my head in frustration, ‘Is that it?’ Eddie nodded, ‘Yes,that’s Susan’s Story.’

I leant forward, ‘What happened to Susan?’

Eddie shook his head, ‘Not a happy ending, Susan committed suicide in the 1930’s.’

I winced. ‘The baby?’

Eddie gave a sad smile, ‘She had a boy, named him after his father. Come tomorrow. I’ll tell you his story.’

I never heard the story of Susan’s son. Eddie suffered another heart attack and died that night. A week later he was buried in a small churchyard in Oxford. Myself and a couple of elderly relatives were the only people to mourn him. I left Oxford a few months later to return north.

Purely by chance in 2007 I found myself back in Oxford for a business course, for nostalgic reasons I decided to visit Eddie’s grave. I scoured the graveyard in the 1989 section, but couldn’t find his grave, I’d just about given up when an elderly gentleman approached me, he spoke very politely, ‘Hello’

You look a little lost? Can I help? I’m the sexton.’

I smiled at him, relieved, ‘Yes, I can’t understand it. I attended a funeral here in 1989, Edward Coburg was his name, I’m sure he was buried, but I can’t find his grave?’

The sexton shook his head. ‘It’s a very common mistake to make in graveyards, he was buried with his mother. She is in the 1937 section, look for Susan Coburg’s gravestone.’

I was stunned, it had never occurred to me that Susan was Eddie’s mother, it was so obvious when you thought about it.

The sexton helpfully showed me to where the gravestone was, then discreetly disappeared to enable me to pay my respects in private. I studied the gravestone, not really believing what I was reading.

The inscription continued,

I must have been deep in thought for at least twenty minutes. I heard a polite cough, the sexton had returned.

I gestured towards the gravestone, ‘The inscription at the bottom? Can you read Latin?’

The sexton shrugged, ‘A little.. let me see.. Verus?..surely that’s..truth? And Rex?..King? Not too sure about the other word.’

I started to laugh loudly, the sexton watched me walk back to my car with a very puzzled look on his face. My Latin was excellent, I just couldn’t believe it. The inscription translated to " The True King "

I still had a couple of hours to kill before I had to report back to the business course, I spent them in Oxford City Library, the facts are there in the public record. I’ll give them to you, then you can make up your own mind.

Me? I’m convinced.

Edward VIII was born in June 1894, he would have been 24 years old in 1918, his christian names were Edward Albert Christian George. By some strange oddity he was always known as David within the Royal Family. David, although a serving soldier was prohibited by Lord Kitchener, the Commander of the British Army to endanger himself. Susan’s description of David is extremely accurate.

Sandringham House in Norfolk is the place where the last four generations of the English Royal Family have chosen to spend their Christmas Holiday.

Albert the younger son of the Royal family was the present Queen’s father, George VI. He succeeded David as King after his abdication of the throne to marry Mrs Wallis Simpson an American divorcee. David and Mrs Simpson married on the 3^rd Of June 1937, the day that Susan committed suicide.

During the First World War the Royal Family changed their surname from Saxe Coburg Gotha to Windsor, because of anti German feeling. Those are the facts, since the discovery of the gravestone, I have found out that Alfred Lord Tennyson, the famous poet was raised to the peerage on Queen Victoria’s personal wish, she admired his poetry immensely. Edward VIII (David) was her Grandson and was also known to enjoy Tennyson. On a personal note, I mentioned at the start of this story that Eddie was very interested in horseracing; the English Royal Family have long being interested in horses and horseracing. Not for nothing is the sport known in England as the ‘Sport of Kings’ perhaps the love of Tennyson and the sport of kings was passed on to Eddie Coburg. THE TRUE KING.