Tenderness, page 44
Back at HQ, he asked his secretary, Miss Gandy, to get a message to the Bureau’s London attaché. ‘The Director would be grateful if Dame Rebecca West would telephone Washington, reverse charge, when her schedule permits.’
Dame Rebecca phoned the following day. She was out of the country until June but yes, she supposed she could meet the Bureau’s London attaché on her return. Hoover outlined his concerns for ‘the free world’. Her voice was clipped and she gave little away, but she was not unhelpful.
There was no urgency, she assured him. She seemed to know. No prosecution case could be launched until actual publication – and the word in London was that Penguin was in difficulties. Its printer had pulled out, having taken legal advice about the controversial novel. They’d been warned off, apparently. June publication of Chatterley, her sources told her, had been delayed until August.
Dame Rebecca West had impeccable sources.
Behind his desk, Hoover unbuttoned his suit jacket. He knew she prided herself on her grasp of government policy and legalities. She was already proving a very useful ally. Moreover, her Bufile had turned up an unexpected gem. Dame Rebecca’s personal attorney was none other than Sir Theobald Mathew, Director of Public Prosecutions. Chief Prosecutor for the Crown. The very man who would decide: trial or no trial for the book.
Better still, Theobald Mathew was not just her attorney but a personal friend. According to Bureau sources, back in the forties, he had been one of Dame Rebecca’s expert guides through judicial matters as she prepared her book, an examination of loyalty, treachery, treason and betrayal. All the things that mattered, in other words. Hoover couldn’t recall the title. The woman wrote too much to keep up with.
Naturally, he had no intention of discussing Mrs. Kennedy and her recent reading habits with anyone outside the Bureau. He didn’t need to. It was enough to remind Dame Rebecca of the Soviets’ Active Measures program and their very well-funded interest in Britain’s moral confusion and decline.
He had done his homework. Over the crackling line, he read back to her her own words from an article in which she had warned her readers of the ‘lethal threat’ of Communism, and ‘a new dictator’ who ‘steals on us undetected’. Britons, ‘weary of austerity’ post-war, would be too easily distracted by ‘abusive words’, ‘brawls’ and ‘grievances’. Yet that was precisely the Soviet mission. Distraction. A moral weakening of her nation.
On the phone, Hoover congratulated her on her percipience – he’d looked up the word in advance. Her concerns about the Soviet threat in Britain, he said, were justified. The Communists were using any available controversy to drive a wedge into the heart of the West, and the scandal of this Lawrence book was, for the Soviets, a prime opportunity to do so. She said she understood. Yes, she would meet the legal attaché in London to consider the Bureau’s request for assistance. She would, however, give no guarantee.
Hoover put the phone down. ‘Bingo!’ he said to his desktop picture of six-year-old Shirley Temple.
Jack Kennedy was still the Democratic front-runner for the presidential nomination, and July – the Democrats’ decision time – wasn’t far off. Kennedy had to be stopped. The Bureau was doing its best, and the Director was throwing everything he could at it. The Bureau’s surveillance of the nominee-hopeful and his inner circle was piling up in classified files. Not that Dame Rebecca needed to know about that. Women of all descriptions liked Jack Kennedy. He had that effect.
In light of the growing threat posed to the Bureau by the Kennedy brothers, the Bureau was funneling cash, and plenty of it, into the Washington Field Office. In a move sanctioned by Hoover himself, the Washington Special Agent in Charge, Howard Johnson, was ‘importing’ call-girls from London to tempt Kennedy and his campaign team away from the straight and narrow. It was worth a shot.
Howard Johnson understood he was to keep HQ, and Hoover especially, above ‘the fray’. Hoover wanted to know only the essentials: i.e., that the girls had had ‘dealings’ with high-flyers in London, dealings which were sure to turn the heads of Jack Kennedy’s team. Who didn’t want the cream of the gossip, especially when served up by gorgeous foreign girls?
Howard Johnson assured Hoover the girls could be flown over and ‘returned to sender’ at a moment’s notice. They came highly recommended by someone trusted in the most discreet circles in London, a ‘society doctor’. The Quorum Club in D.C. and the 21 Club in New York were, Johnson confirmed, turning out to be ideal locations for the after-hours meetings. Nice and private. Worth every penny of the Bureau budget.
Two girls were doing the pre-election rounds with Kennedy’s team. Stunners, the pair of them. One was dark and exotic; the other, blonde and shapely. So far, Senator Kennedy hadn’t taken the bait – but he was flirting. He was certainly flirting. Johnson said Hoover had to be patient, give it time. There were rumors that Mrs. Kennedy was expecting again, but even if she were, that had never stopped the Senator before.
Quite the opposite.
There were the old Jack Kennedy sex-tapes of course, still in the Bureau’s safe. They were good for frightening the Senator, but the truth was, Hoover couldn’t actually release anything like that on the airwaves, not without corrupting the innocence of the nation – and that wasn’t in the Bureau’s long-term interests. He wanted the whole country to go on believing in the world of The Lawrence Welk Show. Like Welk, he wanted to be a guiding father for his country. If he managed that he would have served his country well.
Yet without an actual leak of the sex-tapes, without hard proof, the allegations of extramarital affairs would be dismissed as spiteful rumors, or even worse, as a ‘smear’. Even if the leftie journalists couldn’t trace the rumors back to the Bureau, the very word ‘smear’ might bolster sympathy for Kennedy. It could all backfire.
So the London call-girls might just generate the scandal he needed. A few choice pictures. Not too much, but enough – especially if the Democratic front-runner had a pregnant wife at home. If Lady Kennedy was pregnant, women, from East Coast to West, would be outraged when the news of his adultery broke, and they’d brow-beat their husbands into being outraged too. There were only a few occasions when women got their way, and, in his experience, pregnancy was one of them.
On second thought, he hoped to God the Senator’s wife wasn’t pregnant. A baby on the way would be a bigger boost to the Kennedy campaign than Frank fucking Sinatra.
He had a hunch that the best bomb in his arsenal was still Mrs. Kennedy’s picture, with the book – that book – under her arm.
He just had to ensure the bomb went off.
Back in March, things had gone belly-up in New York. The damned Appeals Court judge had upheld the first judge’s decision in favor of Grove Press over the Post Office – over the government, over the F.B.I., although only the Postmaster General knew about the Bureau’s ‘investment’ in the trial.
Hoover had fumed for days. He’d announced to the New York Field Office that the government – meaning the Bureau – meaning him – would take the case all the way to the Supreme Court. But the New York S.A.C. had turned mealy-mouthed, and the government lawyer, also in the room at the time, had pointed out with an insolent shrug that the uncensored Grove Press edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover was already Number Two on the New York Times bestsellers list. As if to say, ‘End of story, Hoover. Cut your losses and walk away.’
He wasn’t about to cut anything, except that smug bastard of a lawyer. Instead, he’d bide his time. He could do that. He could do it because he could still imagine, vividly, the splash the photo of the ‘front-runner’s wife’ would make on the front page of, say, the Chicago Tribune. He had the ear of men at the Tribune, and beyond. Now, England was his new battleground. God love England.
British Customs had responded to his call. They were on alert, impounding all copies of the new American edition. But a trial – a trial in London, England, if it could be made to happen – would draw the eyes of the world. The only difficulty was the timing: with the Penguin edition delayed till August, how fast could the Prosecution in London move and, more importantly, what could he do to guarantee the start of a trial before the federal election in November? Who did he know?
Great Britain was flat-broke after the war. On its knees, in fact. Poor old England was not very ‘Merrie’ at all these days, but it still had standards. The Director of Public Prosecutions – Dame Rebecca’s personal friend – was there to ensure that it did. He rang the new London attaché himself. ‘When Dame Rebecca is back in England in June, you’re going to meet her at her convenience. There’s a place called the American Garden. In London, yes, in London! Find it. Women like flowers. Send a car, meet her in the garden, have a nice chat, a discreet chat, then take her to a pricey restaurant. Get a table with the best view and buy her high tea. Buy her the highest tea they’ve got. Do you understand? If she has information, I want it by phone before the day is out. If she doesn’t, make sure she knows: you’re a friend, I’m a friend, the United States is a friend, and we’re keeping the line open for her. Don’t get clever. Don’t mention that writer H. G. Wells or you’ll be out on your ass. Don’t try flattery, and check your facts. That woman is nobody’s fool.’
iii
In London, it’s a muggy midsummer – humid, close, with not even a breath of a breeze off the river – and Lady Chatterley’s future hangs in the balance.
As he wakes, Sir Allen Lane wonders if he hasn’t been dreaming of her of late…How odd. Indeed, on this particular morning, he seems to recall a dream in which he bumped into her in Kensington High Street. The plane trees above them were wilted. A faint stench was blowing inland from the Thames. She fanned her hands before her face, saying, ‘Heavens. One can hardly breathe.’
By the time he arrives at the breakfast table, a card from Hans Schmoller – Board member at Penguin Books and Sir Allen’s right-hand man – awaits him by the toast-rack.
15 July, 1960
Dear A.L.,
Today’s (Friday’s) intelligence was that a nephew of Sir Theobald Mathew, Public Prosecutor, told Tony Rowe – owner of the new printer for Lady C – over dinner at the Travellers’ Club, that his uncle was determined to prosecute. It seems to me very unlikely that a man in such a position – Sir Theobald – would gossip with his nephew about his plans, but Monty Weekley, D. H. Lawrence’s stepson who happens to know Sir Toby, says he is the type of person who might. Perhaps the idea is ‘to see off’ Rowe as well?
Hans
The dining-room at the Travellers’ Club had hummed, as ever, with the discreet conversation of the world’s leading dignitaries and diplomats. Even at the start of the new decade, the Travellers’ could still be relied on for the traditional values upon which the country stood: civility, good manners – and subterfuge.
Had Mathew’s nephew – ‘Mathew the Younger’ we might call him – been planted in the Travellers’ Club by his uncle, the Director of Public Prosecutions? Was the plan to ‘see off’ a second printing company and thereby scupper Penguin’s new book, without the bother of a trial? The flight of another printer could well make the book ‘untouchable’.
In any case, weren’t novels, when it came to it, rather beneath the DPP’s office? The magnificent private libraries of Sir Toby’s peers were one thing – a blind eye could be turned for men of culture and learning – but a paperback which was to cost 3s. 6d., the price of little more than a pound of bacon, was another matter altogether. The nation’s housewives would be able to buy the novel with their pin-money. Mob-capped girls in service would share it on the backstairs. Public schoolboys would read soiled copies in dormitories up and down the country.
The Mathew family coat of arms featured a mythical beast with claws extended. Mathew the Younger ordered the loin of venison. ‘It seems,’ he said in a studiously offhand manner, ‘that my uncle is determined to prosecute.’
Tony Rowe studied the menu and did not blanch.
* * *
—
It is the longest day of the year, and in Sir Theobald Mathew’s estimation, it feels like it too. His desk overfloweth, and he hardly has time to turn his attention to the matter of a novel. Allen Lane could simply have published the damned book discreetly, as a costly limited edition, and saved Sir Toby’s office all this stuff and nonsense. As it is, Sir Toby is now required, officially, to seem to care about the morality of the nation and the corruption of all youth in possession of pocket-money.
What a bore.
He exhales and sends a rare proof-copy of the new Penguin edition to ‘Counsel to the Crown’ at the Old Bailey, Mervyn Griffith-Jones. He requests Griffith-Jones’s professional opinion on the matter. ‘Worth our time?’
Griffith-Jones has a proven record in prosecuting obscenity cases, with four titles under his belt already. He also has a way with words. Griffith-Jones replies by return: ‘If I get an erection, we prosecute.’
The following week, his view is re-phrased for the public record: ‘In my opinion, the unexpurgated version of Lady Chatterley’s Lover – a proof-copy of which I have read – is obscene, and a prosecution for publishing an obscene libel would be justified.’
His reading copy, a publisher’s proof-copy, was lent to him by Sir Toby. The source of this copy remains a mystery. How did Sir Toby come by it? Let’s re-trace its wayward path.
Publishers are not asked to avail would-be prosecutors of free copies of the books they might choose to prosecute. No defendant can reasonably be expected to facilitate his or her own downfall.
Griffith-Jones is clear in his statement that he has read a ‘proof-copy’. Yet Penguin’s plan to distribute advance proof-copies in the late spring and early summer of 1960 was cancelled, in light of growing concerns over the threat of prosecution. Penguin staff couldn’t simply carry on, working towards a summer release date, as if there were no clouds darkening on the horizon. Nor were proof-copies sent abroad to any foreign publisher. No one, in other words, from Sir Toby’s office could have nipped over to Paris or New York to collect a copy for the Office of Public Prosecutions.
Where had that advance-copy come from? Who was the mystery donor? Who might have oiled the wheels of the Prosecution?
Two advance-copies for reviewers – and strictly two – had been given, back in February, to Lady Chatterley enthusiast Leonard Russell, Literary Editor of the Sunday Times. It would have been entirely natural for Russell to pass a copy on, in turn, to one of the established reviewers on his roster – let us say a respected, big-name writer who had, thirty years before, composed a personal recollection of D. H. Lawrence for the publisher Martin Secker, following their mutual writer-friend’s death.
Rebecca West would have been the natural choice for a rare proof-copy among Russell’s stable of fiction reviewers. She was normally sought-after. In this case, she would have been wooed.
Had the American Garden worked its magic that summer’s day in June as the FBI’s London attaché escorted Dame Rebecca West down its lush and lovely paths? Had he steered the conversation with as much care?
The Bureau man would have told Dame Rebecca he had no doubt that Sir Allen Lane and the Penguin Board were well-meaning. But unlike her, they weren’t privy to ‘the intelligence’. They couldn’t know that their plan to publish such a controversial novel was playing right into the Soviets’ hands. That was the troubling context, which Mr Hoover was sure she appreciated. They valued her friendship greatly. If he might be so bold…she was a credit to her country. Might she know of any means by which she could help Mr Hoover to ‘deactivate’ the Soviets’ ‘Active Measures’ work in London, particularly with regards to Lady Chatterley?
6th July, 1960
Ibstone House
Dear Toby,
I am forwarding this proof-copy on behalf of a highly regarded American friend. He believes it may be of interest to you in your official capacity.
Lunch? Soon?
Yours,
R.W.
Did she send it?
July gives way sluggishly, in a torpor of heat, to August. Penguin’s unexpurgated Lady Chatterley’s Lover – a trove of 200,000 newly printed paperbacks – sits in a warehouse west of London, in the unlikely location of Harmondsworth, an otherwise quaint village, little used to excitement in a cricket match, let alone contraband. Two security guards are hired for a round-the-clock patrol. As the senior man hands the keys to the other at the end of the first shift, he shrugs off the younger man’s question about the contents they guard. ‘Explosive,’ he says. ‘If I tell you more, I’ll have to kill you.’
* * *
—
The heat of summer goes tick – tick – tick, like the overworked engine of a year that is slow to cool. While most Londoners that August stick to the shade of awnings and trees, Literary Editor Leonard Russell is about to climb out on a dangerous limb. He is ready to declare that Penguin Books is unlikely to be prosecuted on publication day, August 25th. He has written a long editorial saying as much. In this way, he – or rather, the Sunday Times – might just influence Establishment opinion before it knows what its own opinion is.
Might.
He consults the two reviewers he selected in February for the rare advance-copies, trusted professionals, including Dame Rebecca. Is each agreed, he asks, on his statement – his nailing of their colours to the Sunday Times mast – namely, that Penguin Books won’t face prosecution?
Something unexpected transpires in one of those conversations. In which of the two, we can only speculate. It would be safe to assume, however, that it was not the discussion, in the Russell kitchen, with Lady Chatterley admirer and Sunday Times reviewer, Dilys Powell – a.k.a. Mrs Leonard Russell, and in all likelihood the mystery-recipient of the second advance-copy. After all, why let a rare book – the rarest of the year – leave one’s shelves when a literary couple could offer an unpublished orphan a perfectly good home?
