Lord Beaverbrook by David Adams Richards Page B
Authors: David Adams Richards
Tags: Biography
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sooner or later he kept her from them, simply because of their different needs. Then, after a time, with his politics and finances and other involvements, he lost interest in her and the children. He was an open mark to be blamed for this. He knew and accepted this as well.
She thought of these bed partners of his as trivial encounters. Some say the only love interest she really minded was Jean Norton. A.J.P. Taylor says this was because Norton was someone Beaverbrook wanted to shape andmould and develop, and he could not do this with Lady Beaverbrook, who, as Lord Birkenhead once commented, “had a breeding and a beauty to recommend her to any society in Europe.” It was Jean Norton he was in bed with when Gladys came to visit him at his hideaway in London. This is what Beaverbrook’s daughter never forgave.
Norton was the wife of a member of parliament, and had children of her own. And she was in Max’s league, so to speak; like him she felt a need for companionship at the expense of a more sober spouse. They fought too, Beaver and Jean—but he must have loved her in some way. (Though he said, and I have no reason not to believe him, that the one love of his life was Gladys Drury.) Jean and he travelled together to Europe, played together in Italy, went to Monte Carlo, while her husband—understanding fellow—wanted to help Max with his finances.
Gladys was not so understanding. She decided to fight back. So she told him she was tired of being stuck out in Cherkley and asked to move to London to be closer to him. He relented and bought Stornoway House near Green Park for her. She moved to London with the children, and then found out that the little bugger had moved Jean Norton out to Cherkley. One would have to be callous to even consider this. But it’s a gambit that somehowseems naughty rather than harmful. It would, as Miramichers say, have “seemed like a good idea at the time.” How much time elapsed after Gladys went out the front door before Jean swooped in the back? Max is not the only one to blame here. What in hell was Jean Norton thinking? Did she think it harmful?
Harmful it was, perhaps in some ways soul-destroying. In 1926, Gladys left for a trip around the world with her daughter Janet. When she came back, Beaver believed he was prepared to settle down with her—to make it all up. She wrote him a letter expressing her love. But she was ill now. He had taken trips all his life with others. Now she went to Belgium alone, hoping for treatment. He wrote her a wonderful letter about how he would change—how she must live. How he would no longer take on the world, how he would spend more time with her. Who knows if he meant it? I know he believed he did.
But he did not get to prove whether he did or not. In fact, he was not to see her again. She came back to Stornoway House and died on December 1, 1927, while he was absent. In fact, Gladys had lived most of her life in Britain alone, far from her family in Canada, and with children who were estranged from a father they hardly knew.
If we want to talk about Max Aitken’s tragedy—this was it.
HE DID CHANGE after this in some ways. He never gave up Jean, but now he acquired hiding places, to seek solitude from the world. From here on out he wanted to see no one. From here on out no one could get in touch with him—until he wanted them to. There were new hiding places in England and the Bahamas. In many ways he now hated the world—night life and politics and all of that. But still he needed people near him, so he would call them late at night and ask them over. Late at night—that is the time of the secret extrovert. The comical magician, the game-player. He would arrive in the Bahamas and wire Winston to come and see him.
(This is a real Maritime trait. I can think of a dozen well-known men from the Maritimes who were/are exactly like this. You get a phone call at eleven at night and are asked if you are in the mood for a snack. . . . )
He
She thought of these bed partners of his as trivial encounters. Some say the only love interest she really minded was Jean Norton. A.J.P. Taylor says this was because Norton was someone Beaverbrook wanted to shape andmould and develop, and he could not do this with Lady Beaverbrook, who, as Lord Birkenhead once commented, “had a breeding and a beauty to recommend her to any society in Europe.” It was Jean Norton he was in bed with when Gladys came to visit him at his hideaway in London. This is what Beaverbrook’s daughter never forgave.
Norton was the wife of a member of parliament, and had children of her own. And she was in Max’s league, so to speak; like him she felt a need for companionship at the expense of a more sober spouse. They fought too, Beaver and Jean—but he must have loved her in some way. (Though he said, and I have no reason not to believe him, that the one love of his life was Gladys Drury.) Jean and he travelled together to Europe, played together in Italy, went to Monte Carlo, while her husband—understanding fellow—wanted to help Max with his finances.
Gladys was not so understanding. She decided to fight back. So she told him she was tired of being stuck out in Cherkley and asked to move to London to be closer to him. He relented and bought Stornoway House near Green Park for her. She moved to London with the children, and then found out that the little bugger had moved Jean Norton out to Cherkley. One would have to be callous to even consider this. But it’s a gambit that somehowseems naughty rather than harmful. It would, as Miramichers say, have “seemed like a good idea at the time.” How much time elapsed after Gladys went out the front door before Jean swooped in the back? Max is not the only one to blame here. What in hell was Jean Norton thinking? Did she think it harmful?
Harmful it was, perhaps in some ways soul-destroying. In 1926, Gladys left for a trip around the world with her daughter Janet. When she came back, Beaver believed he was prepared to settle down with her—to make it all up. She wrote him a letter expressing her love. But she was ill now. He had taken trips all his life with others. Now she went to Belgium alone, hoping for treatment. He wrote her a wonderful letter about how he would change—how she must live. How he would no longer take on the world, how he would spend more time with her. Who knows if he meant it? I know he believed he did.
But he did not get to prove whether he did or not. In fact, he was not to see her again. She came back to Stornoway House and died on December 1, 1927, while he was absent. In fact, Gladys had lived most of her life in Britain alone, far from her family in Canada, and with children who were estranged from a father they hardly knew.
If we want to talk about Max Aitken’s tragedy—this was it.
HE DID CHANGE after this in some ways. He never gave up Jean, but now he acquired hiding places, to seek solitude from the world. From here on out he wanted to see no one. From here on out no one could get in touch with him—until he wanted them to. There were new hiding places in England and the Bahamas. In many ways he now hated the world—night life and politics and all of that. But still he needed people near him, so he would call them late at night and ask them over. Late at night—that is the time of the secret extrovert. The comical magician, the game-player. He would arrive in the Bahamas and wire Winston to come and see him.
(This is a real Maritime trait. I can think of a dozen well-known men from the Maritimes who were/are exactly like this. You get a phone call at eleven at night and are asked if you are in the mood for a snack. . . . )
He
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