Later he called me into his cabin and read the cable. It stated that I was to be barred from the United States, and that before I could re-enter the country I would have to go before an Immigration Board of Enquiry to answer charges of a political nature and of moral turpitude. The United Press wanted to know if I had any comments to make.
Every nerve in me tensed. Whether I re-entered that unhappy country or not was of little consequence to me. I would like to have told them that the sooner I was rid of that hate-beleaguered atmosphere the better, that I was fed up with America’s insults and moral pomposity, and that the whole subject was damned boring. But everything I possessed was in the States and I was terrified they might find a way of confiscating it. Now I could expect any unscrupulous action from them. So instead I came out with a pompous statement to the effect that I would return and answer their charges, and that my re-entry permit was not a ‘scrap of paper’, but a document given to me in good faith by the United States Government – blah, blah, blah.
There was no further rest on the boat. Press radiograms from all parts of the world wanted statements. At Cherbourg, our first stop before Southampton, a hundred or more European newsmen embarked wanting interviews. We arranged to give them an hour in the buffet room after lunch. Although they were sympathetic, the ordeal was dreary and exhausting.
*
The journey from Southampton to London was one of uneasy suspense; for more important than being barred from the U.S. was my anxiety to know what Oona’s and the children’s reaction would be to their first view of the English countryside. For years I had been extolling the wondrous beauty of the south-western part of England, Devonshire and Cornwall, and now we were passing through dreary clusters of red brick buildings and lanes of uniform houses climbing over hills. Said Oona: ‘They all look alike.’
‘Give us a chance,’ I said. ‘We’re only just outside Southampton.’ And as we travelled along, of course the countryside grew more beautiful.
When we arrived in London at Waterloo Station, the faithful crowd was still there, and was just as loyal and enthusiastic as ever. They waved and cheered as we left the station. ‘Give it to ‘em, Charlie,’ said one. It was indeed heart-warming.
When at last Oona and I had a moment to ourselves, we stood at the window of our suite on the fifth floor of the Savoy Hotel. I pointed to the new Waterloo Bridge; although beautiful, it meant little to me now, only that its road led over to my boyhood. We stood silent, drinking in the most stirring view of a city in all this world. I have admired the romantic elegance of the Place de la Concorde in Paris, have felt the mystic message from a thousand glittering windows at sunset in New York, but to me the view of the London Thames from our hotel window transcends them all for utilitarian grandeur – something deeply human.
I glanced at Oona as she stood taking in the view, her face tense with excitement which made her look younger than her twenty-seven years. Since our marriage she had been through many an ordeal with me; and as she gazed upon London, the sunlight playing about her dark hair, I saw for the first time one or two silver threads. I made no comment, but at that moment I felt slavishly dedicated to her as she said quietly: ‘I like London.’
Twenty years had elapsed since I had been here last. From my view the river bends and the contours of its banks have ugly, modern shapes that marred the skyline. Half of my boyhood had gone in the charred embers of its sooty, vacant lots.
As Oona and I wandered through Leicester Square and Piccadilly, now adulterated by American gimcracks, lunch counters, hot-dog stands and milk bars, we saw hatless youths and blue-jeaned girls ambling about. I remember when one dressed the part for the West End, and strolled with yellow gloves and a walking-stick. But that world has gone, and another takes its place, eyes see differently, emotions react to other themes. Men weep at jazz, and violence has become sexual. Time marches on.
We taxied over to Kennington to look at 3 Pownall Terrace, but the house was empty, ready to be demolished. We paused before 287 Kennington Road where Sydney and I had lived with my father. We passed through Belgravia and saw in the rooms of those once magnificent private houses neon lights and clerks working at desks; other houses were replaced by oblong shapes, glass tanks and cement match-boxes towering upwards – all in the name of progress.
We had many problems: first, getting our money out of the States. This meant Oona would have to fly back to California and take everything from our safe-deposit box. She was away ten days. When she returned, she told me in detail what had happened. At the bank the clerk studied her signature, looked at her, then left and had quite a conference with the bank manager. Oona had a moment of uneasiness until they opened our deposit box.
She said that after completing the business at the bank she went to the house in Beverly Hills. Everything was just as we had left it and the flowers and the grounds looked lovely. She stood alone a moment in the living-room and was quite emotional. Then later she saw Henry, our Swiss butler, who told her that since we went away the F.B.I. men had called twice
