Winston’s War. Michael Dobbs
some of it should spread out and stick. And so they toiled, disturbed by nothing more than the chiming of the clock, the drumming of typewriter keys, the scratching of nibs, the occasional flooding of a handkerchief – one of them had been dragged from his sick bed despite the protestations of his wife. Death and misery were much on his mind.
If you vote for the Duchess there will be war, and your sons will all be killed, like mine were in the last war, butchered by German steel. Can you bear that on your conscience?
There were alternative strategies in use. One of his colleagues preferred to inspire by adulation:
Mr Neville Chamberlain is a saint. He has saved us. There is war in China, in Abyssinia, in Spain. Hundreds of thousands have already died. If Britain goes to war, that will surely be our fate. Yet even though the Prime Minister is an elderly man he has thrown himself into his duties, flying three times to Germany though he had never before flown, hurled himself into the breach, unsparing of his time, uncaring of his health and safety. His one ambition has been PEACE. Peace for this time, peace for all time. He is surely amongst the great men of all time. That is why I will do anything to support him. I trust you will, too, by letting your MP know [underlined twice, in squiggly waves] of the strength of feeling of the ordinary people in this country.
He signed it Mrs Ada Boscombe.
It was ten minutes or more after the clock had marked nine when the doors of the lift opened. Two butlers emerged, dressed in tails and stiff wing collars, bearing substantial silver trays. On one was heaped a steaming tangle of brick-red lobsters, all claws and alarmed eyes, accompanied by a large dish of clear molten butter and surrounded by a plentiful garnish of sliced cucumber and tomato. The other tray bore three bottles of chilled Pol Roger champagne and five crystal glasses.
‘With the compliments of ‘is Lordship,’ the first butler informed them, placing his tray on the sideboard, producing knives, forks and linen napkins like a magician from deep pockets inside his jacket. ‘And ‘e says to make sure you bring the silver trays back.’
They had come, in unprecedented numbers. Every seat was occupied, every corner crowded. The Duchess had remarked on the numbers, and on the fact that many of the faces seemed unfamiliar to her, but her agent assured her that apart from a handful of journalists they were all paid-up members of the association. ‘The times are very political, Your Grace,’ he had explained. What he declined to tell her, and what she was never to know, was how many of those fresh faces had had their membership dues paid in the last few days by William McCrieff. As McCrieff had put it to him, many ordinary voters in the constituency had been galvanized by the events of recent weeks and he had persuaded them to join, urged on by great issues such as war and peace – and, the agent suspected, by an extra pound in their pockets for their trouble in attending a political meeting, not to mention the promise of free hospitality afterwards. Even if many of those gathered together had been members for no more than six days and some for no longer than six hours, there was nothing in the rules to prevent such a show of interest and enthusiasm. In any event it was bound to be a meeting of exceptional significance for it had been convened to decide whom they should choose as a candidate to fight the next election. And the agent, like so many members loyal to the causes of appeasement and a comfortable life, found the Duchess about as comfortable as an ice storm in August. She was always lecturing, hectoring. Not like McCrieff. His methods were different. A quiet word, a dram or two, and the business was done. A good party man, was McCrieff, unlike the Duchess. She not only had her own opinions – so many of them – but insisted on sharing them. A grave fault in a politician, the agent reckoned, perhaps a mortal one. Anyway, the chairman had just called the meeting to order; they were soon to find out.
They had been to see George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman at the Old Vic – a splendid performance, she’d thought, with Valerie Tudor and Anthony Quayle, but he found it a preposterous play, like most of the stuff the old man produced. All those Left-wing ideas tangled up in his bloody beard, which were then scraped off like yesterday’s lunch. He thought Quayle’s role as Tanner had been absurd, and played in the same manner – all this guff about woman being the pursuer and man the pursued. But Anna Maria had warmed to it, said it was splendid and up-to-date, seemed to enjoy wrapping herself in theatrical fantasy. So he indulged her, and for once bit his tongue.
He hadn’t wanted the evening to end – he thought about inviting her back for a drink at his home in Lord North Street, which was near at hand, but he didn’t know her well enough and was afraid it might sound predatory and she would say no. He didn’t know how to deal with rejection from women – his mother had always treated him as nothing better than an inconvenience, and after he had left the family home he had made it a rule in his carefully constructed life never to put himself into a position where rejection might be possible. Yet he did not want to simply say goodnight. So he had suggested that they not drive all the way home, but stop on the other side of the park from where they could walk the last stretch to her front door. She had accepted with a smile.
He had deliberately taken the long way round, leading her through Hyde Park until they had arrived at the Serpentine where the rowing boats were tied up in a miniature armada and little waves lapped at the edges of the ink-black pond. She looped her arm through his, clinging tighter than was strictly necessary. Perhaps he should have invited her back for a drink after all.
‘So do you think there will be war, Bendy?’ She had given him a nickname. He’d never had a nickname before.
‘Hope not,’ he replied, not wanting to alarm her.
‘But your Mr Churchill says he thinks there will be.’
And he found himself irritated. Churchill was his hero, his political master, yet Bracken was growing to resent the manner in which others treated him as little more than an adjunct to the elder statesman, and no one took him more for granted than the old man himself. ‘Don’t know what’s going on with Winston. Very peculiar,’ he muttered. ‘He – perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this, but – well, he’s got money problems and asked me to help him. To see if I could find a backer, someone to provide him with a loan to get him through. So I’ve been running around all over London making enquiries and then, just yesterday, he tells me to stop. No explanation. No thanks. Just –’ He waved his hands in dismissal.
‘Great men are like that. Hope you won’t be like that when it’s your turn.’ She held him still tighter. ‘Uncle Joe’s like that. Bit like Mr Churchill, I suppose. Do you think he might ever become Prime Minister?’
So they walked, disturbing the sleeping ducks, exchanging confidences in a manner that was unusual for Bracken with a woman. Churchill’s money problems, Churchill’s ambitions, Churchill’s drunken son and his protective wife. Always Churchill. Anna sensed that Bracken didn’t care for Churchill’s wife and much preferred the company of his disreputable son. Bracken protested that Churchill still had plenty of time to become Prime Minister – why, Gladstone had been eighty, he insisted – but she thought he protested too vigorously on the matter, as if trying to shout down his own doubts.
And wasn’t it strange, he said, that the two of them should be walking arm in arm while their two masters were usually at each other’s throats.
‘Oh, you mustn’t mind Uncle Joe, he’s always mad at something. Always plotting, always a little angry. He doesn’t think much of the State Department – calls them a bunch of cookie-pushers – and gets quite furious about the White House. Think he’d like to be President himself, one day, just like Mr Churchill. They’re a lot alike in some ways.’
‘If we value our personal safety I suggest we don’t mention it to either of them.’
They stopped in the shadow of a tree, looking at the distant lights of Knightsbridge that sparkled off the water and seemed to find reflection in each other’s eyes.
‘Don’t worry about war, Anna,’ Bracken said, tried to reassure her, holding her shoulders, playing with the ends of her soft hair. ‘You Americans worry too much, you go funny at the very thought of war,’ he chided. ‘Why, just days