Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  “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 ago, that fellow—you know, Orson Welles—makes a radio broadcast about 'The War of the Worlds' and half the eastern seaboard of America goes into a panic because they think the Martians are attacking. You're not very good at war.”

  “Didn't do too badly in the last one,” she reminded him softly. And she kissed him.

  Almost before he knew it their bodies were pressing up against each other, their tongues searching, his fingers, too, through the buttons of her fur coat and on her breast, but she drew away. Suddenly he was gripped by shame. He heard his mother whispering in his ear, tormenting him, accusing him of being no better than a prowling dog, and he wanted to scream at himself for being such a fool. “I'm so sorry,” he mumbled, preparing to flee, but she held him.

  “Bendy, no—it's me that's sorry. I'm so very fond of you,” she whispered. “It's just that—I've got too much Irish and Catholic in me, it makes me feel so, so—guilty. You wouldn't understand.”

  Understand? He could write the entire encyclopedia. Of course he understood. Unlike hers, his Irish Catholic upbringing was entirely authentic. A mud-roofed hut in Tipperary rather than a New England mansion. With dirt floors instead of marble, and only one room. Lying awake, listening to his parents behind the curtain surrounding their bed, his father's ferocious grunts, her pleas for him to be quieter, and more gentle. And always afterwards, while his father snored, his mother prayed, begged that she would have no more children and be released from the hell of her life. Guilt? His very existence was a matter of guilt, of sin, of suffering, and the lesson had been beaten into him every day at seminary school until he had run away from it at the age of fifteen. But it always came back to him, every time he heard a woman pray, or every time he thought of sex.

  So, yes, Anna Maria, he knew all about guilt.

  Which was why he didn't want anything more to do with the Irish, why he'd tried by all sorts of invention to scrub any lingering bit of Irishness from his voice and his soul, one of the many reasons why he hated Bernard Shaw. Yet Anna Maria reminded him of Ireland every time he looked into her pale green eyes. He didn't even like women—at least, not the hairy, scratchy, unpleasant women who were the sum total of his sexual experience, who smelt so strange and who demanded more money afterwards—yet he was already counting the moments before he could see this woman again. For Bracken, image was everything, yet here he was standing under a tree in a public park with a handful of nipple and a girl almost young enough to be his daughter. He'd never wanted to share his life with any woman, largely because his life was such a fabrication that it wouldn't stand up to any sustained scrutiny, yet suddenly he was breaking every rule in his book.

  That's when he came to the conclusion he had fallen in love.

  “You've gone too far this time. Too wretchedly, damnably far!” And they had thought they were bringing him the best news of the day.

  As soon as they had knocked on the door of the Cabinet Room, Ball and Wilson sensed that their own feelings of elation were misplaced. “What do you want?” Chamberlain had demanded imperiously, not taking his eyes from the letter he was writing.

  Another of those endless missives to his sisters, they decided. He wrote to them in astonishing detail, not only of the facts of his Government but of his ambitions and aspirations, and also of his fears. For him these letters were a cleansing process, like the bleedings insisted upon by a medieval physician, except that in his letters he bled feelings and soul. Sometimes the sisters knew more than even Ball and Wilson, and always more than his wife.

  “News from the front, Neville,” Ball exclaimed, moving into the room.

  “Which of the many fronts that seem to engage my attentions?” the Prime Minister responded. He was always like this when he was tired: overbearing, sarcastic, short. They had learned to ignore it.

  “In their manifold and great mercy, our friends in the frozen north have decided not to retain the Duchess as their candidate at the next election,” Ball continued.

  Still Chamberlain did not look up. There were livid red spots high on his cheeks. He had just been told that the furniture he and his wife had ordered for the new residence at the top of Number Ten would not be arriving for another two months. Delay upon delay. The incompetence was scarcely believable. How was he supposed to secure the peace of Europe when he hadn't got anywhere to store his clean shirts? He was going to visit Signor Mussolini, who normally appeared in public covered in gold braid. Would the British Prime Minister have to arrive looking like some agricultural worker? “If this is democracy, I sometimes wonder why we bother,” he muttered.

  “Neville, this is a triumph of democracy,” Ball protested.

  “What is?”

  “The damned Duchess. She's out.”

  At last he gave them his attention. “She's out?”

  “Constituency's disowned her.”

  “Ah, about time.” He relaxed a little, leaning back in his chair. “And I suppose if I examined the matter closely I would find your fingerprints somewhere on the death warrant.”

  “The lightest of dabs, perhaps.” And they almost tumbled over themselves in their enthusiasm to offer him the details. “Seems it was quite a lynch mob."—"She didn't stand a chance."—"The motion was put to the meeting that they should seek a candidate who'd support your position on Europe."—"It was overwhelming."—"273 votes to 167."—"The agent says he's never known such a turnout.” There was laughter. “And the best bit's yet to come. The poor Duchess was so distressed she's resigned her seat. Flown off in a fit."—"Intends to stand as an Independent, would you believe?"—” Yes, there's going to be a by-election.”

  “What?” Chamberlain sprang to his feet. The pen he was using clattered to the table, spraying the letter with wet slugs of ink. “What?” he demanded again. His entire face had now colored and his hand was clasping his temples. “How could you? You fools!”

  “Steady on, Neville.” Both men turned momentarily to stone. Something had gone dramatically wrong, this wasn't the script they had brought with them. “What's the problem? She's turned her back on the peace, now she's turned her back on the party. She's done for.”

  “But a by-election. Don't you see what that means?”

  Wilson and Ball looked at each other in bewilderment.

  “The voters
will have to choose.”

  “Some choice,” Ball snorted. “Between war and peace.”

  “Between her—and me.” Chamberlain leaned for support on the white marble fireplace, both arms outstretched, gazing into the empty grate, as if faith itself were draining from him. “You've gone too far this time. Too wretchedly, damnably far!”

  “No,” Wilson objected. “How?”

  Chamberlain turned, his voice grown tight, enunciating every word with care. “But what if she wins?”

  “She can't bloody win,” Ball insisted. “She doesn't have a friend who isn't a Bolshie or can't be made to look one.”

  “You're almost as popular as God out there.” Wilson waved a hand in the general direction of the windows.

  “The Lord giveth. And He taketh, Sir Horace.” Chamberlain was breathing heavily, struggling to control his mood. “Something's been going on—out there. I don't know what, perhaps all this nonsense with the Jews, but it's all wobbling.” He picked up a cardboard folder that had lain beside his blotter and threw it down the table. “Hitler's pogroms have made him look like a criminal. And us like conspirators and accomplices.”

  “You can't possibly believe the stupid Duchess will win,” Ball protested.

  “The News Chronicle has just got hold of an opinion poll that suggests she might.”

  “Those polls?” Ball snorted. “It's a bit of a rebound, nothing more. Like the bride coming back from her honeymoon to find a pile of washing.” He chewed casually at a fingernail. “Anyway, I've already persuaded the News Chronicle to suppress most of it.”

  Yet Chamberlain was in no way reassured. He began to stride impatiently around the long rectangular Cabinet table, leaning forward as though into a wind. “They don't believe Herr Hitler. They don't believe he has no more territorial ambitions. They don't believe in Munich any more.” He stopped, glaring at them, accusing. “Which means they don't believe in me.”

  Ball thumped the table so hard the silver and crystal inkwell jumped in its place. “You're confusing the issue, Neville. We've never said they've got to like Hitler. I hate the bugger myself. Which makes what you've done with him all the more remarkable. You've extracted a more than reasonable deal from a totally unreasonable man. People understand that. You get the credit for it. And if he goes and tramples all over the agreement and half of bloody Europe, then everyone will know who's to blame. We're not dealing with issues of delicacy here, Neville, we're dealing with the dregs of Europe. With Jews, with jumped-up little Austrian upstarts, with the decadent French who change their governments as often as they change their mistresses and with millions of bloody Bolshies who are sitting just across the border sharpening their knives and ready to slit the throats of everyone who's not looking their way. Europe's a mess. You can't clean it up all on your own, but you have given them the chance to do it for themselves.”

  “Cleaning up? Is that what you call the things Hitler's doing?”

  “It's omelets and eggs, and by the time the voters get round to wiping the last bit of grease from their plates they'll be too busy rubbing their stomachs to worry about a few scraps on the kitchen floor. So Hitler's breaking more than eggs, but the muckier it gets the more grateful people are going to be that you've kept this country out of it. Scotsmen don't want to go to war with Germany all over again for the sake of Jews and Communists.”

  “The by-election isn't a war with Herr Hitler, it's a war between the Duchess and me. We'll be fighting on her territory. And if I lose, my credibility will be ruined, not just at home but abroad. I would never be able to look Hitler or Mussolini in the eye again. It would be a disaster. All my efforts for peace would be lost and we'd end up embroiled in the most dreadful war mankind has ever known. It's not just my record at stake, it's the survival of civilization. Don't you see? I must win that election.”

  “You will, Neville. And when you do, every other rebel in the party will be on their knees either begging your forgiveness or waiting for a bullet in the back of the head. The Duchess is doing us a favor.”

  “You can guarantee that?”

  Ball looked slowly from the Prime Minister to his colleague, then for a moment examined a badly chewed fingernail. “Trust me. Your by-election is already in the bag.”

  This was A Bad Thing and Churchill knew it. A Very Bad Thing. And like so much nowadays, he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Yet at first it had seemed to be such An Excellent Thing.

  The manager of his bank had telephoned most unexpectedly, and after the initial pleasantries—more strained on Churchill's part than was usual—came straight to the point. Had he found “alternative accommodation” for the loan? Bloody fool. “Accommodation?” What was the man running, a bank or a bed-and-breakfast place? It wasn't accommodation Churchill needed; his loan wasn't asleep, all gently tucked up. It was very much awake, like an evil monkey, perched on his shoulder. Always there when he looked round. Staring, growing heavier. So, no, he hadn't found anywhere else.

  “Then I may have some good news for you…”

  The manager thought he could get his superiors at the bank to agree to renew the existing loan. “With the easing of the war threat, Mr. Churchill, we are able to take a somewhat longer-term view of such matters. I'm sure you understand.”

  Now he was convinced the manager was A Bloody Fool. The threat of war gone away? It hadn't left, it had only become temporarily distracted while it stuck its knife and fork into Czechoslovakia. But what was Churchill to say? He held his tongue, he needed this man. The manager might yet prove to be a Useful Bloody Fool.

  No guarantees, the manager had insisted, still only a proposal, but one he would be advocating to his colleagues with great force. And he was hopeful. An Ever Optimistic Useful Bloody Fool. So could Churchill make himself available to sign the relevant documents, perhaps the following week, in London. Not quite sure precisely when, and apologies for the inconvenience, but time was short and they would have to move extremely quickly to make the deadline, otherwise…

  Yet that following week he was supposed to be traveling up to Scotland to make a speech on behalf of the Duchess of Atholl. The major speech of the campaign. The great by-election rally. Showing her electors and the entire world that she wasn't alone.

  But the bank manager was both insistent and inflexible. The documents were indispensable, the signatures vital, the deadline loomed and he was sorry but he couldn't yet say precisely when next week. In spite of all Churchill's pleadings he could find no alternative.

  And now he had to tell her.

  The phone clicked and cracked and at last he heard her voice. “Kitty, my darling Duchess, how are things on the battle front?”

  But he was unable to listen to her answers. Then he explained that he could not make the meeting. He had to break his promise. He would send her messages to publish, he would shower her with words of support and deepest affection, but he could not come to the constituency.

  “Another one of the walking wounded not up to the long journey north,” she muttered dispiritedly. Her opponent had already flooded the constituency with dozens of MPs and there were more to come in the last few days of the campaign—"my constituency's beginning to look like the front hall of Conservative Central Office.” Yet it seemed that her own supporters in the Conservative Party, few in number as they were, had encountered any number of impediments to helping her. That was the word she used—impediments. She clearly meant excuses.

  But this wasn't an excuse, it was…Money. Security. His home. Chartwell. Hadn't he already made enough sacrifices for the cause? Yet if the cause were so vital and urgent then surely…? But his first commitment must be to his family. They had no one else. And what of other families? Those who had already lost their homes, and would undoubtedly lose much, much more? Whichever way he argued the matter, it was of little comfort to him and would be of no comfort whatsoever to the Duchess. He was tired, exhausted by his many burdens, he couldn't carry on being nothing more than a storm in the
wilderness. So he had left her with no explanation, merely the excuse of unavoidable commitments.

  His darling Duchess was on her own.

  “You doin' all right down there, ducks?”

  Desdemona was concerned. She'd found a right one here. He'd seemed grumpy right from the start, almost angry—and he wasn't much with words. Foreign, she thought, bit of the Wop in him. Still, he was polite—said please, even—and it was her last engagement of the day so she'd thought, Why not? It was rent day on Friday.

  It was when he'd taken his clothes off that her concern began to grow. He'd undressed very methodically, not bashfully like some of her clients, nor over-eagerly either, just bit by bit, laying everything out carefully on the chair. Old clothes, neat, but probably second-hand. He was clean, that she liked, and well groomed, but as he took off his vest she saw a body that reminded her of old Bluey, the mongrel collie she'd rescued from the dogs' home who had promptly gone and got himself run over by a milk lorry. Wasn't used to roads, poor thing. They'd tried to stick him back together but he'd just pined, wasted away, all crooked, until his body looked like nothing but—well, like this chap's. Full of ribs and scars.

  Then he'd looked at her and asked if she would take her clothes off carefully, too. Like they were going to bed, instead of having a quick one before she had to hand over the room to the night shift. Goodness, she half expected him to suggest they get down on their knees and start to pray. But she rather liked it. He had watched her carefully, appreciating every new area that she exposed, and although her body nowadays left a lot to be desired he seemed to appreciate it. It had been a long time since anybody, including herself, had done anything with her body except use it. Not since Jimmy had come home on leave and she'd told him she was up the spout, and he'd acted all sort of funny, gone quiet, then walked down to the pub one Sunday dinnertime and never come back. She'd burnt the meal to a crisp, waiting for the bastard. He'd even left his naval uniform behind. She burnt that, too.