Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  But because this one seemed to appreciate her, she found herself enjoying it, him getting down to it. Yes, the old torpedo was in the tube, as Jimmy used to say, and his engines were running. So she closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of the bedsprings and tried to get back in touch with those senses in a woman she thought had been lost with the laundry ages ago.

  “You're enjoying it,” he said. And stopped.

  “What's the matter, ducks? Have I done something wrong?”

  “You're enjoying it,” he repeated, like an accusation. “I've…I've never had a woman who enjoyed it.”

  “What, never?”

  “Only pretend.”

  “What, even your wife?”

  “Never been married.”

  “Not ever?”

  “Who would marry this?” he said, indicating his broken body.

  “Hey, don't do yourself down. Hell, I'm not exactly Betty Grable meself.” Then, quietly: “You always been like that?”

  “Since I was very young.”

  “You poor bleeder,” she whispered. “But let me tell you, ducks, don't let it get you down. I tell you, I've had—well, I know what I'm talking about, know what I mean? And I was really enjoying it with you.”

  He stood up, every part of his body looking mournful.

  “Now I've spoilt it. Sorry,” he muttered. “Can't seem to enjoy anything at the moment.”

  She couldn't get over it. A punter who apologized. Where had this one come from? And she looked at him and he reminded her of Bluey, someone she wanted to take care of. So she had got down on her knees, but not to pray, ignoring the bare floorboards, and had made sure he enjoyed it after all. She assured him that she had enjoyed it, too—well, only a little white lie, the sort of thing you pretend to a—friend.

  “There you are, ducks. Feel better now, do we?”

  And he did. Earlier that afternoon he'd been round to his former fiancée's, the nearly-but-never-to-be Mrs. McFadden, and asked for the ring back. It had cost him two weeks' wages and he saw no reason why she should keep it, particularly when over her shoulder in the kitchen he could see another man's ironing hanging out to air. He hadn't got the ring, of course, only several lungfuls of abuse. And a few tears. It had been a stupid idea, but he had nothing to lose, not even his pride. He hadn't bothered with pride, not since the camps. But he'd thought of her, the would-be Mrs. McFadden, in the middle of his session with Desdemona, because he'd never had sex with his fiancée and had begun to wonder whether it would have been enjoyable getting into her drawers. Perhaps that's why he had been so distracted. Until Desdemona had…

  “Can I see you again?” he asked.

  “Course, ducks. I do Tuesdays and Thursdays most weeks and—”

  “No. I mean—see you. Not just sex. Maybe just for a drink.”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno. Perhaps because I hate drinking on my own.”

  “Full of compliments, you are.”

  It seemed forever since she'd last talked to a man about anything other than tricks and time and money in advance, except for the occasional queer sort who wanted to talk about his wife, and anyway it was the end of her shift. So she had dickered and negotiated for some more money and ended up pushing her way alongside him through the evening crowds that thronged the Market to the King's Head. Just round the corner, very public, where other working girls would be able to keep an eye on her, like they did for each other. She still didn't trust him; maybe he wanted to drag her off into his cave and cook her.

  Standing room only in the King's Head. They leaned on the bar. “You look different,” he muttered across his pint of mild.

  She was wearing a simple corduroy dress and a woolen sweater that was probably knitted at home, with low-heeled shoes and only a touch of makeup, complemented by pearl earrings and a ruby butterfly brooch that probably came from Woolies. The push-up and pull-apart gear—her “working clobber,” as she called it—was in a little cardboard suitcase at her side. “I have another life outside the Market. They don't mix.”

  “Am I permitted to ask what?”

  “Suppose you'd better, 'cause I ain't going to stand in the middle of the public bar and shout about me Tuesdays and Thursdays, am I now?” She leaned forward, smelling of rose water. “So Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays I work as a cleaner. That pays for the rent. Tuesdays and Thursdays is food and clothes for the kids.”

  “Kids?”

  “You don't think I'd do this unless I had to, do you?”

  “Do they have exotic names like their mother?”

  She laughed into the froth on her Mackeson. “What, Desdemona?”

  “You are going to shock me and tell me it is not your real name.”

  “It's Carol.”

  “And the children?”

  She hesitated—he'd gone a pace too far. “I'm so proud of the little blighters. Yet somehow I don't want to tell you their names. Maybe it's 'cause I separate the two parts of my life and there's a long trip in between, and I leave my kids on the other side. They're not the sort of thing I want to talk about with a punter in the middle of the public bar.”

  “I see. But if I asked you out for another drink—just for a drink—would I still be a punter?”

  A smile caught the edge of her lips. “Dunno. You're a sly bugger, you are.” But already she was giving her answer, picking a small piece of lint from his lapel, building bridges.

  “So, what's it to be? Dinner at the Ritz? Dancing at the Café Royal? Oysters at Wheelers?” He picked up a newspaper that had been left on the counter, folded to the entertainments section. “Or a cup of tea at Lyons Corner House and an evening at the pictures? Next week. Anything you want to see?” He handed it across.

  She pushed it back. “No, you choose.”

  “Can't. Haven't got my reading glasses.”

  “Me neither.”

  “What, an eagle eye like you needs reading glasses?” Not when she could spot stray fluff on his jacket. He pushed the newspaper back along the bar.

  It was as though he had handed her a jail sentence. In a moment the smile melted, the eyes had grown agitated, she no longer wanted to be there. He reached over and touched her arm in concern. “Carol, what's the matter? What have I done?”

  “I…I…” For a moment there was nothing but an incomprehensible stammer. “I am so ashamed.” Then the stammer turned to a blubber and she scrabbled in her handbag for a handkerchief, but he was ahead of her, offering her his own, neatly laundered, and soon it was covered in mascara. Then his arm was on her shoulder, shielding her distress from the other drinkers.

  “Funny, innit?” she sobbed defiantly. “Me, in my profession, feeling shamed.”

  “But why?”

  She glared at the newspaper with a look that might have encouraged spontaneous combustion. “'Cause I can't bloody read, can I.”

  He looked from her to the newspaper, then back again. “You can't…?”

  She shook her head, which hung low in humiliation. He placed a finger under her chin and raised it until he was looking into her eyes.

  “We have quite a lot in common, you and me, Carol. I couldn't read English until I was almost thirty years old. And it is not a cause for shame. But if ever you have an evening or two free, would you like me to teach you to read?”

  “You would?” Hope had begun to swim alongside the tears once more.

  He nodded.

  “And what would you like me to do for you in return?”

  He roared with laughter. “Allow me to buy you another drink. For a start.”

  “You really are a sly bugger, you are,” she said once again. “My boy does all the reading for me at home. Letters from the landlord, his school reports, that sort of thing. Even reads books to me at night. We're doing Lorna Doone right now. Sounds bloody cold on those moors. And aren't men such tossers? Well, most of them, anyhow.” The words were flooding from her, carrying away her shame. “But I'd love to learn to read. Maybe get anoth
er job, shop work or something. Just a little more money. Get out of this business. Get out of the cleaning business, too. Although I don't suppose I'd have that job if I couldn't—you know, not read.”

  Mac was sucking his fingers distractedly—his fresh pint glass had stuck to the varnished counter and spilled beer over his hand, and he had only half a mind on what she was saying. “Why's that then?” he asked, buying time.

  “Well, I'm a cleaner at the Home Secretary's house—you know, Sir Sam Hoare? Think the only reason I got the job is 'cause they know I can't read—he's a bit untidy with his papers, he is, and doesn't like to have to sort himself out every time a cleaner comes in. Bit of a bastard on the quiet, too. Tried it on when Her Ladyship was away once, dirty sod. After lunch, had a bit too much at his club. 'Course, it would have been different if he'd asked on a Tuesday or Thursday…”

  Beer was still dripping from his fingers but Mac no longer seemed to care. Thoughts had begun to spin round him like a swarm of under-fed flies. Thoughts about Carol, about Hoare, about his highly polished table and the crumbs that fell from it. And half-formed thoughts about his customer named Guy Burgess who seemed to have an insatiable interest in those sorts of crumbs.

  “But one thing I've got to ask,” Carol was saying, dragging him back to the bar. “Why is it you don't seem to have a problem with—you know, my Tuesdays and Thursdays? Most men would…”

  “I am not most men. And in my time I have done far, far worse than you—during the war, and after. We all have to find our own ways to live and I long ago learned to live without shame. I remember a story from my childhood. Bible stuff, about the battle of Jericho. Before it started, Joshua sent two men into the city. The King heard of this and gave orders for the men to be captured. So they hid on the roof of a house owned by a prostitute named Rahab. She wouldn't reveal where they were hiding, even when the King threatened to torture her. So when Joshua came with his army of Israelites and all their trumpets and marched around the walls and blew the place down, everyone in the city was killed, except for Rahab. She had gathered all her family in her room and tied a red ribbon on the window as a sign, so every single one of them was saved.” He smiled. “She was a fine, brave woman. You remind me a little of Rahab.”

  “What? She took on two men at a time? Sounds like bloody hard work. I'm a bit old-fashioned, me, strictly a one-man girl.” She was mocking him gently. “But it's a lovely story. Thank you, ducks. Never realized you were religious.”

  He shook his head, almost defiantly. “Not me. Don't believe in very much at all.”

  “I'm C of E. Take the kids every Sunday. Not that I'm particularly religious, either, but it means my boy can go to the church school.”

  “I bet Rahab's kid grew up to be Chief Rabbi.”

  “But one thing's puzzling me. Why did Rahab need to hide these two men in the first place? Why was the King hunting them? Who were they?”

  Suddenly the flies that were swarming inside his brain had stopped buzzing.

  “Not a puzzle. Thought you'd have guessed. They were looking for crumbs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They were spies.”

  The figure that walks into the midst of a smoky, well-sweated, and mostly masculine baiting pit this evening is small and delicate, even elderly. She is not beautiful but certainly striking, almost doll-like in her thick ankle-length skirt. Yet appearances deceive, for Katharine, Duchess of Atholl, has the stomach, the determination, and the heedless commitment of an Andalusian bull. She has made a reputation for herself by embracing causes that many deem simply absurd—lost causes, mostly, not only in the fight against female circumcision in Africa but other problems that her male colleagues find difficult or downright embarrassing, like child prostitution and refugees. It is a time when the fashion is for caution, not causes.

  Her heart is large and her sympathies are limitless, washing over the narrow banks of party loyalties that so many of her colleagues insist upon. That's why they have never forgiven her. It has been a long and often lonely path that has brought her here, to this congregation packed into the town hall. Her eyes—dark, eloquent, hooded, the most expressive of eyes with their constant shadows of too much caring and too little sleep—move amongst them. There are people here she does not recognize, and more than a few she knows for certain support her opponent, the official Conservative candidate, a local laird named Snadden. His message has been simple. He stands for appeasement, for Chamberlain, and for the total destruction of her career.

  She is a woman of passion and has no objection to political fervor in others, but enthusiasm in these parts in recent days has turned to ugly obsession. Conservative Central Office, that bastion of victory-before-virtue, has swamped the constituency many times over with MPs, leaflets, and newsletters, and in their wake they have left libel and innuendo—rumors that she is a secret Communist, that she is sick, on the edge of a nervous breakdown, is neglecting her husband, that she has an illegitimate child by a Jew.

  Letters have appeared throughout the constituency, letters that threaten her supporters and encourage those who cannot make up their minds. No one seems to know who has written these letters, but most of the postmarks appear to come from the London area. Other actions are indisputably local. Traders who have put up her posters in their shop windows quickly find themselves the victims of an unspoken boycott; several windows have been broken. Gangs of small boys have been roaming the streets of the constituency waving placards which proclaim: “RED KITTY WANTS WAR.” Their leaders have been paid two shillings and sixpence for their trouble.

  Most sickening of all is a vicious anti-Communist, Jew-hating, Duchess-baiting journal perversely entitled Truth that has been delivered to the doorstep of every household in the constituency. Amongst many other things it accuses her of speaking on Communist platforms and singing “The Red Flag.” It is false and directly libelous, but her efforts to discover who is behind this publication have failed.

  Yet she does not doubt she will win. The people of Kinross and West Perthshire are a little dour and intensely proud. They will not be won over by innuendo and attacks launched from an outpost four hundred miles to the south. These are her people, they know her not as the Red Kitty of the scandal rags but the woman who has served them for fifteen years, often to the point of exhaustion and infirmity. She has fought for their jobs, helped build their schools, saved their houses, often paid their medical bills out of her own pocket. She has wept with them, too.

  But it is a pity Winston could not come. This is the major public meeting of her election campaign and his participation has been widely advertised. She bears Churchill no ill will. Several others have also failed to fulfill their promises to speak for her and have offered every sort of excuse. Bob Boothby, at least, has been candid. He has explained that the chairman of his association and half his executive spent an entire evening shouting at him and insisting they would resign if he joined her on an anti-Chamberlain platform. Just an hour before this confrontation he'd received an anonymous letter threatening to make public his relationship with Dorothy Macmillan “if you insist on sticking your head above the sandbags in Perth. The trenches can be muddy at this time of year. Don't be surprised if the mud sticks.” In the circumstances, he had been able to offer her nothing but his best wishes.

  Both Churchill and Boothby would have been helpful—oh, so useful. They have gifts of oratory, the ability to capture a moment, gifts which she has never had. They could have transformed a packed audience such as this, turned them all to silk purses, while she can only lecture them and hope to be heard amongst the throng standing at the back.

  Yet rapidly it becomes apparent that lectures are not what they have come for tonight. She stands behind a table draped in a Union flag and finds herself battling against a tide of questions that make her feel she is standing not on the familiar wooden stage but on nothing more substantial than quicksand.

  “Your Grace, why did you stand and sing 'The Red Fl
ag'?”

  “I didn't. I beg you to believe me that this is a total distortion…”

  “Then do you agree that all Communists are scum?”

  “Ah, Mr. McCrieff. Good evening…”

  “Please answer the question directly, Your Grace. Do you agree that all Communists are scum?”

  “I find name-calling never gets debate very far.”

  “Some journalists have suggested that on your recent trip to the United States you vigorously attacked Mr. Chamberlain.”

  “Lies! I have never said anything that would embarrass Mr. Chamberlain personally.”

  “But wouldn't your policies have meant that we would have gone to war over Czechoslovakia? That we would be at war with Germany this very evening?”

  “Such questions are far too simplistic…”

  “Then perhaps Her Grace would be kind enough to tell us what questions she would like us to put, because it seems perfectly evident she's unwilling to answer any of the questions she's been asked so far?”

  And the rest join in.

  “Is the reason ye're so keen on war because ye have no children of your own?"—"Will you tell the mothers of Perthshire how many British deaths you think would be acceptable in your war?"—"Can ye confirm what I've heard, that ye were seen takkin' tea last month wi' the Soviet Ambassador Maisky?”

  On all sides and in many voices, the level of noise and impatience grows. It is helpful to no one, but she is the only one with anything to lose. As the evening draws on, her eyes, increasingly sad and somber, are torn in many directions in an attempt to identify the sources of the heckling and constant interruptions. Strangers, many of them, but not all. Some are—or were—old friends. The growing clamor is accompanied by the pounding of the gavel with which the chairman is failing to keep order, and soon it has reached the level of “Get ye back home to Moscow” and “Little wonder your husband keeps sending you abroad.” Her senses are swimming. In the morning she will know what to do, what stratagem or device or words she might use to quell the uproar, but not now.