Winston's War

by Michael Dobbs

  Then the final moment. McCrieff is back on his feet, pressing another question. She suggests he has already been given more than a fair amount of time but he stands his ground amidst a sea of waving hats and leaflets, insisting on the moment. Many others are pressing his case, too. The chaos has reached such a level that it appears impossible he can be heard but he raises a silver-headed walking stick above his head, like a prophet beseeching the heavens, and all is suddenly quiet.

  “Your Grace,” he begins, “you ask for my support as a Conservative, and for the support of everyone here, most of whom I'll wager are loyal Conservatives.”

  She nods. That is undeniably true.

  “But is it not a fact that earlier this year you held meetings in Westminster with others to discuss the setting-up of a new party? A breakaway from the Conservatives? That you plotted to split our cause? I have put the question as simply as I can, and I would appreciate a direct answer, yes or no.”

  She is dumbfounded, her distress evident. How can he have known that? They had met in private—with only those they knew could be trusted—and had committed nothing to paper. They had talked, they had telephoned, and in the end had failed to agree. There were those who still hoped that the Conservative Party—their party—could yet be turned to a new course, once time and the outrageous arrows of events began to bring Chamberlain low. But for the moment they had parted as they had met, in secrecy, and had agreed to wait upon another day.

  But McCrieff knows. Which means that there are those at Central Office who know, for he is undeniably their creature. But that is impossible!

  And while she ponders the impossibility of it all, her silence rings out most eloquently to every corner of the hall, giving the answer McCrieff wanted and condemning her in the soul of every loyal Conservative in the constituency.

  She searches her audience for friendly faces. They are there, but seem to her like fishes in a sea crowded with sharks, their expressions helpless and filled with bewilderment. The Duchess closes her eyes. They are such eloquent eyes. Often they speak of pity, sometimes of anger and exasperation, always of boundless love. This night she walks from the platform with her head held high, her chin raised in defiance above the clamor, but it is her eyes that tell the story. For they have lost something, something that up to this point has always sustained her and provided her with a lifeline between reality and tomorrow.

  Hope.

  Politics is often a little like seduction: a coming-together of opposing forces. Bracken has planned the seduction of Anna Fitzgerald in the manner of an election campaign, for he knows no other way. He has planned every move, even scribbled some of it down on paper because he finds that whenever he thinks of Anna so many of the channels in his exceptionally febrile brain seem to close down. He grows nervous every time he remembers those parts of her body he has touched, while the thought of those other parts he has yet to touch reduces him to bewilderment. So he goes back to basics. He has overcome all the other obstacles that life has thrown in his path by sheer energy and persistence, and love can't be so very different.

  He has thought of taking Anna to the theater once more, but quickly discarded the idea—they seem to have such different tastes in playwrights. Instead he has proposed a visit to the National Portrait Gallery off Trafalgar Square, where they have a couple of fine Romneys that he wants her to notice. He has a Romney of his own—above his fireplace in Lord North Street, a portrait of Edmund Burke—which if all other inspiration fails will give him an excuse to invite her back there later. Yet before he gets round to any suggestion that she should inspect his library it would be dinner, at Wiltons in Jermyn Street. This has several advantages. Not only does it have an excellent kitchen but also he is well known there; they will make a fuss, indulge in a little continental groveling, create a good impression. Wiltons also has secluded booths that offer a reasonable degree of intimacy, yet at the same time enable you to be seen. He's already ascertained that at least three members of the Cabinet would be dining there; they will undoubtedly be drawn by both good manners and the charms of Anna to hover at his table. It will all add to the sense of theater. Heady stuff for a young girl. So dinner. Then the Romney…

  He has prepared with thoroughness. A hair trim, a temporary taming of the savage beast, and a shave—he'd mentioned to the barber that a young lady was involved, exchanging male confidences for a liberal dose of eau de cologne. His favorite Savile Row three-piece, four-button, the lucky one he'd had made for the last election campaign, freshly sponged and pressed by his housekeeper to get rid of its faint tang of mothballs. Cartier cufflinks and a diamond tie pin. And silk everywhere against his skin, socks, shirt, vest. But what about his hat? To wear, or not to wear? And which one? What was fashionable amongst young women? He stood in front of the mirror and considered the different impressions. Solid and respectable? A little daring? A cheeky fedora? Confused, he threw away all the hats and decided to place his trust in his barber. Less challenging were the flowers. A single long-stemmed red rose placed on her linen napkin at Wiltons, and a bouquet of hot-house lilies for when he picked her up. And another rose beside the bed, for luck.

  Now all the planning and painful expectation have come to their climax. The lights have been set—and reset—in Lord North Street, Edmund Burke is smiling down benignly from above the fireplace, there is champagne in the refrigerator and chocolates beside the sofa, along with a leather-bound copy of his latest speeches. Oh, and clean towels and linen, too. Everything is waiting for her. Lobster at Wiltons, and specially ordered creamy New England clam chowder in case she turns out to be one of those women who are wretched and ridiculous about raw oysters. And at last he is standing in front of her doorway in Knightsbridge, his smile shifting awkwardly as though it's having trouble finding a comfortable position. He's clutching his flowers—too tightly—and feeling fourteen.

  He throws away a half-consumed cigarette and rings the bell. Steps back. Shines his shoes yet again on the back of his trousers. Waits. Nothing. More hesitantly, he rings again. Eventually he hears a scuffling from the other side of the door and the sound of a fumbling at the lock. The smile switches places one last time, he shakes the flowers as though to wake them up and he raises his hat in salute—yes, he's changed his mind yet again.

  Yet the process of seduction is to prove even more like politics than Bracken has bargained for. For Anna is standing at the door, evidently unprepared, her fingers scrabbling nervously at her chin and her cheeks stained with mascara from her tears.

  “My darling, what ever…?”

  “It's Chumpers.”

  “Chumpers?”

  “My dog, you silly man. My devoted little Chumpers.”

  “What about him?”

  “He's run away!”

  And along with the wretched, flea-bitten, and sausage-chomping Chumpers had disappeared all of Bracken's plans.

  Frost had bitten at the heart of London and a shimmer of mist clung to the waters of the lake in St. James's Park. The ducks shivered and huddled together, while the royal pelicans complained from their rock in the middle of the lake. The branches of the plane trees seemed to droop in disappointment. On the pathway that led around the park, the Prime Minister was taking his daily constitutional. Usually on these outings he was accompanied by his wife, but she had been discouraged by a slight migraine, so instead Sir Horace Wilson was with him. A detective loitered in their wake.

  Chamberlain stepped out briskly, his pace fueled not simply by the cold but also by irritation at the morning's news.

  “Next year,” Wilson sympathized.

  “Yes, yes, yes, of course next year. But why not this?” Chamberlain's voice sagged with disappointment. “The Nobel Peace Prize is supposed to go to those who have done most to secure the peace. And who has done more?”

  Wilson trod carefully across the slippery path. “Perhaps the Norwegians thought it would need to go to both you and Herr Hitler. To be even-handed.”

  “Wouldn't have m
inded sharing it. Austen had to share it,” Chamberlain muttered wistfully, almost to himself, nodding curtly as a passer-by smiled in surprise and bowed.

  “The Nobel Committee's been led by the nose—taken by the plight of refugees.”

  “But even so. I've done my bit, offered to resettle as many as I can in the colonies—Africa. Southern America. They can't get much farther away from Germany than that! Has the—what are they called?—the Nansen International Office for Refugees done more? Do they really deserve the Nobel Prize above me?”

  “It's the Scandinavians sticking together. An imagination limited by a diet of dried cod.”

  “It's damnable how little gratitude there is in this world. Makes me worried, whatever next? What about the by-election, Horace? You and Joe assured me…”

  “Joe's pulling out all the stops—”

  “Is he? All of them? He knows more about the vices of men than anyone I've ever met. Are you sure he's doing everything he can?”

  “In all honesty, there are some things he does I don't want to know about. Or think you should know about, either.”

  “A most useful man, brings me all sorts of interesting information. We live in difficult times, Horace. No point in half measures.”

  “If the Cabinet were ever to know…”

  “If the Cabinet were ever to know, then Sir Joseph would have found out first. That's why he taps their phones.”

  Wilson looked around awkwardly, breathless. At times Chamberlain set too frantic a pace. Yet suddenly the old man came to a complete halt and pointed his furled umbrella to the sky, demanding silence. His eyes scoured the banks of the lake beneath the trees.

  “Ah, a song thrush. I thought I heard a song thrush, Horace. But it was nothing more than a sly old blackbird imitating the tune.” He shook his head sadly. “A false spring. Sometimes I wonder whether we shall ever see the flowers in bloom again. Sometimes, Horace, in the dark corners of the night, I wonder whether there are some things that I want simply too much. Even peace. Is it possible to want peace too much?”

  “I'm not sure I understand. How can you want peace too much?”

  “Even Christ turned on the moneylenders.”

  Chamberlain resumed his walk, his steps now less rushed, more deliberate, crunching softly through the frost. “Tell Joe that there is only one thing I want—indeed expect—from him this Christmas.”

  “What is that, Prime Minister?”

  “News. I want news. Of the Duchess. I want to hear that she's been thrown out of my temple.”

  From the start Burgess had the suspicion that he had, in Mac, found a diamond. A rough diamond, to be sure, and a man whose shell had been constructed of material so tough that it was all but impenetrable, but a man of quality and great value nonetheless. And a man who played by his own rules. So Burgess took it upon himself to find out what those rules might be. In conversation and over pints of mild, he tried to probe and understand what motivated his new friend, what enjoyments he embraced and what vices he indulged in. Know thy friend, for later he might become thine enemy. Yet all he had been able to get out of Mac so far was little more than a series of grunts and the startling admission that he loved old books. Reliable friends, said the man from Solovetsky. Take them to bed and they're just the same in the morning when you wake up. Never complain. Allow you to travel, to leap over any wall and higher than any watchtower, to go wherever you please. So when Mac called and asked for a meeting, Burgess had suggested a pub in one of the alleyways off the Charing Cross Road amidst the shops and chaotic shelves of the second-hand book trade. They had spent a good half-hour simply meandering amongst the piles of dusty and slightly unkempt books which sat waiting like faithful but discarded dogs, all of whom had once been loved and asked for nothing more than to be loved again.

  They made an unlikely couple, the undersized Jew with the broken body in clothes that were old but carefully kept, and the English gentleman with the drooping Old Etonian bow tie who seemed unable to contain all the nervous energy within him that caused him to chew at his fingers and constantly flick the ash from his ubiquitous cigarette. His clothes were of much finer quality than his companion's yet in poorer condition, as though he had slept in them, which last night he had. He ought to take more care of himself, of course, keep the creases in their proper place, but it was damnably difficult when your trousers had spent half the previous evening lying crumpled on wet grass.

  “I thought we might talk about money, Mr. Burgess,” Mac muttered when at last they were alone.

  “Ah, the green-eyed god,” Burgess responded, not warmly, throwing down a large Jameson's.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “How much do you want?”

  Mac wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “No, you don't understand. It's not for me. It's for a lady. I think she might be rather helpful to you. But she needs money in return for her help.”

  “What sort of lady?”

  “A lady who empties the wastepaper bin of the Home Secretary three times a week.”

  Burgess made no reply. He held Mac's stare, their dark eyes locked upon each other, struggling for supremacy. They had reached a turning point. Burgess had known this moment must come, for Mac was too intelligent to be fooled for long by the line that Burgess's only interest was in furthering his journalistic career. Anyway, no self-respecting journalist would lower himself to rooting about in another man's rubbish. Mac was testing him, seeing how far Burgess would go. How far he would stoop. His eyes flickered and looked away in search of the barman. He waited until a new drink was in his hands before turning once more to Mac, who was sitting on his stool, sipping his beer steadily and wiping his lips with the back of his hand after every mouthful.

  “When can I meet this lady?”

  Mac shook his head. “You don't. She's a friend of mine, a good friend, and if you won't take it as an insult, Mr. Burgess, I don't want her business mixing with your business.”

  “So how the hell will I know she's genuine?” Burgess replied sharply.

  “In the first place because you have my word. And also because you have these.” Stiffly Mac hopped off his stool and reached down for the canvas bag he had been carrying with him. Burgess had thought it was full of clothes or books; instead he found it filled with treasure. Paper treasure. Torn envelopes, a shopping list, expired invitation cards, a note from his wine merchant, a hastily scribbled reminder from his wife about dinner arrangements, two badly chewed pencils and a mummified apple core. The jetsam of a busy life. Yet floating amongst it there were other things. Drafts of notes to Cabinet colleagues. Half-scribbled memoranda. Carbons of exchanges between other Ministers. A polite but firm letter from his tailor, screwed into a tight ball, requesting immediate payment. The first trial run of a submission to the Prime Minister about the handling of enemy aliens during wartime. And a sheet of blotting paper with what looked like an entire day's correspondence reflected in it.

  The new whiskey disappeared in a trice.

  “As you see, Mr. Burgess, he has a very large wastepaper bin.”

  “How much do you want for this?” Burgess's eyes were sharp, nervous.

  “I want nothing.”

  “I apologize—how much does the lady require?”

  Mac named his figure. It had been based on the research he had conducted one recent Thursday, concealed in a coffee shop within sight of Desdemona's doorway (she was always Desdemona to him when she was working). He knew from personal experience how much she charged. He multiplied that figure by the number of men he saw that day—then doubled it for Tuesdays, too. On top of that he added a premium of fifty percent for rainy days and the kids. He sipped his mild and once more wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “Damn it, Mac, you strike a hard bargain.”

  Burgess scanned the other man's face for any sign of posturing or willingness to compromise. He found nothing but Archangel ice.

  “You can keep the sodding apple core, Mac. But as for the rest�
�” Slowly Burgess nodded his head and tried to quell the trembling in his hand.

  “That's settled, then. Let me buy you another drink, Mr. B.”

  Intimidation comes in many guises. Around the great estates that dominated the communities of West Perthshire it arrived dressed in a velvet glove. Crofters on the estates whose leases were coming up for renewal at Christmas received letters which proposed unusually favorable terms. The letters were folded inside leaflets demanding “VOTE SNADDEN.” And when workers on these estates picked up their pay packets they discovered the same leaflet had been stuffed into their brown envelopes, along with an unexpected “Christmas bonus.” The vote, on the Wednesday before Christmas, was by secret ballot, but the communities in and around the estates were tightly knit. Generations of deference meant that secrets were not readily hidden and all too easily betrayed—by a lowered glance, an uneasy smile. It was said that the lairds set the price of everything, but most particularly fixed the cost of disloyalty. Lose the sympathy of the laird and you lost your job, your home, and with them, perhaps, your family. Not worth the risk.

  Bracken had found Anna inconsolable about the loss of her dog. All his careful preparations for her seduction had gone to waste. He hadn't even got past the door. Instead he heard himself promising to scour the streets in search of her precious little Chumpers and she insisted that he start that very night. It was a rash promise at the best of times, made all the more risible when it started to pour with rain. Not much chance of seeing a dog in the dark through the windshield of a rain-swept Bentley.

  Yet it was clear that if he were truly to claim Anna's heart, he would have to find the bloody dog. So the following day Bracken retained the services of two private detectives, whom he commissioned to prowl the streets of Knightsbridge and South Kensington in search of the missing mongrel, offering a reward for relevant information to every postman, milkman, and pavement-watcher in the area. Their efforts were to no avail; there was no trace of the thing until, on the second day, a road sweeper showed them an ornate dog collar just large enough to fit around the neck of an overweight King Charles spaniel. The buckle was bent and the collar covered in blood. Bye-bye Chumpers.