On August 21 Chamberlain broke his fishing holiday and returned briefly to London to catch up on events. Crowds gathered around Downing Street, watching the comings and goings of advisers in ever more somber mood. Occasionally a cheer would go up if they caught a glimpse of the Prime Minister himself. Everyone still hoped war might be averted, but few believed, and those left with any lingering illusions would have them shattered before they went to bed.
On the evening of Chamberlain's return, the most astounding news was announced. Hitler had done a deal with Stalin. A mutual defense pact. While the Russian leader had been waving Admiral the Honorable out through the front door, German officials had been sneaking in through the back. A Faustian bargain had been struck between the two most awesome dictatorships in the world, reaching out for each other, like a vice around Poland which, when squeezed, would make the whole of Europe bleed.
The next day, Joachim von Ribbentrop, the Nazi Foreign Minister, flew to Moscow for the official signing ceremony, his airplane casting a shadow that chilled hearts across the entire continent.
Chamberlain could not sleep. Every time he closed his eyes the night filled with terror. The fist of stone he had felt beneath his heart for so many months now turned into lava, burning into him after every meal and allowing him no rest. He felt exhausted, drained, yet he knew that the trial of his life stretched before him. He lay awake in his bed, sweat soaking into his pillow, staring sightless into the dark and listening to the rustlings of the night, which in his confused mind turned into the voices of his father and brother—mocking him, as they had when he was young.
In the morning he rose and set out on his usual morning constitutional around St. James's Park, but turned back well before he got to the bridge across the lake. As he walked through the door of Number Ten, a feeling of enormous apprehension overcame him, which he described later to his wife as being like that of a dying man taking to his bed for the very last time. He went straight to the Cabinet Room and slumped in his chair. Then he issued three instructions. Those of his Cabinet colleagues who were in London were to be summoned, as was his doctor. And he would need to speak to the King at Balmoral.
When, a little while later, His Majesty's voice came on the line, not even the bakelite echo of a trunk line could disguise the fact that the call was an intrusion.
“Should be out at my p-p-peg, Prime Minister. Can't it wait?”
“I suggest that you return to London, sir. Immediately.”
“Return? I can't return. Too much to do up here.”
“You must return.”
“But why?”
“Because I fear there is…an imminence of hostilities, sir.” A clumsy phrase, stinking of despair.
“War in Poland, you mean? I doubt that. Poland will have to back down, of course she will. Just like Czechoslovakia. And if she doesn't S-s-stalin and Hitler will tear her to pieces. After that they'll start tearing themselves to pieces, you mark my words. No, this couldn't have come out better for us, Mr. Chamberlain. We can sit back and watch all those damned Europeans beat themselves senseless.”
A deep sigh, a cry of exhaustion. “But, sir, we have guaranteed Poland.”
“Yes, I know that, but…” A long pause, to collect both his thoughts and his tongue. “You're not trying to tell me—are you, Mr. Chamberlain?—that we can't get out of the guarantee?”
“We have given our word.”
“Our word, of course, but…” More silence. Then a voice stripped of every shred of confidence. “We can't honor the guarantee. There's no way we can save Poland. It would be suicide to try.”
“Nevertheless, we have given our solemn promise. Drawn a line in the sand.”
“But to what p-purpose? What good would it do anyone if we went to war over Poland? We didn't do it over Czechoslovakia, so why Poland, for God's sake? Doesn't make sense, man.”
Silence.
“W-w-war? What's the bloody point?” the King demanded, beginning to raise his voice. “It would be nothing more than a futile act of revenge. Leave Europe in ruins. The Empire in chaos.” He made it sound as if it were entirely Chamberlain's fault.
“You know, sir, that I have tried more than any man on this earth to avoid war. If there is going to be a war then at least we have shown that of all the nations under God, we tried to avoid it. No one can doubt who the aggressor is, who is to blame.”
“To risk everything for an Empire, that I understand, Mr. Chamberlain, for an entire Empire. But for—Poland?”
“I shall recall Parliament. There are emergency measures to be passed, the Dominions to be warned, ships to be requisitioned, reservists to be called up. And so much more. Your place is in London, sir.”
“This is u-u-utterly damnable, Mr. Chamberlain. Hitler has upset everything. For heaven's sake, it's August.”
“My apologies for disturbing your holiday, sir.”
“May the grouse forgive him.”
Carol and Mac lay in bed, the shadow of Ribbentrop's plane lying cold between them. A two-up two-down in Chigwell seemed to be so far away from anywhere that mattered, but even in bed they found they couldn't escape.
Peter had been having bad dreams. He seemed to be reacting badly to the tension he could feel all around. That afternoon he'd got into a fight with a neighbor's kid—scraped the bottom out of his best pair of trousers—and Mac had given him a cuff round his ear. Peter had screamed back something very rude, reminding Mac that he wasn't his dad, and so Carol had given him another cuff for good measure. Everyone had gone to bed miserable. And little Lindy had been ill for several days now, burning up with a fever that was beginning to turn to an ugly rash. The doctor had come but hadn't been sure. Now the rash had grown much worse and the doctor would have to be called back again. More money for trousers, for doctors, for medicines, at a time when the tea caddy under the sink where she kept all the housekeeping held nothing more than memories. The Hoares had gone away for the summer—almost two months of it, could you believe?—so Carol had lost her cleaner's wages. And since she wasn't cleaning, neither was she throwing out the contents of his office wastebin.
Burgess had taken this badly. He'd been badgering Mac, yet Mac had nothing to give. It had been altogether sparse pickings at Trumper's since the middle of July; it was that time of year, and M'Lord Halifax was on holiday, too. There were so few clippings to sweep up. They'd met for a drink even though Mac had told him it would be a waste of time, but Burgess had pleaded, then insisted. Burgess had already been drunk when Mac arrived, and judging by his appearance—sleepless, soiled shirt, agitated—Mac guessed he'd been drunk for days. Never seen him in such a state. But the tongue was still as sharp as ever and when it became clear that Mac was true to his word—that it was to be a waste of time—Burgess had begun to grow abusive, his tongue out of control. Said that Hitler and Stalin climbing into each other's underwear had ripped apart everything he believed in. Your fault, Mac had muttered, for believing in anything in the first place, and Burgess had turned on him, said that belief is what raised them above the level of beasts, had spilled his drink and had called Carol a silly cow for not having any more paper. Mac had got up while Burgess was still in mid-flow. “I've got a sick baby to help take care of, Mr. Burgess. Don't need any of this nonsense.” He'd walked out, leaving his pint of mild untouched.
Perhaps that was the end of it. Perhaps there would be no more meetings, even though that would mean an end to the rest of Carol's income. Just when she needed it most. He'd arrived back at Carol's as she was making plans—sticking blast tape over the windowpanes, first in the shape of a vertical cross of St. George, then the diagonal cross of St. Andrew, until all the windows in the house were decorated like stars. She told the children it was a game, like Christmas. And she built a special hideaway under the stairs next to the electricity meter, with an old mattress on which Peter and Lindy could sleep and with the stout oak legs of an old table jammed under the roof for additional support. She'd taken down the few picture
s, put away the breakables, left a bucket of sand at the top of the stairs. She was resourceful; she'd get through, somehow. There were also yards of heavy dark material to fix across the windows as blackout curtains, and foodstuffs to be got in—sugar, coffee, dried fruit, tins of meat, and the rest—just in case. It was a bit of a race, every housewife in the street was entering, and to have any chance of winning she'd have to be out of the front door first. But she had no money.
“Did Mr. Burgess offer you any money?” she asked between teeth sprouting the sticky ends of tape and balancing precariously on a stool.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Didn't ask.”
“You didn't—” She spat out the pieces of tape and jumped down from the stool, advancing upon him. “Why the bloody 'ell not?” she demanded, her tongue honed by anxiety.
“Because…” Because what? Mac couldn't be clear, he wasn't clear about so much in his life recently. It had been so simple when he was on his own and the whole world was his enemy, he could shut off from it, not give a damn, just get on with the task of surviving, all by himself. But since Carol and the kids he'd begun to feel again and feelings, he decided, often hurt. They cut him deep inside, brought back memories he'd rather have left buried in the pit alongside little Moniek and the remnants of his soul. And because he didn't know how to handle these things, he hid inside his cocoon and blamed Carol. It was so much simpler that way, wasn't it? “Because…it didn't feel like the right thing to do,” he explained, without explaining anything.
“God, you can be so bloody impractical at times. You think what Mr. Burgess has done for us. Just think, for a change! 'Bout time you joined up with the bleedin' real world.” And the argument had started.
“Real world? What's real about this ridiculous world?”
“Peter and Lindy, they're real. That's my world, Mac. I thought they were your world, too.”
He should have replied, comforted her, but it always took time to emerge from his cocoon.
“I've got to do something, Mac.” A pause, her confidence picked at by a thousand nagging ravens. “You…ever thought about spending more time with us? Sort of—moving in. Properly?” She knew it was the wrong thing to suggest. She was a woman, it was scarcely her place, and it made their relationship sound almost mercenary. But life was mercenary. It cost. And she had two kids to think of. Mac stood staring into space, avoiding her eyes, pretending he was admiring her handiwork on the windows. Commitment. All he could hear through her words was commitment, a term that rang in his mind like the slamming of a prison door. He'd spent almost twenty years of his life avoiding commitment—the quietest, most tidy, least threatening, most liberating twenty years of his life—and now…
“Want a cup of tea, girl?” He'd spent long enough in England to know how people filled the emotional gaps in their lives. He limped off without waiting for her answer. Yet it would take more than two steaming cups to move the matter on—and it needed to be moved on, for old wounds were being scratched raw. They were two incomplete people whose lives had been left shredded by others and who had somehow sewn them back together but in a manner that left them distrusting everyone who came their way, including themselves.
Carol accepted the cup of tea he offered her without thanks and with a downward flutter of her eyes.
“It's not the time,” he said, starting upon some sort of explanation. “Not with the war and everything. Who knows where we'll be in two months, let alone two years. Can't be certain about anything. Let's give it a little time, eh, girl?”
“Don't matter,” she replied, her voice small and strained, as though something was choking her. “The kids and me, we'll get by.” Defensive mode. Bloody men. Trying to hide the hurt. What the hell was there not to be certain about? Stupid men and their ridiculous wars. She had no trouble being absolutely sure about all the important things in her life—Peter—Lindy. The fact that they had to be fed and housed and loved, and brought up to have more of a chance than she'd ever had. Nothing uncertain about any of that. So the men could have their bloody war, while she got on with her own private war she called Life.
“Don't matter,” she said once more. “If there's going to be a war, there'll be plenty of work.”
“Got any plans?”
“No,” she lied, and wouldn't look at him.
So they had gone to bed with shadow lying in the cold space between them. They had been there almost an hour, both pretending to be asleep, when the sound of knocking came from the front door. They tried to ignore it but it came again, insistent.
“I'll go,” he said, grateful to be of use.
He opened the door to find Burgess on the step, his face illuminated by the glow of a nervous cigarette.
“Hello, Mac.”
Even in the dark Mac could tell he was struggling with sobriety.
“Wanted to apologize.” He shuffled forward, his arms laden. “Peace offering. I was rude. Sorry. Brought some flowers for the lady. And a shawl for the baby. Hope you don't mind. Hope she's feeling better. I'd like to pay for the doctor, if you'll let me.”
“It's very late, Mr. Burgess.”
“You know me, Mac. All impatience. And I am sorry.” Burgess smiled. Beneath the trampled hair and crumpled suit he had an infectious and entirely genuine boyish charm that would make a dog cross the street simply to get patted.
Mac stood at the open door in his pajamas, trying not to let suspicion get the better of him. Burgess was a man who had recast Carol's life, and therefore had recast Mac's, too. He was something of a savior, and now he was standing at the door, bearing gifts. Wanting to help. Perhaps it was going to work out after all. He could hear Carol stirring upstairs, he'd be able to bring her the flowers, the shawl, the money. Patch things up. Move on. It was going to be all right.
“Still don't have anything for you, Mr. Burgess,” Mac explained, almost apologetically.
“That's not why I came.”
“I'd invite you in, but…” He gestured to his pajamas.
“No need, Mac. I just wanted to put things right. You're a friend. It was my fault. I apologize.”
Then, although he had struggled so hard against it, suspicion got the better of Mac. In a world stripped bare of loyalties there were no such things as gifts and good gestures, only bribes—he'd learnt that in the camps. So what was Burgess's angle? Why was he standing here so late at night? On Carol's doorstep? Mac started scratching himself.
“But how…how did you know where I was, Mr. Burgess? How did you know I would be here?”
Burgess laughed. It was nothing more than an attempt to fill in the gap in his mind. He'd acted on instinct, not sieved things through his whiskey mind, had simply grabbed these bits and run, needing to sort matters out, to re-tie some of the knots in his life that had come unraveled. He hadn't expected questions, now he was scrambling to fill the hole where the answer should be. But Mac had stopped scratching, he was way ahead of this game. It was, after all, a game he'd spent half a lifetime playing.
“Seems I made a mistake, Mr. Burgess, thinking you might be halfway decent. But seems you're just a mamzer.”
“Mamzer?”
“Another bastard who thinks you own me. Like all the rest. You're just a second-rate secret policeman.”
With that he closed the door, quietly but very firmly, in Burgess's face.
(The Times, Friday, August 25, 1939)
DOWNING STREET SCENES
CALM AND ORDERLY CROWDS
CHEERS FOR MINISTERS
As always at a time such as this, hundreds of citizens were drawn to Whitehall and Downing Street yesterday. Many were obviously holiday-makers, and, hoping for an outstanding snapshot of some important personage, they had their folding cameras out and set; all were orderly and calm. There was much quiet discussion as they watched callers arriving and leaving 10 Downing Street. Just before noon they were afforded a chance of giving expression to their feelings, and, accepting it wholeheartedly, they s
ped the Prime Minister on his way with enthusiastic cheers when he left by motor-car to report to the King at Buckingham Palace…
As the time drew near for the reassembly of Parliament large crowds gathered in Parliament Square, and it was with difficulty that members, whether arriving on foot or by car, made their way to the precincts. Again they were orderly crowds, composed of citizens who were deeply interested but perfectly calm. The only demonstrators were a score or more of men and women who walked round and round displaying posters bearing the one word, “CHURCHILL.”
Once more the cheers rang out when, with Mrs. Chamberlain, the Prime Minister left Downing Street about 2:40 to drive to the House. The cheer was taken up by the crowds lining Whitehall and grew in volume as the dense throng outside the House joined in.
A woman standing on a refuge near the entrance to Palace Yard moved forward as the Prime Minister's car passed and held against the window a “Churchill” placard…
August had been a month of preparation for Churchill. He spent several days on a tour of inspection along the Maginot Line in France. It was undeniably a magnificent structure, impregnable where it stood, but he wondered why it didn't stretch all the way to the sea. Afterwards he had gone to spend a few days painting with an old friend, the artist Paul Maze, at a chateau west of Paris. They toiled for hours trying to capture the subtle magic of an ancient mill that stood near the banks of the River Eure. Churchill much preferred landscapes to portraiture—“they don't complain.” Others, less kindly, suggested his preference was simply because he couldn't spend longer than a few moments in contemplation of any person other than himself.
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