The Very White of Love: the heartbreaking love story that everyone is talking about!. S Worrall C

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      ‘This should be interesting,’ Hugh says under his breath. ‘He’s a brilliant speaker.’

      ‘There are many reasons to oppose conscription,’ Hart begins. More boos echo round the hall. ‘First, it is impracticable. Soldiers need to be trained. But we have neither enough men nor enough qualified instructors. More importantly, conscription is alien to a democratic society!’

      A wave of applause and cheers rises from the crowd. Their opponents shout, ‘Nonsense!’

      ‘Whatever the case for compulsory service in an earlier generation, when other democratic nations adopted it, it is inevitably affected now by the fact that we are threatened by nations who have made it not merely a means but an end – a principle of life . . . ’

      There is cheering. A group of students in the gallery drum on the balustrades.

      ‘ . . . and for us to adopt compulsory service under pressure of their challenge would be a surrender of our own vital principles – and admission of spiritual defeat.’

      There is thunderous applause, interspersed with a few boos. Martin looks at Hugh and raises his eyebrows.

      ‘He’s right, of course. But I can’t see him winning, can you?’

      ‘Not a chance.’ Hugh shakes his head. ‘You’re for fighting, aren’t you?’

      ‘Of course. If nothing else works. I just wish the League of Nations had some real teeth,’ says Martin, remembering his conversation with Nancy last November.

      ‘You might have to wait a long time for that,’ says Hugh, dismissively.

      Hart leaves the dispatch box and returns to his seat to prolonged applause. The President gets up again. ‘Our final speaker, ladies and gentlemen, needs no introduction . . . ’

      Martin has only seen Randolph Churchill in photographs. In the flesh, the young MP is even more different from his famous father. The face is gaunter, more sallow, the shoulders narrower. A red silk handkerchief pokes from his breast pocket.

      ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ His plummy voice is drowned in a wave of applause, mixed with catcalls and whistles.

      ‘Tory scum!’ a bearded student in a donkey jacket shouts from the gallery.

      Churchill ignores him. Martin rolls his eyes. ‘It is now nearly six years since this House adopted that shameful pledge not to fight for King and Country.’ A barrage of insults and jeers erupts from sections of the crowd. Others cheer and clap. ‘An oath my father, Winston Churchill, rightly called . . . ’ He lets the pause hang in the air, then raises his voice. ‘Abject. Squalid. And shameless!’ A wave of foot stomping echoes round the hall. ‘Since then—’ His voice is drowned out by catcalls and whistles. ‘Since then, Herr Hitler has continued to arm Germany at an alarming rate.’

      The mention of Hitler’s name elicits a chorus of boos and hissing. Churchill raises his hand. ‘And, as a result, this great country that we love . . . ’ he leans against the dispatch box, letting his words sink in ‘ . . . now faces a threat more grave than any in the last thousand years.’

      Someone shouts: ‘Hear, Hear!’ Churchill brings the palm of his hand down on the dispatch box with a loud bang. ‘Across the Channel, for the last three years, a war has been going on for the hearts and minds of the French people, as Nazi propaganda attempts to poison the minds of our allies.’ He thumps the dispatch box for a second time. His voice drips with disdain. ‘A war we are losing.’

      Martin and Hugh exchange glances as more cheers, even louder this time, echo round the red-painted walls of the debating chamber. People begin to stamp their feet. Martin does not join in.

      ‘Yet, here, in Great Britain, we have so far only made . . . ’ he sneers ‘ . . . gestures of defiance.’ Martin feels Churchill’s eyes as he rakes the hall with a glare. ‘But we have reached a point where gestures are not enough!’

      A shout goes up from the gallery: two students are flailing their fists. Others join in. The noise gets louder and louder. Churchill pulls the red handkerchief from his breast pocket, mops his brow. ‘We want not only gestures,’ he calls out to the crowd, letting the words sink in. ‘We want an army!’ Another wave of stamping and cheering erupts from the crowd. Churchill presses his hands down on the dispatch box, stares defiantly out at the crowd, and roars: ‘And that quite soon!’

      A huge cheer goes up. People spring to their feet. Martin and Hugh remain seated, clapping enthusiastically.

      The President gets to his feet. ‘And now, my honourable friends, the time has come to vote on our motion. Ayes to the right, please. Nos to the left.’

      There is a cacophony of benches scraping, coughs and stamping feet, as the audience gets to its feet and files out of the debating chamber. As Martin reaches the brass rail dividing the votes, he hesitates, then steps to the right.

      Martin and Hugh follow the crowds to the Eagle and Child pub, known to generations of Oxford students as the Fowl and Foetus. C. S. Lewis and Tolkien can normally be found in the back room talking about hobbits and magic wardrobes with other members of ‘The Inklings’. Not tonight. It’s bedlam. The heat is intense, the air blue with smoke. Everyone is arguing about the debate.

      ‘They should bloody shoot that Stephen King chap,’ a plummy-voiced young Trinity student sneers. ‘Or send him off to the Soviet Union!’

      ‘Liddell Hart’s not much better!’ his companion snipes. ‘Total Bolshie. Even looks like Lenin!’

      Martin rolls his eyes as he tries to wriggle his way through the crowds to the bar. ‘The usual?’ he calls back to Hugh. Hugh gives him the thumbs-up.

      Martin keeps trying to attract the barman’s attention, but he is wedged between two rugby players. He’s impatient. Can’t wait to get back to his room and write to Nancy about what has happened. The motion was easily carried. But though he knows the outcome has no ultimate meaning, he feels as though the war, which until now had seemed far away, has crept one step closer to their lives, like a fog rolling across winter fields.

      Finally, he manages to commandeer two pints and edges his way back through the jostling, shouting crowd, holding the glasses above his head.

      ‘Cheers!’ says Hugh, relieving him of one of the glasses.

      ‘Cheers!’ Martin takes a long, deep draught. ‘So, what did you think?’

      ‘Exciting.’ Hugh has to shout to make himself heard. ‘You?’

      Martin gulps his beer. His heart is torn between two powerful emotions: his love for Nancy and his feeling of duty towards his country. A third emotion – anger at Hitler – only adds to the waves crashing against each other inside him.

      ‘It’s still sinking in,’ he says to Hugh, not yet ready to share his feelings, even to a good friend.

      On his way back to Teddy Hall, Martin stops and looks up into the sky. It’s as clear as a bell and is like a sheet of black satin, the stars a thousand glimmering diamonds. He imagines Nancy looking up into the same sky at Blythe Cottage, two young people СКАЧАТЬ