Winston’s War. Michael Dobbs
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу Winston’s War - Michael Dobbs страница 17
Название: Winston’s War
Автор: Michael Dobbs
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
isbn: 9780007397624
isbn:
McFadden shook his head, as though trying to shake off an annoying fly. ‘Doesn’t matter what I am. Or what you are.’
‘Meaning?’
‘We live in a complicated world. I don’t suppose that cash you’ve got in your pocket was given to you by the BBC to pay for your haircut, was it?’
Burgess covered his alarm with laughter – God, but this one was sharp. ‘Would you believe it if I said I lived off my mother’s immoral earnings?’
‘We are all held hostage by our past.’
‘You’d like payment?’
Mac slowly shook his head. ‘No. You can buy me a drink when it suits you, but I won’t help you for money. I’ll do it because if Mr Chamberlain gets this wrong, a lot of people are going to die. People like me and Moniek. Not people like Mr Chamberlain.’
‘Who is Moniek?’
‘It is no longer of importance.’
‘Have another drink.’
McFadden shook his head once more. ‘No, thank you. It’s been a difficult week and – like you – I am a single man. I feel I need a little distraction. While such things are still allowed, eh? If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a walk around the Market. See what’s happening.’
‘I’ll be in touch, McFadden. Thanks,’ Burgess offered as the other man slipped off his bar stool and limped away. He turned at the door.
‘You know something, Mr Burgess, at this rate you’re going to end up the best-groomed bugger in Britain.’
That evening on his way home, McFadden stopped by the entrance to the synagogue at the top of Kensington Park Road. He hadn’t entered a synagogue since he was a teenager, but now he hesitated, troubled by memories of Moniek, things he had hidden away for so many years. He put his hand on the door. He seemed almost relieved when he found it locked.
Churchill spoke in the debate on Munich – or European Affairs, as it was called in Hansard. He talked of shame, of a total and unmitigated defeat, of gross neglect and deficiencies, of his country being weighed in the balance and found wanting. He spoke magnificently, a guiding star for the rebels. They were few in number, about thirty, but of considerable standing, men of stature – like the former Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden, Duffie Cooper, Leo Amery, Bobbety Cranborne, Admiral of the Fleet Sir Roger Keyes, Macmillan, Boothby, Duncan Sandys, Harold Nicolson. As Nicolson recorded in his diary, ‘Our group decided that it is better for us all to abstain, than for some to abstain and some to vote against. We therefore sit in our seats, which must enrage the Government, since it is not our numbers that matter but our reputation.’
He was right. The Government was deeply enraged. Even as Chamberlain rose from his seat to acknowledge the wild acclamation from all sides, his mind was made up. The thirty or so rebels had become marked men, every one of them. The reputations which Nicolson talked of with such pride were about to be systematically besmirched.
Chamberlain. Chamberlain. Everywhere one went it was that name, Neville Chamberlain. No occasion seemed complete without his presence. His was the name on everyone’s lips. Hospital beds were being endowed in his name, the French had opened up a fund to provide him with ‘a corner of French soil’ in gratitude, while the photograph of him at the Palace adorned the mantelpieces of thousands of homes – The Times even offered copies to its readers as a souvenir Christmas card. So great had the public clamour grown that it was in danger of becoming compromising; Chamberlain felt compelled to issue a statement declining the Bishop of Coventry’s suggestion that a National Tribute Fund be set up in his honour. This was, after all, a democracy.
‘Has he arrived yet?’ There was no hint of impatience in the question posed by the Dowager Queen Mary – how could even the King’s mother be impatient with a man who was so busy saving the world? But they had missed him. They had gathered at Sandringham in the saloon, a fussy, crowded hall overburdened with family portraits, deer skulls and the paraphernalia of Victorians trying too hard to please. A large stuffed bear stood guard by the staircase. Queen Mary had settled into a chair by the fireplace, glass of sherry in hand, while two men stood by her side, waiting on her and in the process warming themselves by the roaring log fire. The first, Edward Halifax, the Foreign Secretary, was entirely at home in a royal household, for he occupied a position of personal privilege almost unique amongst politicians. He was an intimate friend of the King. They dined frequently and in private, and Halifax had been provided with a key to the gardens of Buckingham Palace so that he was able to walk through them every morning on his way to the Foreign Office. The King practised with his rifle in the gardens and would often waylay Halifax in order to share his views on matters of state, but most of all for the simple pleasure of his company. It could be lonely being an Emperor-King. George VI was relatively inexperienced, a monarch by mistake. He also suffered from a speech impediment so pronounced that his audience often couldn’t tell whether His Majesty had paused for thought or was simply stuck on a stutter. As a result, public appearances terrified him, and perhaps that was why he felt at ease in the company of Halifax, who also and so obviously carried with him the misfortunes of his narrow bloodline. The Viscount was exceptionally tall, dome-headed and gangling, slightly stooped, and born without a left hand. The sleeve on his Savile Row suit was filled with nothing more than a prosthesis, a rubber fist. ‘Armless Eddie’, as the wags called him. And, like the King, the Viscount also suffered from a tangling of the tongue – he was unable to pronounce his ‘r’s. So the two men walked, talked, stuttered and found support in each other’s company. Theirs had become an uncommon bond between uncommon men.
The other man warming himself by the fire was Joseph Kennedy. The Ambassador was, of course, as common as New England mud and had no right to feel at home in the inner sanctums of the British Royal Family, but he didn’t give a damn. Like a presumptuous wine he was le nouvel arrivé, acidic, impertinent but, in the view of Queen Mary, excellent value for money. He was irreverent, called her ‘Your Graciousness’, which brought her out in uncharacteristic smiles, and he shared many of her prejudices.
‘Is an American allowed to tell an English Queen she looks radiant tonight?’ Kennedy began.
‘I think on that matter we might stretch a point, don’t you think, Foreign Secretary?’
‘Undoubtedly, ma’am.’
A flunkey crept between them bearing a crystal decanter to refill Her Majesty’s glass. He was in full royal regalia, stockings, breeches, buckled shoes, ruffs. Kennedy wondered if there was any chance of his borrowing the outfit for Halloween.
‘You gentlemen enjoyed yourselves today, I trust.’
‘They flew low and slow. Just as I like ’em,’ replied the Ambassador who, for all his Wild West hokum, was a poor shot.
‘It has been a particularly happy day for us,’ Queen Mary announced, patting her thighs with pleasure. ‘While you gentlemen were out shooting for your supper I had tea with our nephew, Fritzi – Prince Friedrich of Prussia,’ the elderly dowager added for the American’s benefit. ‘Such a sweet boy. He brought me news and letters from Doorn.’
The СКАЧАТЬ