Winston’s War. Michael Dobbs

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СКАЧАТЬ down avenues which might prove uncomfortable, picked up the explanation. ‘Winston has had many difficult times,’ he explained to Kennedy, ‘but the abdication row was the worst. He came back to the Commons after what might be termed, um … a considerable lunch, and would not go quietly. Insisted on rising to make a speech, to argue against the abdication. When the matter was already settled.’

      The dowager muttered darkly. Kennedy thought he could make out the words ‘dog’ and ‘vomit’.

      ‘It was, um, an extraordinary scene. He was jeered from all sides, to the point where he could take it no longer. Forced to leave the Chamber. Flogged from his post. His reputation has never recovered. A sad end to a considerable career. Who knows what – um, in other circumstances – might have been?’

      Kennedy had to work still harder to contain his amusement at Halifax’s soft twisting of the stiletto and the outpouring of tortured ‘r’s. His entertainment was interrupted by what seemed at first sight to be an ostrich, an apparition in feathers that began to bob slowly up and down. It proved to be one of the guests, the wife of a senior diplomat, who was curtseying – once, twice – trying to catch the Dowager Queen’s attention. The attempt failed miserably. The Queen stared unflinching with eyes that could pluck feathers at fifty paces. After all, this particular bird was one of that circle of society women who – like the banker’s wife – had taken her son, the once-innocent Edward, under their wings and into their beds, ensuring that the handsome young prince wanted for neither experience nor education. Trouble was, they had also left him with a taste for the exotic which, in Queen Mary’s view, had pushed him down the slippery sexual slope that had led to his ruin with That Woman. The Queen chose neither to forgive nor to forget, and the courtier moved on, distraught, flapping her freshly clipped wings.

      Kennedy returned them to their conversation. ‘So you don’t think Mr Churchill has much of a political future?’

      ‘The best is past, and some time ago,’ Halifax muttered.

      The royal whalebone rattled. ‘It is all theatre. He hasn’t a smudge of support.’

      Kennedy loved this woman and it showed. Fiery, passionate, opinionated. Hell, if only they’d also given the Royal Family a brain, how different history might have been.

      ‘Ah, um, which brings me to another point, Ambassador,’ Halifax continued. ‘On which the Prime Minister and I would much appreciate your support.’

      ‘You want New York back?’

      ‘Not quite our architectural style any longer, I think. No, it’s Paramount, the um … picture company. They’ve put out a news film for the cinemas which is really – how can one put this? – not helpful. Goes on about what it calls the German diplomatic triumph and the sufferings in Czechoslovakia rather than um … the peace and security which the agreement has delivered to the whole of Europe. Censorship is out of the question, of course, I fully understand that, but I wondered – particularly with your background in Hollywood – could you have a word with Paramount? With the owners, perhaps? Encourage them to bring a little more balance to their productions?’

      ‘You mean twist a few arms. Break a few legs.’

      ‘I’m sure just a word in the right ear would be sufficient,’ Halifax insisted.

      ‘Hey, but half of Hollywood is run by the sons of Israel. Fiddling their own tune. What can you expect …?’

      Their discussion was interrupted by a string quartet starting up. Something Middle European. Probably Bach. Coincidence, of course, but to the Queen it seemed like a heavenly fanfare, for at that moment the Prime Minister himself entered the room, dressed for dinner with his wife Anne on his arm.

      ‘Ah, Neville,’ the Dowager Queen fluttered, shaken from her sherry, ‘it’s Blessed Neville. At last! Now we can all rest in peace.’

      

      Neville. Blessed Neville. The saintly Neville. Everywhere he goes his name is on their lips and he is acclaimed from all sides. Peace – and praise – in his time. A task completed, a world saved. And a point proved. How ironic it is that of all the generations of mighty Chamberlains, he should be the one to make his mark, and how grotesque that, after what has been said in his praise, he should still feel insecure. But Neville has been raised in the shadows, almost a political afterthought, the son of Joseph and half-brother of Austen, both more obviously eminent than he. And yet neither made it to 10 Downing Street. But he has. He may not have wits as quick or tongue so lyrical, but what he lacks in natural gifts he has made up for with persistence and hard work – some call it blind stubbornness, a determination that has left him grey and close to the edge of utter exhaustion. His body has arrived at the point where cold iron grips him inside at night, and still lingers there in the morning. He has needed every ounce of that stubbornness and self-belief to enable him to carry on, but carry on he must. The peace of Europe depends upon it. So does the good name of his family.

      He is still feeling cold to his core as he drives – rather, is being driven – back from Sandringham House. The applause of the guests is ringing in his ears, the warmth of the King’s handshake still upon his palm, but by God it’s cold at night in these Fens. He wraps himself more tightly in the car blanket and tries to find comfort on the leather seats of the Austin. He wishes he could sleep, like his wife beside him, but sleep has learned to avoid him. It is dark outside, as it was when he flew back from Germany. He had never flown before but three times now he has made the trip, long and uncomfortable, like being thrown around in a tumbrel as it crosses uneven cobbles. But it has been worth the pain. As he flew back that last time along the Thames towards London, he realized he was following the path the bombers might take. And there below him, in all its electric splendour, had sat London and its millions of men, women and children – his own grandchild included, born just days before he left – waiting. Waiting for him, waiting for Hitler, waiting defenceless for whatever might be thrown against them. But now there isn’t going to be a war. And he hopes never to have to go up in an aeroplane again.

      He knows there are those who mock him, but only the types who would have mocked Jesus himself. Behind his back they call him the Undertaker, the Coroner, but not to his face, not any more. Even Hitler had shouted and stormed at him, his spittle landing on Chamberlain’s cheek, and Horace Wilson had told him that during one of his private interviews in Berchtesgaden the Fuehrer had become so agitated that he had screamed and fallen to the floor in a fit. He is the commonest little dog, the German leader, no doubt of that, but if he is half-mad then there is also the other half, and at least he is a man of business. And he, Neville Chamberlain, has done business with him – ‘the first man in many years who has got any concessions out of me,’ as Hitler told him – and he has brought back a piece of paper bearing his signature on which the lives of hundreds of millions of Europeans depend. Herr Hitler has given his word.

      The visits to Germany have had their lighter moments, of course. When he arrived in Munich and stepped down from the plane, an SS guard of honour had been waiting ready for inspection. With skulls and crossbones on their collars. What, he had wondered, did they signify? Anyway, as they came to attention he remembered that he had left his umbrella on the plane and kept the SS waiting while he retrieved it. The great German army – held up by an umbrella! And they accuse him of having no sense of humour.

      He has achieved more than merely an absence of war, he has built the foundations for peace – a peace in which Britain will be at the heart of Europe, with real influence, helping shape its future rather than simply watching in impotence as a resurgent Germany grows increasingly dominant. “Proaching Cambridge, sir,’ the driver announces – God, miles still to go. His thoughts turn to his half-brother, Austen, and the Nobel Peace Prize he had been awarded for his efforts in bringing the nations СКАЧАТЬ