Winston’s War. Michael Dobbs

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СКАЧАТЬ been awarded the Peace Prize yet, of course, no point in jumping the guns (although he has, quite literally). But his brother had never had a poem dedicated to his honour by the Poet Laureate, John Masefield:

       ‘As Priam to Achilles for his son,

       So you, into the night, divinely led,

       To ask that young men’s bodies, not yet dead,

       Be given from the battle not begun.’

      ‘What was that, darling?’ His wife, Anne, stirs, woken from her sleep.

      ‘Sorry, my dear. Must’ve been talking out loud. Rest a while longer. Still a way to go.’

      And what had Queen Mary told him? Over dinner she took his hand – yes, actually touched him – and said she had received a letter from the Kaiser himself in which he had said – oh, the words burned bright – that he had ‘not the slightest doubt that Mr Chamberlain was inspired by heaven and guided by God’. It makes him feel unbearably humble. He is sixty-nine, rapidly wearing out, undeniably mortal, yet with the hand of a Queen on his sleeve and his God at his shoulder. Still some, even within his own party, deny him. What would they have him do, for pity’s sake? Cast humanity aside and launch upon another bloody war? What in heaven’s name would they have him fight with? A French air force without wings? A Russian army with no scruples? Those people, that rag-bag of political mongrels around Churchill – armchair terriers who have urged him to introduce conscription, not just of men but of capital, too. Suggested he should take over the banks and much of business. Control their profits. Insanity! Doing the Bolsheviks’ work for them. But what could he expect of Winston, waving around his whisky and soda, desperately trying to obliterate the memories of his own manifold failures as a military leader. They would carve Gallipoli upon Churchill’s gravestone, along with the names of the forty thousand British soldiers who were slaughtered there. Herr Hitler had called Churchill and the other warmongers ‘moerderen’ – murderers. He had a point.

      The car is rolling down the A10 now, his thoughts rolling with it, past the acres of glasshouses that carpet the Lea Valley, approaching the outskirts of Cheshunt. The anger has warmed him inside but he remains exhausted almost to the point of despair. The driver slows to take a bend and through the darkness the Prime Minister can see the outline of a church, and a notice that announces it to be St Clement’s. Oranges and lemons, said the bells of St Clement’s … And St Martin’s, the Old Bailey, Shoreditch, Stepney, Old Bow. The candle is here to light him to bed. And here comes the chopper to chop off his head – chip, chop, chip, chop – the last man’s dead! In his tormented mind, Chamberlain has a vision. The heart of London has been ripped out by bombers, the church spires are burning like funeral pyres, and in their light he can see Winston Churchill, astride it all, holding the axe! Chip – chop – chip – chop. Oh, but this is no children’s game, there is no need for him to run away. Chip – chop – chip. He thinks he can hear the methodical rhythm of the axe as it falls, but it is only the beating of the car engine. His body aches, his mind is swimming with fatigue and a small tear begins to trace an uncertain path down his cheek. He wonders vaguely why he is crying, but arrives at no clear answer. He doesn’t make a habit of crying, can’t remember the last time he did so. Oh, yes, it was as a young child, when he refused to get out of the bath and his father had punished him …

      He dwells on memories of yesterday, perhaps because he dare not dwell on tomorrow. Sometimes, at that vanishing point as wakefulness dips into sleep, Chamberlain has a vision that London is burning after all and he has got the whole thing wrong. The crowds are no longer cheering and both God and the Queen have turned their backs. But it is only a dream. As they pass Queen Eleanor’s memorial at Waltham Cross, finally he falls into a fitful sleep.

      

      Late nights were spreading like a disease in Downing Street. They disrupted the process of calm thought and careful digestion. They were not to be encouraged.

      ‘I’ll follow you in a minute, my dear,’ Chamberlain promised as his wife set foot on the stairs. They both knew she would be asleep in her own room long before he made it up to the second floor. There came a point where the body was too exhausted to relax, and he had long since passed that point. He would need a drink and to pace a little before he could think of retiring, perhaps refresh himself from a few of the thousands of letters and telegrams waiting for him.

      As he wandered in search of distraction through the darkened corridors, he discovered a chink of light shining from beneath the door of the anteroom next to the Cabinet Room. The elfin grove. Muffled laughter. He was drawn to it like a moth.

      The merriment ceased as Horace Wilson and Joseph Ball looked up in concern. ‘Everything in order, Neville?’ Ball enquired. They were used to the tides of exhaustion that had swept across their master in recent weeks, but the face at the door was more lugubrious, the moustache more determinedly drooped, than ever.

      ‘Things in order? Perhaps you should tell me. You two always seem to know so much more about what’s going on than do I.’

      The Prime Minister sank into a chair and held out his hand. It was immediately filled with a glass of white wine. Tired eyes lifted in silent thanks. So often he found there was no need to use words with these elves, they had an uncanny ability to understand his needs – and particularly Wilson, whom he had inherited from the previous administration of Baldwin. At times it seemed to be the finest part of his inheritance. Softly spoken, pale eyes, fastidious by habit, understated but extraordinarily determined. From the start Wilson and the new Prime Minister had been natural colleagues, one the Government’s Chief Industrial Adviser, the other a former Birmingham businessman, both seeing virtue in compromise and believing pragmatism to be a guiding principle. Politics were, after all, simply about business, a matter of making deals.

      Ball was different. He was a man of fleshy indulgence, which showed beneath the waistcoats of his broad chalk-stripe suits. His fingers were thick, like sausages, and his face was round, an appearance exaggerated by the manner in which his dark hair was slicked close to his skull. His demeanour was often deliberately intimidating – he would take up his position behind his desk, staring inquisitorially through porthole spectacles like the barrister and spy master he once was, stirring only occasionally to wave away the cigarette smoke in which he was half-obscured. Unlike Wilson he was not in the least fastidious, being entirely open about his prejudices, which he promoted through his role as the mastermind of propaganda at Conservative Central Office, and also through a newspaper he published entitled Truth. Truth, for Ball, consisted of destroying the reputations of all opponents – among whom he numbered most Americans and all Jews – and he was liberal only in the means he employed to achieve his ends. He was extremely wealthy and had access to many sources of funds, using them not only to support his own publications but also to place spies inside the headquarters of the Labour Party and amongst opposition newspapers. He was widely loathed and almost universally feared.

      Yet he was even closer to the Prime Minister than was Wilson. Ball and Chamberlain shared a passion for country pursuits and particularly fly-fishing that swept them off in each other’s company to the salmon rivers of Scotland at the slightest opportunity, sometimes with unseemly haste. It was widely rumoured that the dates of many parliamentary recesses were set around the fishing calendar. Somehow there always seemed to be time for a little fishing.

      ‘So, how is our ungrateful world?’ Chamberlain pressed as he sipped the wine. It surprised him. An excellent hock.

      The elves looked at each other with an air of conspiratorial mischief. It was Ball who spoke.

      ‘This will pain you, Neville, I’m sure. But I fear Winston’s got himself into a spot of bother.’

      ‘Truly?’ СКАЧАТЬ