Winston’s War. Michael Dobbs

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СКАЧАТЬ in a sausage queue. He imagined them all talking about him – but he always imagined people talking about him, dreamt of it, insisted on it, for to be ignored would be the biggest humiliation of all. But not about sausages. So he fought his hunger, feeling weaker with each passing minute, twisted inside by childhood memories of the kitchens of Tipperary until, despite his reservations, he could resist his cravings no longer. He grabbed a sausage and bun with all the fillings and wandered a little way from the other guests to enjoy in solitude the sensation of simply stuffing himself. That, he knew, was where the danger lay. These bangers-in-a-bun were impossible to eat delicately, you had to wolf them down before they turned on you and attacked, dripping grease and ghastliness everywhere. Bracken was notoriously fastidious, a desperate hypochondriac who took meticulous care over his appearance, washing his hands many times a day. This public encounter with a sausage was definitely a one-off, so he prepared himself. He found a spot where he could turn his back on the crowd, place his feet carefully in the sticky grass for security, lean gently forward and –

      ‘Why, is that Mr Bracken hiding over there?’

      The sausage turned into a missile, disappearing into the night, leaving the bun limp in his hands and a trail of grease spreading across the front of his starched white shirt. His bow tie drooped in despair.

      ‘You told me you’d call, Mr Bracken,’ Anna Fitzgerald said accusingly, ignoring his plight – no, enjoying it! Bracken’s arms were spread in dismay, his hair tumbled over his forehead as though trying to get a look for itself at the devastation. ‘You offered to show me round London, but you never called,’ she continued.

      ‘I … I … I’ve …’ Words suddenly deserted him as he tried to comprehend the mess of slime that was creeping across his chest. His brain and his tongue, usually so sharp and active, had seemingly dived for cover. All he could do was to gaze at her through pebble-thick glasses with the expression of a chastened child.

      ‘You don’t like Americans?’

      ‘No, no, please …’

      ‘Married or something?’

      ‘No, of course not …’

      ‘You’ve got a jealous girlfriend?’

      ‘Nothing like that.’

      Good, she’d got that sorted. She approached much closer; he noticed she had a small dog in tow, a russet-and-white King Charles spaniel trailing from a lead. ‘I know, you’re an important man. Very busy. Lots of distractions …’

      She had taken the linen handkerchief from his top pocket and was beginning a clean-up operation on his shirt, gently wiping away the mess, taking control. ‘The truth is, Mr Bracken, you’re just a little clumsy. And rather shy.’

      Anna Fitzgerald was petite, slim, almost boyish, dressed in a dark leather airman’s jacket that was a couple of sizes too large for her, and boots up to her knees. She was dressed so much more sensibly than he. The cold, damp grass beneath his feet was turning to mud and already laying siege to his hand-tooled leather town shoes, yet it no longer seemed to matter. She possessed the purest black hair he had ever seen. Her eyes danced and shimmered in the light of a thousand candles. She was different – so very different from other women he had ever met. It had taken her only a few moments to break down the defences of a lifetime and now no one else at this gathering seemed to matter. He wanted the grease stain to last for ever.

      ‘Busy – yes. I have been busy.’ At last he had regained some measure of composure, his brain in contact once more with his tongue. Other parts of his anatomy seemed to be gaining a life all their own, too. ‘Winston’s been making speeches, keeping me running around …’

      ‘So no time to show a dumb American around town.’

      ‘Well, it wasn’t just that – I mean, not that at all …’ Bracken began to stammer; bugger, he was making a mess of this. He was almost relieved when she was distracted by the spaniel – whose name turned out to be Chumpers. He had found something in the grass – Bracken’s sausage – and was giving it his undivided attention. ‘I was worried that your uncle the Ambassador, and Winston, they – how should I put this?’

      ‘Send smoke signals from opposite sides of the blanket?’

      ‘Exactly. Both very passionate people. I thought it might be difficult.’

      ‘You find passion difficult, Mr Bracken?’

      ‘I meant that it might be awkward – for you – if I were, you know, to invite you out. Mixing with the enemy.’

      ‘I’m not so sure about English girls but in Massachusetts they raise us with minds all of our own.’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘So is it Mr Churchill who would object if you called me? He owns your social loyalties as well as your political loyalties?’

      ‘Of course not!’ he protested, before suddenly it dawned on him that this was probably a lie. ‘There was also the thought – well, I am considerably older than you. About fifteen years.’

      ‘Why, glory be, Mr Bracken, you are a very ol’-fashioned gen’leman,’ she whispered in a voice that reeked of Dixie and seduction on the verandah. She was mocking him, but gently. Her hand was back on his chest, adding improvements to the clean-up operation.

      ‘Not at all. It’s just that –’ He stopped. Came to a complete halt. No point in continuing. A flush had appeared upon his face that came close to matching the colour of his ridiculous hair and he had an expression that suggested he might be passing kidney stones. ‘I’m making a complete mess of this.’

      ‘For the first time this evening, Brendan, I’m inclined to agree with you. So let me simplify things for you. Would you like to see me again? Take me to dinner? Show me the sights of London? Play canasta, or whatever it is genteel English folk do?’

      ‘Of course I would.’

      ‘And you know how to use a phone?’

      He began to laugh.

      ‘Hey, Brendan, looks like you’re in business.’

      She held up his grubby handkerchief and dropped it into the palm of his outstretched hand. ‘Bombs away,’ she whispered. Then she walked off, dragging the reluctant Chumpers behind her.

      

      It was a night not simply of entertainment but also of encounter and intrigue – just as Beaverbrook had required. He couldn’t plan such things, of course, but he understood human nature and knew that the inevitable outcome of mixing alcohol and ego was information. And in his world, information was power.

      As he turned to mingle with other guests, he found himself pursued. A woman, tugging in agitation at his sleeve. Lady Maud Hoare, wife of Sir Sam.

      ‘Maxwell, dear Maxwell …’

      Whoa, no one called him Maxwell. The girl was nervous.

      ‘I’m so sorry. I hope it didn’t cause a scene,’ Maud spluttered.

      Of course it caused a scene. A splendid one. As Joe Kennedy had just remarked to him, good parties were like battles. They required casualties.

      ‘It’s СКАЧАТЬ