Winston’s War. Michael Dobbs

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СКАЧАТЬ She looped her arm through his, clinging tighter than was strictly necessary. Perhaps he should have invited her back for a drink after all.

      ‘So do you think there will be war, Bendy?’ She had given him a nickname. He’d never had a nickname before.

      ‘Hope not,’ he replied, not wanting to alarm her.

      ‘But your Mr Churchill says he thinks there will be.’

      And he found himself irritated. Churchill was his hero, his political master, yet Bracken was growing to resent the manner in which others treated him as little more than an adjunct to the elder statesman, and no one took him more for granted than the old man himself. ‘Don’t know what’s going on with Winston. Very peculiar,’ he muttered. ‘He – perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this, but – well, he’s got money problems and asked me to help him. To see if I could find a backer, someone to provide him with a loan to get him through. So I’ve been running around all over London making enquiries and then, just yesterday, he tells me to stop. No explanation. No thanks. Just –’ He waved his hands in dismissal.

      ‘Great men are like that. Hope you won’t be like that when it’s your turn.’ She held him still tighter. ‘Uncle Joe’s like that. Bit like Mr Churchill, I suppose. Do you think he might ever become Prime Minister?’

      So they walked, disturbing the sleeping ducks, exchanging confidences in a manner that was unusual for Bracken with a woman. Churchill’s money problems, Churchill’s ambitions, Churchill’s drunken son and his protective wife. Always Churchill. Anna sensed that Bracken didn’t care for Churchill’s wife and much preferred the company of his disreputable son. Bracken protested that Churchill still had plenty of time to become Prime Minister – why, Gladstone had been eighty, he insisted – but she thought he protested too vigorously on the matter, as if trying to shout down his own doubts.

      And wasn’t it strange, he said, that the two of them should be walking arm in arm while their two masters were usually at each other’s throats.

      ‘Oh, you mustn’t mind Uncle Joe, he’s always mad at something. Always plotting, always a little angry. He doesn’t think much of the State Department – calls them a bunch of cookie-pushers – and gets quite furious about the White House. Think he’d like to be President himself, one day, just like Mr Churchill. They’re a lot alike in some ways.’

      ‘If we value our personal safety I suggest we don’t mention it to either of them.’

      They stopped in the shadow of a tree, looking at the distant lights of Knightsbridge that sparkled off the water and seemed to find reflection in each other’s eyes.

      ‘Don’t worry about war, Anna,’ Bracken said, tried to reassure her, holding her shoulders, playing with the ends of her soft hair. ‘You Americans worry too much, you go funny at the very thought of war,’ he chided. ‘Why, just days ago, that fellow – you know, Orson Welles – makes a radio broadcast about “The War of the Worlds” and half the eastern seaboard of America goes into a panic because they think the Martians are attacking. You’re not very good at war.’

      ‘Didn’t do too badly in the last one,’ she reminded him softly. And she kissed him.

      Almost before he knew it their bodies were pressing up against each other, their tongues searching, his fingers, too, through the buttons of her fur coat and on her breast, but she drew away. Suddenly he was gripped by shame. He heard his mother whispering in his ear, tormenting him, accusing him of being no better than a prowling dog, and he wanted to scream at himself for being such a fool. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he mumbled, preparing to flee, but she held him.

      ‘Bendy, no – it’s me that’s sorry. I’m so very fond of you,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just that – I’ve got too much Irish and Catholic in me, it makes me feel so, so – guilty. You wouldn’t understand.’

      Understand? He could write the entire encyclopaedia. Of course he understood. Unlike hers, his Irish Catholic upbringing was entirely authentic. A mud-roofed hut in Tipperary rather than a New England mansion. With dirt floors instead of marble, and only one room. Lying awake, listening to his parents behind the curtain surrounding their bed, his father’s ferocious grunts, her pleas for him to be quieter, and more gentle. And always afterwards, while his father snored, his mother prayed, begged that she would have no more children and be released from the hell of her life. Guilt? His very existence was a matter of guilt, of sin, of suffering, and the lesson had been beaten into him every day at seminary school until he had run away from it at the age of fifteen. But it always came back to him, every time he heard a woman pray, or every time he thought of sex.

      So, yes, Anna Maria, he knew all about guilt.

      Which was why he didn’t want anything more to do with the Irish, why he’d tried by all sorts of invention to scrub any lingering bit of Irishness from his voice and his soul, one of the many reasons why he hated Bernard Shaw. Yet Anna Maria reminded him of Ireland every time he looked into her pale green eyes. He didn’t even like women – at least, not the hairy, scratchy, unpleasant women who were the sum total of his sexual experience, who smelt so strange and who demanded more money afterwards – yet he was already counting the moments before he could see this woman again. For Bracken, image was everything, yet here he was standing under a tree in a public park with a handful of nipple and a girl almost young enough to be his daughter. He’d never wanted to share his life with any woman, largely because his life was such a fabrication that it wouldn’t stand up to any sustained scrutiny, yet suddenly he was breaking every rule in his book.

      That’s when he came to the conclusion he had fallen in love.

      

      ‘You’ve gone too far this time. Too wretchedly, damnably far!’

      And they had thought they were bringing him the best news of the day.

      As soon as they had knocked on the door of the Cabinet Room, Ball and Wilson sensed that their own feelings of elation were misplaced. ‘What do you want?’ Chamberlain had demanded imperiously, not taking his eyes from the letter he was writing.

      Another of those endless missives to his sisters, they decided. He wrote to them in astonishing detail, not only of the facts of his Government but of his ambitions and aspirations, and also of his fears. For him these letters were a cleansing process, like the bleedings insisted upon by a mediaeval physician, except that in his letters he bled feelings and soul. Sometimes the sisters knew more than even Ball and Wilson, and always more than his wife.

      ‘News from the front, Neville,’ Ball exclaimed, moving into the room.

      ‘Which of the many fronts that seem to engage my attentions?’ the Prime Minister responded. He was always like this when he was tired: overbearing, sarcastic, short. They had learned to ignore it.

      ‘In their manifold and great mercy, our friends in the frozen north have decided not to retain the Duchess as their candidate at the next election,’ Ball continued.

      Still Chamberlain did not look up. There were livid red spots high on his cheeks. He had just been told that the furniture he and his wife had ordered for the new residence at the top of Number Ten would not be arriving for another two months. Delay upon delay. The incompetence was scarcely believable. How was he supposed to secure the peace of Europe when he hadn’t got anywhere to store his clean shirts? He was going to visit Signor Mussolini, who normally appeared in public covered in gold braid. Would the British Prime Minister have to arrive looking like some agricultural worker? ‘If this is democracy, I sometimes wonder why we bother,’ he muttered.

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