Winston’s War. Michael Dobbs

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ few months ago I was forced to place Chartwell up for sale. It almost broke my heart. I have created so much of it with my own bare hands, I love it without reservation. But as I despaired, another policy presented itself to me. If war were to break out in Europe, the value of everything in this corner of the world would be crushed, while investments in America would rise to ever greater heights. The New World refreshing the Old. It’s a policy that appeals to me; as you probably know my mother was American.’ Churchill’s mother, Jennie, had been a New Yorker who pursued life with a remarkable vitality that had encompassed three husbands and a multitude of more dubious liaisons. The first of her husbands had been Churchill’s father, who had been a classic example of ducal degeneracy, and they had both neglected their son as sorely as they neglected each other, yet Churchill clung to the wreckage of their reputations like a man adrift. He was at a side table now, pouring substantial cognacs. ‘So I took Chartwell off the market and, in the expectation of war, invested every penny I could raise in short-term stocks on Wall Street. I should by now be sitting on a small fortune.’

      ‘But Chamberlain comes crawling back from Munich …’

      ‘An umbrella torn to pieces by the storm. We seem destined to cross each other, Chamberlain and I. He beat me for the leadership of our party, then ignored my claim to office in his Government. He has tried to isolate me, now he may succeed in crushing me.’

      ‘Because there is to be no war.’

      ‘Not soon enough for my investments.’

      ‘What will you do?’

      The lower lip jutted forward. ‘Comfort myself in the knowledge that he is wrong, and that in the end I shall be proven right. And hope I may still be alive when that happens. Try to find consolation in the thought that – in war – buildings such as this have a value no greater than the pile of rubble they leave behind.’ There was an unmistakable dampness in the pale blue eyes.

      ‘We can always rebuild bricks and mortar, Mr Churchill, but we can’t replace your stubbornness and your eloquence.’

      ‘Words, words, words – when we need armies. Weaponry!’

      ‘Mr Churchill, at the moment your eloquence may be the only weapons we’ve got. You have to go on.’

      ‘One man against the world?’ He shook his head. ‘Here I am, an old man, out of office for a decade.’

      ‘But with a pride in freedom and a belief in the majesty of a man’s right to choose that is the measure of any man I’ve ever met.’ Burgess began to beat his chest. ‘Mr Churchill, my passion is as deep as yours, but I don’t have your powers. No one does. You give up and you’ll leave our sky without its pole star. You must carry on. Your country expects it, demands it. And I know you will listen to them. The Churchills always have.’

      The dampness in the old man’s eyes now bordered on tears and he turned to gaze out at his beloved Kent countryside. Burgess was at his side, pointing. ‘These fields, these blessed fields – a distant corner of the bloody German Reich? Never!’

      The old man stood staring for a while, then turned slowly towards his companion. ‘It would seem that I cannot give up. You will not let me. And I have come too far to turn back. You are a persuasive man, Burgess – why, you remind me a lot of myself when I was young. Although I think I could afford rather better suits. So …’ – the eyes were alight once more – ‘I shall do as you insist. I shall continue to speak out. After all, I have nothing to lose. And, as you can see, I am too old to learn the goose-step!’ He dispatched the cognac in one draught. ‘But now I must sleep. I have slept very badly in recent days, and not at all last night.’ Churchill held the other man’s hand. ‘You found me at my lowest ebb, Burgess. I had descended into darkness. You have helped restore me. Words will never be able to embrace my gratitude.’ He was propelling Burgess rapidly in the direction of the door. ‘So much to do, so little time to do it. And for that I shall need my strength.’

      When they reached the hallway Churchill suddenly stopped as though some important memory had tumbled into his mind. ‘Pray, sign the visitors’ book and wait here for a moment,’ he instructed, before scuttling off. He returned bearing another book. ‘I have been idle, but my son Randolph has not. He is about your age, Burgess, and has recently published a volume of my speeches, Arms and the Covenant. Here.’

      He took the pen from Burgess’s hand and began to inscribe on the flyleaf of the book: ‘To Guy Burgess, from Winston S. Churchill, to confirm his admirable sentiments.’ He dated the inscription, September 1938.

      ‘Read. Enjoy. And if ever you should need me, Burgess, send me this book. I shall remember our conversation, and the debt I owe you.’

      They parted, the Great Man and the Arch-Manipulator. It was only later that Churchill read the message left by his guest in the visitors’ book.

       ‘From a fellow traveller, belligerent, bibulous – and broke.’

      It was written on a page that, many years later, would be torn from the book and destroyed.

      

      The weather forecast had been discouraging. It had also proved to be entirely accurate, and the young telephonist scurried to work trying her best to shield her new perm from the elements. She had accepted a date for the following day with a dark-eyed travelling glove salesman from Manchester named Norman, and although she knew their relationship could be measured in little more than moments and plumbed the depths of folly, still she wanted to look her best. She arrived in time before her duty started to repair the storm damage and smoke half a cigarette, carefully replacing the unused portion in its packet.

      The exchange room where she worked was gloomy, the overhead lighting meagre and inadequate for its task. She settled onto her high-backed stool and confronted the array of switches that were set out with military precision on the board in front of her. At chin-level were posted the Instructions of the Day, printed on a small card. From all sides came the quiet female chatter of operators handling enquiries and connecting calls. It proved to be a busy night at the exchange with much of the country intent on sharing the hard-won pleasures of peace. She listened in on many of the trunk calls in order to ensure that the connection remained clear, at times feeling tempted to join in, to celebrate with them, even to tell them about her Norman. Thoughts of Norman made the night drag. His hands were elegant and remarkably soft, just like a glove salesman’s should be, and she wanted it to be tomorrow already.

      When the call came up on her board, she knew precisely what to do. The Instructions about this number, Westerham 4433, were clear. She turned to attract the attention of her supervisor, who was sitting at her cubicle in the middle of the exchange floor and who responded with a nod. The supervisor, several years older than any other of the girls on the floor, inserted a plug in her own board and re-routed the call through the Observation Room.

      The Observation Room was small, almost sepulchral, without the background chatter of the main exchange. In it sat another young female operator with headphones on, recording tape machine at the ready, and pencil in hand. As the call was connected she noted both the time and the number on her Observation Sheet, and as the voices poured out she began her task of taking down in shorthand every word of the conversation.

      It wasn’t difficult to tell the difference between the two men’s voices. One was ordinary, just a voice in the babble.

      The other was quite unmistakable. Sonorous. Distinctively sibilant.

      She began scribbling till her fingers ached.

СКАЧАТЬ