Winston’s War (37 page)

“Me, too. See more of you, I mean. But lashed to that same mast.” She was playing with a long stalk of grass, stroking it
with her fingers. He so much wanted to be that stalk of grass. He wriggled and repositioned his jacket across his lap.

“I've got to take Aunt Rose to the South of France next week,” she continued. “To join Uncle Joe.”

“Ah, pity.” Suddenly he sounded hurt, defensive. “I knew he'd gone. Assumed your aunt would be with him already.”

“Uncle Joe's spending a little time on diplomatic work—”

“I was hoping you might be free…”

“—before my aunt joins him for their holiday.”

“Ah, I see.” Ever since his arrival in London Kennedy had dedicated himself to the re-establishment of the Entente Cordiale, a diplomatic policy fed by a seemingly inexhaustible supply of young French actresses which led him not to the Elysée in Paris but to a variety of yachts moored off Cannes and Monte Carlo. “He's not on his own, is he?”

Anna gave him a stare flushed with disapproval—of her uncle, perhaps, or simply the naïveté of his question.

“I really want to see more of you,” Bracken insisted.

“You could come to France for a few days, perhaps—but of course you can't, not with everything going on here,” she said, making the suggestion and reaching the conclusion all in the same breath. It was one of the things he admired so much in her, the intensely practical side of her nature, so unlike the silly English debutantes who couldn't find their way out of a powder room without the help of at least three friends. But on this occasion her practicality seemed to raise his hopes, only to dash them down again.

“Anna, we've been going out—seeing each other—for eight months now, since December”—how strange he was, she thought, to remember precisely how long they'd known each other. It was almost a feminine trait in Bracken; most men kept their memory in their underwear and always seemed to be losing it.

He gazed at her, on her back, looking sightless towards the skies, caressing the stalk of grass that lay between her breasts,
the print of her cotton frock pressed thinly along her body. He imagined himself as a Zulu king looking down from a high mountain across veldt that stretched and undulated into distant magical mists, and he wanted to possess it all.

“Anna, we'd be able to see so much more of each other if we were married.”

She seemed not to react. Not to breathe, even.

“You'd make such a splendid hostess. A grand house. The finest dinner parties. The social and political center of London, you and me…” His words came in a rush, carried on a breath that seemed to exhaust him. She opened her eyes slowly, rolling over onto an elbow to look at him.

“Was that a proposal?”

“I think so.”

A long silence. She studied the stalk of grass intently.

“Well, will you?” he demanded.

“No, Brendan dear.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have a war to fight. And you're not the marrying kind. Anyway, it would spoil our friendship. And your friendship is so very important to me, Brendan. More important than I can say. So it must be no, don't you see? At least for the moment…”

Rejection wrapped up in a tissue of hope. But she underestimated Bracken—he was Irish, accustomed to refusal and rejection, which only served to make him more stubborn, more than ever determined to succeed. He wasn't going to take no for an answer. She was young, impressionable, so he would make the appropriate impression and bring her round. Leave her no option but to change her mind.

Although later he was to suspect that, all along, she had known precisely what she was doing.

Downing Street garden. Brilliant sunshine. A bench beneath the
shelter of the shade of the silver birch. Teacups on a picnic table.

“Masterstroke, Neville. Complete masterstroke.”

“Thank you.” Tea, sipped with care. “Which particular masterstroke did you have in mind, Horace?”

“Tempting Winston with the fruits of office. You know, we couldn't keep him quiet throughout the spring. Up and down like a jack-in-the-box with a loose catch. But then a couple of rumors dribbled across the right bars and he hasn't made a single speech in the House all summer. Not one. Not even…”

“About the German loan.”

Wilson turns for tea. “Not even that. Like a fish mesmerized by one of your flies.”

A moment spent studying the outline of leaves against the sky. “It can't last, Horace.”

“Why not?”

“Because very soon he'll realize there is no fly. That it's a mirage. A deception. He'll know I have no intention of giving him a job.”

“So…what do we do?”

“Keep him quiet by other means.”

“Other means?”

“We'll send him away. Send them all away. Get them out from under our feet.”

“A parliamentary recess?”

“Busy their giddy minds with foreign travel. Preferably on yachts.”

“At a time like this? They'll kick up a fuss.”

“Oh, but not much of one. The attractions of the Côte d'Azur far outweigh those of Poland. Most of them have ambitions to join up with the bucket-and-spade brigade, nothing more.”

“Digging sandcastles rather than trenches.”

“Precisely.”

More tea.

“Winston, too?”

“Maybe not him. Awkward squad. But at least the summer holidays will deprive him of an audience.”

“True.”

Another pause. An adjustment of the tie, almost a fidget. “And we should deprive him of other things, perhaps.”

“Such as?”

“You are aware of the new Home Office security recommendations?”

“About the IRA? Of course. Banning suitcases on buses—closing the public gallery in the Commons.”

“And increasing protection for prominent persons who may be at risk.”

“Giving them armed detectives, you mean.”

“More tea, Horace?”

“Thank you.”

A very English pause.

“It's a very long list of names. For protection.”

“Inevitably.”

“Too long.”

“You think so?”

“Needs trimming.”

“How?”

“Winston's name is on the list.”

“I know.”

“I want him off.”

“Taken off? But that means…”

“Precisely. We'll leave Winston's fate in God's hands, for the moment, shall we?”

The second of August. A Wednesday. The House had a stale, masculine atmosphere that left tempers frayed and caused rings of sweat to gather around the collars. Time to leave. Already millions of ordinary Britons were on holiday, their thoughts distracted from the threats that hovered over them, and now
MPs were to be sent to join them. In normal circumstances such an announcement would be greeted with an outpouring of ill-concealed rejoicing, but the days of August 1939 were not normal times.

Only the previous week when rumors of the recess had begun to circulate, Churchill had risen to demand that the House should not be sent away to be lost in the mists of autumn, and Chamberlain had responded that such a suggestion was “hypothetical.” Now hypothesis turned to hardened fact and the Prime Minister rose to inform MPs that they were to be banished until October.

It was a simple and straightforward parliamentary procedure, a motion for the Adjournment of the House, which would normally raise no more concerns than the spillage of tea into the saucer. But this was August 1939. MPs rose to offer their views—almost all were concerned, many hostile. What signal would it give to the dictators if the democracies shut up their stall and ran away to build sand-castles? Was Hitler going to take a holiday, too?

Churchill spoke in opposition—the first time he had engaged in a debate in the House in many weeks. It was not an onslaught—perhaps he was still held back by the enticements of office, but clearly nothing on that front could happen now until October, if it ever did. So his speech was at times jocular, but the wit was often biting. He spoke of “the danger months in Europe, when the harvests have been gathered and when the powers of evil are at their strongest.” He talked of the two million men already under arms in Germany, and the five hundred thousand who had been called up in recent days and would be added to that number before the end of August, massing along the Polish frontiers from Danzig to Cracow. He said their public buildings were being cleared out on a massive scale—and why? To become makeshift hospitals and reception centers for the wounded.

His wit dug deep into the flesh of his Prime Minister. How could it be, Churchill demanded, that in such awesome circumstances Chamberlain could say to the House: “Begone! Run off and play! Take your gas masks with you! Do not worry about public affairs.” After all, this Government had such a splendid record in predicting the outcome of public affairs…

The smile at the corner of the old man's mouth did little to take the sting from the lash as he laid it across his leader's back. Chamberlain sat, and smarted, and sulked, even more so as others rose to their feet to call on him to be more flexible, to compromise, to bring the House back earlier. To be prepared.

Less than two hours after Churchill had resumed his seat, Chamberlain was forced to rise once more. The mood of defiance was spreading through the House like a toxin, but this was his House, dammit. He led the party that had an overwhelming majority in this place. Time to use it. So he made it clear to the House that the vote which lay ahead of them was to be regarded as a vote of confidence in his leadership. This wasn't just a vote for their holidays, this was a vote for him, for Neville Chamberlain, their Prime Minister, their best damned leader and their only damned leader—and they'd better not forget it! In the language of Parliament, it was a declaration of war. Anyone in his own party who failed to support him would be taking their political lives in their hands, and with an election due in months, those lives would be short. He'd make sure of that. He had suffered the lash for the last few hours, now he turned it with all his force on his colleagues.

There are many turning points in history. Some arise by chance, and perhaps this was one of them. Or maybe it was bound to happen sooner or later. The claim of a political leader to infallibility was scarcely new, but rarely had it been pushed with such ill grace. Even in pre-war days, politicians liked a little enthusiasm while they were being screwed. Yet
here was a man willing to declare war on his own colleagues at a moment's notice when he'd spent months ducking the issue with the Hun. The message was clear—Chamberlain's holidays were of considerably greater value than Czechoslovakia.

It was all too much for one young Member. Ronald Cartland was no typical Tory of his time. He hadn't had enough money to go to university, so he'd begun to work as a research assistant in Conservative Central Office for the stomach-tightening sum of three pounds a week. Tough times which bred independence. He had warned the selection committee in his Birmingham constituency that he would be no mindless weather vane, ready to swing whichever way the wind happened to be blowing, but they liked his fresh looks and selected him anyway.

When Cartland got to his feet in the Commons, he found his audience less than captivated. They were hot, distracted, and largely indifferent, having already feasted on a diet of Churchills and Chamberlains. In truth, many Members barely recognized him, although none were to forget him.

“I'm sorry to detain the House for a few moments, but I would like to say a few words as a backbencher of the Prime Minister's own party,” he began, almost in apology. The House rustled with distractions as many Members headed in search of refreshment. They stopped when they heard him continue: “I am profoundly disturbed by the speech of the Prime Minister.”

Those who had already passed beyond the Speaker's Chair in the direction of the Smoking Room turned and retraced their footsteps. Had they heard right? The sharp smack of disloyalty?

“We're going to separate until the third of October,” Cartland went on, “and I suppose the majority of us will be going down to our constituencies, out in the country, to make speeches. But a fantastic and ludicrous impression exists in this country. That the Prime Minister has ideas…of dictatorship.” Oh, God, he'd started, set out, and now there could be no turning back. Suddenly bodies
were squeezing back onto the crowded leather benches.

“It's a ludicrous impression, of course, and everybody here on both sides of the House knows it is ludicrous, but…”—that awesome little conjunction, but—“it does exist in the country.”

“Hell, Dickie, who is this little idiot?”

“Buggered if I know, Ian. Digging himself one hell of a hole. Dictatorship be damned. Neville'll have his balls on toast for this one.”

From his place towards the rear of the House, Cartland could see the back of the Prime Minister's head three rows in front of him. Not a muscle moved, not a hair twitched, but it was the very immobility that told its story.

“There is the ludicrous impression in this country,” Cartland repeated, “that the Prime Minister has these
dictatorship
ideas. And the speech he has made this afternoon, along with his absolute refusal to accept any of the proposals put forward by Members on both sides of the House, will make it much more difficult”—these words delivered more slowly—“to dispel that idea.”

“Bloody nonsense,” a Tory colleague grumbled loudly from nearby, but there were many more words of encouragement from across the Chamber and a large number of Tory heads that had simply turned to look at him and were nodding. It was like watching the eddies of a rock pool as the tide tumbled in upon it.

“Call yourself a Tory,” the colleague remonstrated once more. “I call you a disgrace.”

“No, no. I received a letter this morning.” Cartland waved a piece of paper in the direction of the complaint. “From a constituent of mine. Posted in King's Norton and signed simply: 'Conservative.' She has been a Conservative all her life, and she writes to me now to say that she is very upset”—he read—“
because so many people think the Prime Minister is a friend of Hitler.
”

“Sit down, you bloody fool!"…"He's drunk, must be."…"Reading
your suicide note, are you?"…"God, what sort of people have we let into this place?” Warnings began to be shouted at him from all along his own benches. One Member tried to pluck at the tail of his jacket to force him to sit down but Cartland wrenched himself free, determined to go on—and why not? There was nowhere he could go back to.