Winston’s War (42 page)

He scurries in through the back door, filthy, scratched, radiant—and in tatters. She gives him a clip around the ear—it's what he would expect, a fair exchange for the good time he's had—then she digs out her last shilling to send him round to the bakers for his favorite cherry tarts and lemonade. He goes to bed smothered in love and crumbs. And as the light fades, Carol sits alone, her world no larger than the tiny back room, hemmed in by blackout curtains as she tries to repair all the holes that have suddenly appeared in her life. She struggles desperately to forget about tomorrow, for tomorrow is when she's going to lose her son. She will send Peter to school with nothing more than his gas mask, a small bag, and a large label around his neck, at which point he will be swallowed up by the Great Plan. He will be evacuated. Lined up in the playground along with all the other children and taken away—to a place of safety, the Great Plan insists, but where that place of safety will be, the Great Plan doesn't know and can't yet say. Somewhere
in the country. With new parents. No longer hers. With people who know nothing about Peter, who don't understand his sense of mischief, who won't know how much he adores cherry tarts and lemonade, who might abuse him, or use him as some form of cheap labor. Peter will be little more than a refugee, another frightened face from the pages of
Picture Post
.

All this she can do nothing about—but she is determined that at least he will be a refugee with sound leather patches on the elbows of his jacket. So she sews beneath the light of a bare bulb and fights the dread rising inside her which tells her that, after tomorrow, she might never see Peter again.

She struggles on. Got to keep herself strong, for the children. Send him off with that smile. She reminds herself that she still has Lindy, that it could all still be worse. That's when she raises her eyes and spots their rubber gas masks on the table. Peter and Lindy have been playing with them at teatime, chasing each other, screaming in muffled voices, pretending to be bugeyed monsters from another planet. Which is exactly what the war had already made them. Unrecognizable. No longer hers.

Even before the first bomb has fallen on London, her entire world has been blown apart.

Halifax had expected to find the Prime Minister working in the Cabinet Room, but it was deserted. The long, elegant room had grown claustrophobic, with tape masks pasted across every window-pane, cutting out the view and the light. At its far end the French windows were open and the lace curtain was shimmering, as though someone had made a hurried escape. Halifax followed the route, which led him out onto a sun-scorched patio from where he could see Chamberlain, down on his knees beside the roots of the silver birch, chatting animatedly with the gardener. Judging by the arch of his back and the earnest movement of his hands, it appeared to be a matter of considerable importance.

“Ah, Edward!” The Prime Minister looked up, his expression full of unaccustomed enthusiasm. “Have you seen the autumn crocus? Just breaking through.”

The Foreign Secretary gazed down from an imperial height. Poland was in flames, Warsaw being reduced to rubble, and yet…

“Planted them myself. Last year,” Chamberlain continued. “Makes you think—doesn't it?—that things will get back to normal.”

“Hope—and the crocuses—spring eternal.”

“Then perhaps you might persuade your friend Dawson to take that view,” Chamberlain observed, his voice grown suddenly taut, rising awkwardly with the aid of a stick. He was beginning to suffer from the early symptoms of an attack of gout.

Halifax couldn't escape the hint of accusation. Your friend Dawson…One editorial in
The Times
that was only a couple of degrees less than adulatory and the Prime Minister had taken personal offense, seeing enemies on every side. “You know Geoffrey is one of our greatest friends,” Halifax insisted, “and continues to be. He's given over his editorial columns to us these past months.”

Chamberlain sniffed.

“But he—like so many—feels…” Halifax searched for the word. He was going to use the expression “let down” but decided it was too ambiguous and open to misinterpretation by an overly sensitive Prime Minister. “He feels
deflated
.”

In fact, what Dawson had told him as they had shared a compartment on the train journey down from Yorkshire was that he felt almost
betrayed
. “Left standing bloody naked in the park, Edward, I can tell you. I've backed this Government, you know I have. To the hilt. Let you write more of my leader columns than I have myself. And Neville
promised
. That appeasement would work, that there would be no war. Right
up to the very last minute. Now I look a complete fool. All of a sudden my editorial meetings are chaos, everyone's arguing—I 've even got the wretched lift man telling me where I got it wrong. Not much fun being an emperor with no clothes, I can tell you.”

Halifax sympathized. He knew precisely how Dawson felt. He'd never liked Munich, had described it as “a hideous choice of evils” even while Chamberlain was promising peace and honor and claiming his place in history. At the end of the day Halifax had gone along with it because there seemed to be no other choice. He didn't like Hitler and so he didn't trust him. He was also more than a little afraid of him. Halifax had three sons of military age and he found the thought of losing them almost unendurable, and he feared that was what Hitler might demand. And it would all be his fault—
their
fault, his and Chamberlain's. Somehow they'd got this thing wrong, terribly wrong, yet this morning he found Chamberlain in no mood for self-flagellation. The Prime Minister took him by the arm and began to lean on him as he set off around the garden.

“Tell Dawson this. What is clear is that our cause is the moral cause. There has never been a clearer case in Christendom of such an unnecessary war. History will show this. What we have succeeded in doing over these last months is showing that we are the innocent party, the crusaders for peace. We have God on our side and I take great comfort from that. So should Dawson.” Halifax felt uneasy. He was a High Anglican and spent more time on his knees than any of his Cabinet colleagues, yet at this moment he felt no more capable of laying claim to being a Christian crusader than he did of pronouncing it without sounding ridiculous.

“I think Dawson is struggling—many are, I suspect—to explain why on the one hand we go to war with Germany when they invade Poland, yet on the other barely lift a finger of protest
when the Soviettes"—Halifax refused to call them Wussians—"do exactly the same thing.”

“Our guarantee was aimed against Hitler, not Russia.”

“There's not much of a difference, so far as Poland itself is concerned…”

“So far as Poland is concerned, nothing will make much of a difference, since in all probability in a matter of days it will no longer exist!” Halifax came to an abrupt halt as he stumbled over the sudden appearance of Realpolitik amidst their contemplation of morality. Meanwhile Chamberlain thrust his head forward and continued alone, as though trying to leave all this sophistry behind.

“Have to say, Neville, it's not the easiest intellectual argument we've ever put forward,” Halifax ventured.

“Forget intellectual, think survival. We send an expeditionary force to Poland, it would never make it off the beach. Get shot to pieces, along with you, me, and the entire Government.”

“Then…what?”

“We wait. Bide our time. The war can't last—Hitler's overstretched himself, not got the resources. I have a fair suspicion that by the spring the German people will be calling for an end to all this nonsense.”

“What—glutted with their victories?” Halifax couldn't hide the skepticism.

Chamberlain shook his head as though bothered by mosquitoes. “The war is a temporary distraction, Edward. A diversion. Hitler has ransacked the German economy, it can only be a matter of months before it collapses. War can only lead to starvation and disaster, just like last time. But…"—he turned to his Foreign Secretary, tired eyes glinting with defiance—"if we can limit the conflict, confine it to Poland, then by the spring Germany will have grown thin and weary, and we can get out of this awful mess with our prestige and our Empire intact.”

Halifax wanted to be convinced, yet if it came down to an economic contest between Britain and Germany, it might prove to be a damned close-run thing.

“That's why we've got to keep the lid on it,” Chamberlain continued. “No bombing of the German mainland, no excuse for them to retaliate and for the war to spread. We must make sure they understand that we
still
—even at this point—have no desire for an all-out war. My conscience couldn't live with that.”

“But it could live with Hitler?”

“That's for the German people to decide. And by the spring, God willing, the war may be settled and the British people can make their decision, too.”

“An election?”

“Why not?”

“Oh, but what a bloody place Europe is.” And what a bloody art is the art of politics, Halifax thought, when a war is viewed through the lens of electoral advantage. Sometimes democracy stank.

As if to confirm his thoughts, he spotted Wilson and Ball crossing the lawn in their direction. He had developed a growing antipathy for these men who served Chamberlain so ferociously—"the Iron Triangle at the heart of Government,” as they were sometimes called. What was it, why did his missing arm seem to ache whenever these two were near? Was it a question of class? Ball was the son of a bookstall clerk and Wilson that of a Bournemouth furniture dealer—although from the point of view of an hereditary Viscount, Chamberlain himself might be viewed as little more than a provincial metal basher. Or perhaps it was much simpler to understand than the English class system, perhaps it was no more than naked jealousy. Wilson was altogether too mighty, had accompanied Chamberlain to Munich, had been used by Chamberlain for all sorts of unorthodox dealings with ambassadors and others
that should rightly have been within the fiefdom of the Foreign Office. Yes, it was a little of all of these things. But mostly it was because Halifax knew that in justice Wilson should bear the lion's share of the blame—blame for promoting appeasement so blindly, for pushing Chamberlain too far, blame which, because Wilson operated from the shadows, Halifax would have to shoulder in public.

Wilson approached, waving pieces of paper. “Here's another two.” Chamberlain groaned. “Not more helpful hints from Winston,” he pleaded.

“He hopes you don't mind"—Wilson started to read—"
my drawing to your attention the enormous wastage of paper involved in the daily conduct of Government business. Might I suggest that you consider issuing instructions to all departments that, henceforth, all envelopes used on official business should, wherever practicable, be pasted up and re-directed again and again rather than dismissed from service? Although this seems a small thing, the savings over the months and years ahead might prove to be substantial and it will teach every official—of whom we now have millions—to think of saving…
”

“No more, no more,” Chamberlain sighed, leaning heavily on his stick. He turned to Halifax. “He bombards me with his ideas without pause for breath. I feel as though I'm part of his own personal
blitzkrieg
.”

“You think you're being picked out for special treatment?” Halifax inquired. “Why, he does it with everyone.”

“You, too?”

“Only this morning. Comments on Foreign Office telegrams. Somehow Winston's comments sound like divine commands even while they reek of port and chewed cigar.”

“I had my doubts. Remember discussing it with you, Horace. Would Winston cause more chaos inside the Government than out? I'm still not sure I made the right choice,
bringing him back. It's like competing with a brass band.” He stabbed his stick into the turf. “So what is the subject of his second commandment?”

Wilson waved the piece of paper. “Mr. Churchill desires to express his concerns that our Army and the Air Force are not of sufficient size to meet the current threat—”

“What?” Chamberlain exploded, shaking his stick as though trying to thrash the offending letter from Wilson's hand. “Winston is Navy. I gave him Navy, nothing more. Got nothing to do with the others. Not a bit of it. Damn him and his insolence!” He grabbed at Halifax's sleeve with surprising energy, the fingers digging in like claws. Vivid crimson spots had erupted on Chamberlain's cheeks although the face remained as pale as parchment in spite of the sun. “Two minutes back in Government and already he seems to think he can do my job better than I can. But I won't have it, Edward, won't have it at all. That man will never become Prime Minister so long as I have breath.”

“So long as you have breath, Neville, there won't be any need.”

“I agree with you, Edward. But if that day ever comes when I feel I should step aside, I can tell you without hesitation that you are the only man I want as my successor…” He brushed aside Halifax's predictable mutterings of humility. “No, I know that occasionally you and I have our differences, but that's mere emphasis rather than objective. You've stood by my side faithfully over these last dangerous months, and I want you to know how much that loyalty means to me.”

“That's very generous of you, Neville.” Halifax bowed his domed head.

Chamberlain's voice rose, he turned as though addressing an invisible audience that lurked amongst the flower beds and stretched into the farthest corners of the large garden, his hand waving to command their attention. “And if that means cutting
an ungrateful upstart like Winston back down to size—well, I'm just the man to do it!”

Suddenly Chamberlain had grown tired. His proud back was bent like a bow, and he leant heavily on the arms of both Ball and Wilson as he climbed the short flight of steps that led back to the tiled patio outside the Cabinet Room. His feet had grown heavy, his step uncertain. Halifax followed, his head bowed, his countenance severe, like some cleric from ancient times processing behind saintly relics. All that was missing from the picture was a bell and a bishop's crook.