Winston’s War (46 page)

When once again he turned to face her, she was half-naked and trembling. Had made herself defenseless. His to devour. As he moved towards her, she raised her hands to cover her breasts. “For you, Brendan. Only for you.” She was sobbing, as though in fear.

He embraced her, put his arms around her, didn't touch her breasts but kissed her and pulled the cotton dress back over her shoulders. Because he knew that was what she wanted, and because this time it was his choice. She whimpered with relief and kissed him all the more eagerly and thanked him. “Soon, darling Brendan, soon,” she breathed into in his ear.

“I was worried,” he began in half-apology. “Thought, on the bridge, that you were embarrassed to have me near. Almost ashamed.”

“Embarrassed only by Uncle Joe and Mr. Churchill. And a little angry. They make it so difficult for you and me.”

“Two of a kind.”

“They seem to enjoy fighting each other.”

“Those two would be going at each other even if there were no war.”

She ran her fingers through the hair that had flopped across his forehead, trying to push it back into some semblance of order. “Brendan, do you think…there might be peace soon?”

“Not if Winston has his way.”

“He seems to enjoy fighting.”

“Too true. And sometimes too much.”

“Really?”

“He's a great man, of course, don't get me wrong, but some-times…Hell, he even wants to fight the Irish. As if Hitler wasn't enough.”

“I don't understand, darling.”

“The Irish won't let us use their naval bases. Winston's furious with them. Claims they're legally bound to do so.
And if they don't agree we—well, he says we should simply occupy them.”

“Take them by force?”

“Chamberlain and Halifax say it's madness. And probably it is. We'd never get another Irish volunteer. And it would have about the same effect in America as sailing a gunboat up the Mississippi.”

“Your Mr. Churchill has a lot of ideas. And a lot of enemies. According to Uncle Joe, Halifax told him that the first thing Mr. Churchill did when he got to the Admiralty was to order a bottle of whiskey, and the second thing…”

“Was to drink it. Hah! It's probably true. But I doubt if the Ireland nonsense will come to much, anyway. Winston's got other fish to fry.”

“Like?”

“Well…” Bracken hesitated. This was a sensitive area. Absolutely need-to-know, but then he shouldn't really know, either. Winston could be such a gossip. And Anna was gazing up at him, her dress falling forward, exposing herself once more, trusting him.

“He wants to send a task force to the Baltic.”

“That would make sense, I suppose.”

“But they can't get the battleships through the narrows between Denmark and Sweden, you see. Less than two miles wide at some points, no depth. So…” He swallowed, sounded awkward, glanced down her dress once more. “He wants to float the fleet across. Put caissons—huge floating balloons—around them so they can get through the shallows and…”

“Sounds…exciting.”

“Bloody dangerous. Half the Admiralty thinks it would be a nightmare. Winston's always full of ideas. Sometimes gets ahead of himself.”

“And what do you think about it, Brendan?”

“Think about it? I'm not even supposed to know about it—and neither are you.”

“Then I shall forget about your silly ships right this moment.” She kissed him, pressing herself into him. “And don't let others make us join in their ridiculous battles. Let's just keep it like this, Brendan, you and me, until the time is right.”

Entwined in her arms, he couldn't help but agree. He'd won, he was master in his own house and of their relationship. When it came to the physical stuff, he was content to be patient—after all, it was much more important that she should believe in him than that she should climb into bed with him. He was happy. And in his happiness, he had failed utterly to realize that, once again, Anna was in control.

“Had no choice, Ian. No option but to move into this place.” Ian looked around the grand dining room of the Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane. “We're at war, Dickie. We all have our sacrifices to make.”

“You're telling me. Cookie buggered off to join the Army, damned fool. Old enough to know better, I told him, but what can you do? The man was determined to go and get his bollocks shot away. I told him straight, I did. He was leaving me in most unfortunate circumstances and he shouldn't expect his job back afterwards.”

“Man's propensity for selfishness never ceases to amaze.”

“So I'm cook-less. Without cook. Completely cooked up. I was faced with this awful dilemma. Move into the Dorchester—or go back to Deirdre in the country. Well, I can tell you, it'd take one of Fritzi's bayonets to get me back with her outside of weekends and holy days, so I'm afraid it's this place. For the duration.”

“I've known worse foxholes.”

“But you see, Ian, you see,” Dickie insisted, waving a loaded fork, “it's the perfect place. Magnificent cellars—”

“Can't complain,” Ian muttered, raising his glass. “What is it? Lafite or Latour?”

“Even better. A Léoville-Las-Cases, 1899, when they still knew how to make the stuff. Drink up, old fella. 'Nother on its way.”

“Be a shame to see it all disappear down a German gullet, I suppose.”

“But that's what's so wonderful about the cellars. Even got a place to sleep in during an air raid, sheets and all. So if Goering pops over, the gong goes, we disappear into the cellar, enjoy a bottle of something or other, then sleep like babes. They've even got somewhere reserved for Halifax. He'll be my neighbor. Play my cards right, could end this war with a job in Government.”

“Only if we win.”

“Bit old-fashioned, isn't it, Ian, this idea of winning or losing? Seems to me Uncle Adolf had it just about right. Time to draw stumps. Otherwise we all lose.”

“Neville seems to have other ideas.”

“Winston's ideas, you mean. I tell you, Ian, my postbag was jam-packed with letters saying we should grasp the offer, stop it right here and now. And if he wants a few hundred miles of fly-blown Africa, let him have it, I say. And let 'im suffer. After all, what's Africa ever done for England?”

A sommelier interrupted, proffering the second bottle of claret. Dickie declined to try it and waved for him to pour.

“But then, Dickie, I think of Cookie. And the others like him. The ordinary folk, the type that perhaps don't write letters.”

“
Can't
write. Cookie could barely make out a shopping list.”

“Perhaps. But there's a lot of Cookies out there who seem determined to fight this one to the bitter end.”

“You know why, Ian, do you know why? 'Cause they've got nothing to lose. Remember 1917? One minute Russkies are at war with Fritzi, next thing they've got a revolution on their hands. Could happen here, mark my words.” He dove into his
glass. Silently Ian calculated his companion had just sunk two weeks' wages for Cookie and his kind.

“This isn't Russia, Dickie.”

“Isn't it? Isn't it, by Christ? They had Trotsky the Jew in charge of their army, and we've got Horab-Elisha. Destroying the War Office he is, my soldiering chums tell me, turning everything on its head.” A sudden burst of English mustard caused him to gasp, and he quenched the fire in yet more ancient claret. “Know what they sing as they march, Ian? The British Army?” He began to chant gruffly, conducting himself with his fork and growing louder with each breath.

“
Onward Christian Soldiers,
You have naught to fear,
Israel Hore-Belisha
Will lead you from the rear.
Clothed by Monty Burton,
Fed on Lyons pies,
Die for Jewish freedom
As a Briton always dies…
”

He snatched the starched napkin he had tucked in his collar and began to wave it in the air. “Christ, Ian, might as well run up the white flag straight away. Sometimes you've got to ask yourself what the hell we're fighting for.”

The sommelier, attracted by the noise and the flapping napkin, scurried to their side. “May I get you anything else, gentlemen?”

“Well, what d'you think, Ian? Got time for Number Three?”

The man from Romford sucked his teeth and sighed. He'd come about the piano. He said he needed it for his local TA unit, “to entertain the boys,” and there wasn't
enough in the kitty. But Carol knew it was lies. He was simply trying to con her.

From the back garden came the sounds of screams and laughter. Peter was back. After weeks of waiting for Armageddon from the air, London's mothers had begun to tire of false alarms. They wanted their children back, and their hosts in the country had been only too pleased to oblige. Perhaps the war would get sorted out after all. And Carol had her own Anderson shelter now, which Mac had dug into the back garden and which had become a fort, a ship, a prince's palace, a store room, a place for them all to hide from Red Indians and elephants. And from Mr. Goering.

She had wanted only forty quid for the piano. An upright, decent condition. Superficial scratches. Forty quid. To get her through Christmas. It had been her grandmother's, a sort of heirloom, the only thing she had left of her childhood. As a kid she had sat and learned to play, and to escape, particularly from her father, when he was around. Tunes like “Nellie Dean” and “On Mother Kelly's Doorstep.” Her mother used to cry. It had a couple of wonky notes but nothing which, to Carol's mind, at least, lessened its enormous value as an instrument of pleasure and distraction. The man from Romford disagreed. He kept banging down on the key which produced no sound at all, and sighing.

With Peter back, she was determined that this Christmas should be special, that the children shouldn't go without. Nowadays you couldn't rely on Christmas—couldn't rely on anything. But forty quid would get them through. Food. A few presents. Perhaps a fiver left over for the tea caddy. Dinner today had been a small tin of sardines, stretched to cover their pieces of toast by mixing in a handful of oats. As if they were horses. Forty quid would make all the difference, but the man from Romford was sucking his teeth fit to swallow. And offering only twenty-five.

She didn't mind haggling, was used to it, knew more than most about the marketplace, but she needed the money more than Romford Man needed a second-hand piano with a couple of dodgy keys. From outside came the sounds of banging on the metal sheeting of the shelter, reminding her that they would be running back inside and demanding to be fed in a couple of hours. And they would want more than oats.

She had to sell the piano, get through Christmas. And after that—well, she knew what she had to do. The thought of it made her hate herself, men even more, and Mac most of all. Elusive, mysterious, silent, non-committing Mac, the man with a soul so sensitive that she was only occasionally allowed to touch. And what she hated about him most of all was the turmoil he had brought into her life, changing everything around. Giving her hope. She could never forgive him for that.

The money had dried up. Mr. Burgess had become unreliable, Mac said, always drunk, not been sober since the start of the war. And when he was drunk there was no money. So she sold whatever she had left.

Now Romford Man was dragging the piano through the doorway. She told him to be careful, not to tear the linoleum, but already it was too late. She had twenty-eight pounds in her hand. It had just been announced that food rationing would begin at Christmas—butter, bacon, sugar, ham—and more would follow. So now she could rush down to the shops, stock up, while she could. On sardines.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Hitler.

It had to be resolved, this stand-off between the two most powerful men in the country, a circumstance that was sapping the will of the Cabinet and sowing confusion throughout the by-ways of Government. They both knew it had to be brought to an end—but how? They were of one Government, but two entirely different worlds, these sons of Birmingham and of Blenheim.

They had just finished Cabinet. A tetchy affair. The gout had got to Chamberlain and he could no longer walk without considerable pain. He had been forced to use the service lift to descend from his attic bedroom, and two policemen called from duty outside Number Ten had carried him into the Cabinet Room, placing him like a rag doll in his chair. After that, the Prime Minister's notorious lack of patience with his colleagues had been distributed widely without any obvious sign of favor, and they all seemed keen to gather their papers and scurry off to their next engagement. It seemed an inappropriate moment, perhaps, to invite the Prime Minister to dinner, but that is what Churchill had done. In all their long years serving together in Parliament they had never once broken bread or shared anything other than business, and neither of them could mistake Churchill's invitation as being other than an offer of peace.

“If you feel up to it, Prime Minister,” Churchill had added, perhaps incautiously.

Chamberlain's steely eyes had flashed—in pain or irritation?—and he had mumbled his acceptance. He could scarcely refuse.

So they had come together in Churchill's apartment in Admiralty House, he and Clemmie with Chamberlain—still leaning heavily on a walking stick—and his considerably younger wife Annie, who was as socially competent as Neville had always proven stiff. It was she who threw the regular Downing Street parties for the good and the great, three nights in a row in order that the flowers and hired crockery could be made to stretch, keeping everyone circulating between the state rooms in order to enhance the social value of the occasion and to avoid undue strain on the weak floors. Yet, while both kitchen and floors creaked and strained, Chamberlain would remain working in his study. A serious man. Not good at the small-talk required of social occasions and, with gout, even worse at drink. He declined Churchill's proffered whiskey.