Winston’s War (51 page)

How much had changed in a year. When first they had met, he could not have felt this anger, indeed he had hardly felt at all, but now—and because they had met—he felt eaten up inside. Cheated. Her fault. Mac waited until the children had gone to bed that Sunday, Christmas Eve, before telling her what he knew, only to discover that his anger was like a spring breeze compared to the whirlwind that was hers. Men, she cried, had been the cause of all the miseries of her life. Her anger and fear descended like an unrelenting storm upon him, because he was the only man to hand—and because he was the man she had so fervently hoped would be different to all the rest. But he wasn't, he was even worse. This was a man's world, a man's war, and Mac was as responsible as any one of them, she screamed—for turning the world to chaos, for leaving her with two children to keep from hunger and hurt, for condemning her for sins which men themselves initiated. He walked in and out of her life when it pleased him, while at least the men in the Market had the decency to pay her.

Most of her didn't mean it, of course, but Carol was a fighter, always had been, and something had changed in her over this last year, too. In spite of the war she had been touched deep inside by something new in her life. Hope. Hope that had arrived with a funny accent and a thickening waist in the form of Mac. Hope that had kept her warm at nights, even when he wasn't there. Yet he was a man who lived so much inside himself that
he rarely seemed to have anything left over to share. And did he really think she would have gone back to all that bestiality in the Market if there had been any alternative, any choice—if he'd been a proper man and moved in, started caring for her and the kids the way normal men were supposed to?

And it was true. He knew it was true. The camps had left him scarred and secretive, and confronted by her anger he once again drew back into himself, just like he had learned of old. Don't argue. Don't confront. Just walk. Which is what he did—in spite of knowing that it was the wrong thing to do. He walked. Couldn't help himself. Couldn't deal with all this emotion. Something so deeply ingrained inside he couldn't help himself, any more than she could help herself.

As he walked out of the front door of the miserable little house in Chigwell and into the freezing night of Christmas, he heard Lindy's rocking horse shatter onto the pavement behind him.

January 1940.

I
t turned out to be a winter of remorseless betrayal, even by the weather. The temperatures dropped lower than anyone could remember and the Thames froze for the first time since 1888. Less than two weeks later the worst storms of the century descended upon the country. War was made impossible. The RAF was unable to fly and all available troops were put to clearing the snow and ensuring that the country somehow kept moving. Only Churchill's Navy seemed able to escape the grip of winter and continue the fight, patrolling seas that, though wild, had not yet frozen.

Jerry was on the move, transferred to the King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry and sent to continue his training near Thirsk, where the moors fought him every step of the way. One five-man patrol froze to death; he'd been drinking with them in the pub the night before. A spotter plane sent to search for the missing men crashed and couldn't be found for three days. Jerry's radio, which had been intended for use in India, followed the example of the boiler in Blandford and stubbornly refused to work.

Meanwhile Carol, far to the south in London, spent her days in her dark, freezing attic trying to persuade the water pipes to
thaw before Peter came home from school. Every day—somehow—she managed, and every night they froze solid again.

Yet the weather was not to be the only source of betrayal. Beaverbrook was at it. Again. Even as he was pressing his case to be brought back into the Government through his house-trained Home Secretary, Sam Hoare, the
Express
proprietor was using his stable of newspapers to complain and to carp about every wartime restriction. He even called upon the Duke of Windsor in an attempt to persuade him to lead a peace movement. Even the Duke had more sense than this, for any move like that would undoubtedly have wrecked not only the war effort but the British Monarchy, too. Chamberlain, when he heard about it, couldn't decide whether Beaverbrook was being a fool or a villain, but decided that Hell as well as Heston Airport would have to freeze before “Dear Max” got his snout back into the ministerial trough.

To add to the despair, Ambassador Kennedy was back. He'd returned from a Christmas break spent spreading gloom and defeatism in America to continue his work around the Ministries of Whitehall. Meanwhile in Birmingham two IRA men walked to the gallows and were hanged side by side for planting a bomb in Coventry the previous August—although on which side of betrayal those two stood, and swung, depended very much on the accident of your place of birth.

Perhaps it was the presence of so much frozen misery that kept people's minds turning to what was happening in the snows of Finland, where day after day reports came back of how the gritty Finns were resisting and even pushing back the Russian invaders. While Britain grew morose and grumbled, the gallant Finns showed the world what war and resistance were truly about. And the feeling began to grow that maybe Britain should be doing something to help—after all, hadn't they gone to war to defend the innocent against aggression, and what was going on in Finland was surely no less terrible
than what had taken place in Poland? It was even discussed enthusiastically in Cabinet, which talked about sending a force of volunteers, particularly after the Finns began to push back the Russians behind their own frontier. But that's all the Cabinet did—talk. As with Poland, not a finger was lifted, not a bullet fired in her defense. Betrayal had become something of a habit.

Then, of course, there was the matter of Leslie Hore-Belisha… Chamberlain rather liked him, really, didn't share in all that prejudice. After all, he couldn't help what he was born, could he? But Leslie did so want to fight—with the Germans, with his own General Staff, with everybody, it seemed. Anyone, so long as Leslie could fight. He was so much like Winston.

In early January Hore-Belisha was summoned to the Cabinet Room in Downing Street. Chamberlain liked conducting such business there, in the formal surroundings; it seemed to de-personalize the whole thing. And Horace Wilson played doorman, which further enhanced the effect. Leslie bounced in while Chamberlain was writing. The Prime Minister continued with his letter.

“Leslie, I've been thinking things over during the Christmas break.” Still he did not look up.

“Thinking what, Neville?”

“About the Board of Trade.”

“For what?”

“For you.”

“I beg your pardon…?”

At last Chamberlain was forced to raise his eyes and meet the other man's suddenly troubled gaze. “I was thinking—merely a proposal, you understand—that you might move to the Board of Trade.” Actually, Chamberlain had been thinking of sending Hore-Belisha to the Ministry of Information, a more senior post than Trade, but that
morning he had discussed the matter with Halifax who had been adamantly opposed. “A Jew? At Information, Neville? How would that look to the Neutrals? His methods are so vulgar, he would let down British prestige.” So that idea had been dropped. Leslie, dear Leslie, was to be asked to move from the War Office to the Board of Trade. From being in control of the entire British Army at war to commanding divisions of paper clips.

“But, but…” Hore-Belisha stammered, trying to unravel the chaos that had suddenly become his life. “Two weeks ago you were telling me I had your complete confidence. You gave no hint you were thinking of a change.”

“I've thought it over. I think it would be in your best interests. To move on from the War Office.”

“I'm not sure I agree with your proposal.”

“It's a little more than a proposal, Leslie.”

“But you said—”

“Only to be kind. To soften the blow. In the hope that you would agree to accept the offer.”

“Is there any other offer?”

“No.”

“May I think it over?”

“I fear it might leak out.”

“I assume you and I are the only two who know about this.”

“Correct.”

“Then how can it leak out?” God, the wretched man was going to be difficult. Chamberlain went back to his letter. “War calls for sacrifices, Leslie. Don't be bitter. Take Trade.”

“Time. I need time,” Hore-Belisha had gushed, stumbling from the room and unable to give the Prime Minister the reply he wanted, or indeed any other form of reply. Outside, the bracing air of Whitehall quickly brought him to his senses and he stumbled off in search of advice and of allies—allies who had
independent minds, who would be willing to stand up to the Prime Minister alongside him. He went in search of Churchill, but he found only Bracken.

“I need to talk to Winston,” the War Secretary spluttered. “You can't. He's in Paris. Flew there this morning.”

“But I must,” he groaned, collapsing into Churchill's chair and demanding a large brandy.

It was only later that evening that the two were able to make contact. Over a telephone almost overwhelmed by static and electronic crackling, the War Minister tried to explain his predicament. “Help me, Winston, help me. They're hanging me out to dry like a gutted herring.”

“What?” Churchill demanded. “Can't hear a bloody thing.” So they tried shouting at each other, and across each other, but little of it made any sense until Churchill said: “Take information, Leslie.” Then the line finally went dead.

Take information—what the hell did that mean? It didn't make sense—nothing made sense to him any more. So, after a few hours of growing despair, Hore-Belisha decided to take his reputation and growing resentment to the back benches. He told Chamberlain he would not accept Trade. “I don't deserve such a demotion. I am a relatively young man, Neville. Time is on my side.”

Chamberlain had expressed his sorrow, and sniffed. So, His Majesty had been right. Leslie was not a team player.

It was only some days later, when the outpouring of public support which he had expected failed to materialize and a dispirited Hore-Belisha began to hear the rustlings on the grapevine, that it began to make sense. Churchill hadn't said “take
information
” but instead “take Information.” He had known that Hore-Belisha was going to be kicked out of the War Office yet had done nothing about it. Not warned him. Betrayed years of friendship. Left Leslie to hang. Been part of Chamberlain's conspiracy…

Well, not exactly. Before Churchill had left for France he, too, had been summoned to Downing Street, where it had been explained to him that no Minister was inviolable, that there had been growing resentment about Hore-Belisha's attempts to promote himself at the expense of his colleagues—as there would be about any Minister who placed his personal reputation before that of the Government as a whole. And Chamberlain was determined to remind everyone in Government—"everyone, Winston"—precisely who was in charge. It was a testy, ungracious performance. “I will not have any Minister, no matter how capable or seemingly popular, rocking my boat. They'll be overboard before they know it. I know you'll understand.”

Rocking my boat. Chamberlain had added the emphasis, just as had been agreed with Wilson. And there was Winston thinking that all the boats belonged to him…

So Churchill had left for France believing that Hore-Belisha was to be offered Information—and knowing, but for the grace of God and Neville Chamberlain, that the First Lord of the Admiralty was as entirely disposable as any Secretary of State for War. Not so much as a shot across the bows but an entire broadside aimed just above his head. So, with some reluctance and even a passing flash of guilt on Churchill's part, Leslie Hore-Belisha was hung out to dry until every trace of moisture, and of life, had completely disappeared.

When Mac had walked out on Carol and their Christmas, he had gone and got drunk. For an entire week. Wobblingly, pukingly, where-the-hell's-home drunk. And when at last he had sobered up, he went in search of Guy Burgess.

He found Burgess, late at night, striding along with hunched shoulders and long, loping gait, cigarette cupped in his hand, towards his home in Chester Square.

“Evening, Mr. Burgess.”

“Bugger my old granny, what are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, of course.”

“And how the hell d'you know where I live?”

“You think you're the only one who plays those games?” For a moment it silenced Burgess. “You. A cripple. Followed me?”

“Of course not, how could I? But the last time you came into Trumper's, I took your jacket to hang it up. You had an envelope in the inside pocket.”

“Sneaking bastard. You look frozen. Now you're here, s'pose you'd better come in for a drink.”

“That would be nice.”

“Don't have any draught mild.”

“A whiskey would be fine.” Burgess gave him a strange stare, as though looking at him for the first time, before opening the front door. In the communal hallway, a profusion of letters lay spread out on a side table. Burgess grabbed those with his name on, and inspected several of the rest. He examined one of these with particular care, held it up against the light, turned it, then ripped it open. “Ah! Old Tweedie in trouble with the landlord. Behind with his rent again. But I ask you, Mac—Tweedie knows he hasn't paid, it's not the sort of thing you forget, so why the hell do they bother writing to tell him what he already knows?” He screwed up the letter into a tight paper ball and threw it into a large modern Chinese vase that stood in the corner of the hall. “Spoil a man's day, that might. No point in that, is there?” He then proceeded to bound up the stairs, laughing. Mac lurched behind him.