Mr. Chartwell (24 page)

“Maybe not.” Black Pat studied her from across the room. He said,
“Tchk,”
at his fond foolishness and then,
“Huff.”
Useless to fight it, he repeated softly, “Maybe not.”

The sun was in a diagonal band down his hip, down his tail, his face in shade.

“Maybe not.” Esther was satisfied enough.

Black Pat’s parting, he gave her a wink. “… Esther, I hope not.”

Another wink, a wink of farewell. He was gone.

11.15 a.m
.

I
n the office Churchill was stationary, his pinstriped trousers two masts below the rotund buoy of his stomach. The Romeo y Julieta cigar was still in his hand and he took in a mouthful of smoke, held it rolling there, and exhaled it expressively. The smoke made a strong spectral passage through the air, dispersing gently.

He said, “And so we reach the end.”

Black Pat was at the other end of the room, ears set in peaks.

“Yes,” Churchill said to himself, looking down as he smoothed his shirt, working over it in sweeps. “Here we are at last.”

Black Pat examined the toes of his front paws. The knuckles were defined through the fur, sketching the giant skeleton within. “We don’t have long.”

“I know.”

“Did you expect it to be different?”

“How could I?” Churchill skewed a glance at him. “What possibility was there that it could ever be different?”

Black Pat answered, the words released gradually, “I suppose there’s always a slim chance.”

“Incorrigible liar,” Churchill said, his expression of weary good humour.

Moving over to a cabinet, Churchill bent to stare into it. He retrieved a bottle of Pol Roger champagne and lifted it affectionately, admiring its curving neck. The dog had dropped into a crouch, muscles in his legs stretched to combust in an explosion of energy as Churchill eased the cork, teasing it free. It popped and shot across the room.

Ready, Black Pat launched, the cork caught in his mouth and milled apart with loud teeth.

A crystal effervescent sound was in the room as Churchill filled a glass. “You were always good at that.”

“Years of practice.” Black Pat grinned, granules of cork sprinkling over the floor.

Churchill rotated his glass, bubbles rallying in chains to the surface. The sky outside strummed with the promise of long, hot hours tapering into a light and tropical evening.

They stayed quietly for a while, a complicated harmony between them.

Black Pat sat down, eventually speaking. “That I have to be with you at this moment”—he hesitated with a glottal noise—“is something I regret.…”

Churchill sipped his drink. “What a curious bloody oddity you are.”

Black Pat laughed in a grunt, the released note like air blown
over the lip of a bottle. “… But I am obliged to accompany you through this. It is an obligation, not a choice.”

Churchill walked across the room. “Yes, I understand. We have to honour our commitments and be steadfast, all of us.”

At the window he watched birds in the plane tree, sparrows darting between branches with tiny wingbeats, bickering and busy in a fleeting microcosm.

“You remember the Churchill family motto, don’t you?” he said into the window glass, his reflection on it. “
Fiel pero desdichado:
‘Faithful but unfortunate.’ ”

Churchill’s head turned to talk to Black Pat over a shoulder, his head held there momentarily. “Sums us up perfectly.”

“… We have to go.”

A thought came to Churchill, a smile with the potency of milk coming with it. “Perhaps a revision is in order:
Fiel sin importar pura animosidad:
‘Faithful regardless of pure animosity.’ ”

Fingertips made brief contact with the bridge of his nose, the smile evaporating from the reflection. “Oh, but I don’t say this with any conviction. You are a dark star in the constellation which forms me. And to fight against you is to try and fight the stars in the eternal firmament.”

Black Pat spoke softly, getting up. “If I could leave you now, if this was something in my power, I would do it.”

Churchill turned from the sparrows and their plane-tree universe, answering in a sigh. “Pah, it’s not your fault, you old gooseberry. Neither of us can break this contract.”

Black Pat stood in the centre of the room, a ghoul with watchful eyes. “It’s time. Are you ready?”

“Very nearly,” Churchill answered. “Forgive me if I take one more minute.” The cigar had fumbled itself out. Making a quick assessment he lit it, producing more clouds.

The dog’s voice came again. “Are you ready?”

Churchill took his strength in great handfuls, prepared to go to the press conference, prepared for the end of the beginning. “Yes, I am ready now.”

Black Pat padded to Churchill’s side, tail brushing his hind legs.

Churchill’s hand found the doorknob. The door pushed open. His next command was for them both. “So then, onwards.”

A huge thank-you to my friends and family, Sarah Lutyens, Juliet Annan, and Susan Kamil.

And an extra special thank-you to Simon Davison.

R
EBECCA
H
UNT
graduated from Central Saint Martins College with a degree in fine art. She lives and works in London.
Mr. Chartwell
is her first novel.