Winston’s War (17 page)

They had been to see George Bernard Shaw's
Man and Superman
at the Old Vic—a splendid performance, she'd thought, with Valerie Tudor and Anthony Quayle, but he found it a preposterous play, like most of the stuff the old man produced. All those left-wing ideas tangled up in his bloody beard, which were then scraped off like yesterday's lunch. He thought Quayle's role as Tanner had been absurd, and played
in the same manner—all this guff about woman being the pursuer and man the pursued. But Anna Maria had warmed to it, said it was splendid and up-to-date, seemed to enjoy wrapping herself in theatrical fantasy. So he indulged her, and for once bit his tongue.

He hadn't wanted the evening to end—he thought about inviting her back for a drink at his home in Lord North Street, which was near at hand, but he didn't know her well enough and was afraid it might sound predatory and she would say no. He didn't know how to deal with rejection from women—his mother had always treated him as nothing better than an inconvenience, and after he had left the family home he had made it a rule in his carefully constructed life never to put himself into a position where rejection might be possible. Yet he did not want to simply say goodnight. So he had suggested that they not drive all the way home, but stop on the other side of the park from where they could walk the last stretch to her front door. She had accepted with a smile.

He had deliberately taken the long way round, leading her through Hyde Park until they had arrived at the Serpentine where the rowing boats were tied up in a miniature armada and little waves lapped at the edges of the ink-black pond. She looped her arm through his, clinging tighter than was strictly necessary. Perhaps he should have invited her back for a drink after all.

“So do you think there will be war, Bendy?” She had given him a nickname. He'd never had a nickname before.

“Hope not,” he replied, not wanting to alarm her.

“But your Mr. Churchill says he thinks there will be.”

And he found himself irritated. Churchill was his hero, his political master, yet Bracken was growing to resent the manner in which others treated him as little more than an adjunct to the elder statesman, and no one took him more for granted than the old man himself. “Don't know what's going on with Winston. Very peculiar,” he muttered. “He—perhaps I shouldn't
be telling you this, but—well, he's got money problems and asked me to help him. To see if I could find a backer, someone to provide him with a loan to get him through. So I've been running around all over London making inquiries and then, just yesterday, he tells me to stop. No explanation. No thanks. Just—” He waved his hands in dismissal.

“Great men are like that. Hope you won't be like that when it's your turn.” She held him still tighter. “Uncle Joe's like that. Bit like Mr. Churchill, I suppose. Do you think he might ever become Prime Minister?”

So they walked, disturbing the sleeping ducks, exchanging confidences in a manner that was unusual for Bracken with a woman. Churchill's money problems, Churchill's ambitions, Churchill's drunken son and his protective wife. Always Churchill. Anna sensed that Bracken didn't care for Churchill's wife and much preferred the company of his disreputable son. Bracken protested that Churchill still had plenty of time to become Prime Minister—why, Gladstone had been eighty, he insisted—but she thought he protested too vigorously on the matter, as if trying to shout down his own doubts.

And wasn't it strange, he said, that the two of them should be walking arm in arm while their two masters were usually at each other's throats.

“Oh, you mustn't mind Uncle Joe, he's always mad at something. Always plotting, always a little angry. He doesn't think much of the State Department—calls them a bunch of cookie-pushers—and gets quite furious about the White House. Think he'd like to be President himself, one day, just like Mr. Churchill. They're a lot alike in some ways.”

“If we value our personal safety I suggest we don't mention it to either of them.”

They stopped in the shadow of a tree, looking at the distant lights of Knightsbridge that sparkled off the water and seemed to find reflection in each other's eyes.

“Don't worry about war, Anna,” Bracken said, tried to reassure her, holding her shoulders, playing with the ends of her soft hair. “You Americans worry too much, you go funny at the very thought of war,” he chided. “Why, just days ago, that fellow—you know, Orson Welles—makes a radio broadcast about 'The War of the Worlds' and half the eastern seaboard of America goes into a panic because they think the Martians are attacking. You're not very good at war.”

“Didn't do too badly in the last one,” she reminded him softly. And she kissed him.

Almost before he knew it their bodies were pressing up against each other, their tongues searching, his fingers, too, through the buttons of her fur coat and on her breast, but she drew away. Suddenly he was gripped by shame. He heard his mother whispering in his ear, tormenting him, accusing him of being no better than a prowling dog, and he wanted to scream at himself for being such a fool. “I'm so sorry,” he mumbled, preparing to flee, but she held him.

“Bendy, no—it's me that's sorry. I'm so very fond of you,” she whispered. “It's just that—I've got too much Irish and Catholic in me, it makes me feel so, so—guilty. You wouldn't understand.”

Understand? He could write the entire encyclopedia. Of course he understood. Unlike hers, his Irish Catholic upbringing was entirely authentic. A mud-roofed hut in Tipperary rather than a New England mansion. With dirt floors instead of marble, and only one room. Lying awake, listening to his parents behind the curtain surrounding their bed, his father's ferocious grunts, her pleas for him to be quieter, and more gentle. And always afterwards, while his father snored, his mother prayed, begged that she would have no more children and be released from the hell of her life. Guilt? His very existence was a matter of guilt, of sin, of suffering, and the lesson had been beaten into him every day at seminary school until he had run away from it at the age
of fifteen. But it always came back to him, every time he heard a woman pray, or every time he thought of sex.

So, yes, Anna Maria, he knew all about guilt.

Which was why he didn't want anything more to do with the Irish, why he'd tried by all sorts of invention to scrub any lingering bit of Irishness from his voice and his soul, one of the many reasons why he hated Bernard Shaw. Yet Anna Maria reminded him of Ireland every time he looked into her pale green eyes. He didn't even like women—at least, not the hairy, scratchy, unpleasant women who were the sum total of his sexual experience, who smelt so strange and who demanded more money afterwards—yet he was already counting the moments before he could see this woman again. For Bracken, image was everything, yet here he was standing under a tree in a public park with a handful of nipple and a girl almost young enough to be his daughter. He'd never wanted to share his life with any woman, largely because his life was such a fabrication that it wouldn't stand up to any sustained scrutiny, yet suddenly he was breaking every rule in his book.

That's when he came to the conclusion he had fallen in love.

“You've gone too far this time. Too wretchedly, damnably far!” And they had thought they were bringing him the best news of the day.

As soon as they had knocked on the door of the Cabinet Room, Ball and Wilson sensed that their own feelings of elation were misplaced. “What do you want?” Chamberlain had demanded imperiously, not taking his eyes from the letter he was writing.

Another of those endless missives to his sisters, they decided. He wrote to them in astonishing detail, not only of the facts of his Government but of his ambitions and aspirations, and also
of his fears. For him these letters were a cleansing process, like the bleedings insisted upon by a medieval physician, except that in his letters he bled feelings and soul. Sometimes the sisters knew more than even Ball and Wilson, and always more than his wife.

“News from the front, Neville,” Ball exclaimed, moving into the room.

“Which of the many fronts that seem to engage my attentions?” the Prime Minister responded. He was always like this when he was tired: overbearing, sarcastic, short. They had learned to ignore it.

“In their manifold and great mercy, our friends in the frozen north have decided not to retain the Duchess as their candidate at the next election,” Ball continued.

Still Chamberlain did not look up. There were livid red spots high on his cheeks. He had just been told that the furniture he and his wife had ordered for the new residence at the top of Number Ten would not be arriving for another two months. Delay upon delay. The incompetence was scarcely believable. How was he supposed to secure the peace of Europe when he hadn't got anywhere to store his clean shirts? He was going to visit Signor Mussolini, who normally appeared in public covered in gold braid. Would the British Prime Minister have to arrive looking like some agricultural worker? “If this is democracy, I sometimes wonder why we bother,” he muttered.

“Neville, this is a triumph of democracy,” Ball protested.

“What is?”

“The damned Duchess. She's out.”

At last he gave them his attention. “She's out?”

“Constituency's disowned her.”

“Ah, about time.” He relaxed a little, leaning back in his chair. “And I suppose if I examined the matter closely I would find your fingerprints somewhere on the death warrant.”

“The lightest of dabs, perhaps.” And they almost tumbled over themselves in their enthusiasm to offer him the details. “Seems it was quite a lynch mob."—"She didn't stand a chance."—"The motion was put to the meeting that they should seek a candidate who'd support your position on Europe."—"It was overwhelming."—"273 votes to 167."—"The agent says he's never known such a turnout.” There was laughter. “And the best bit's yet to come. The poor Duchess was so distressed she's resigned her seat. Flown off in a fit."—"Intends to stand as an Independent, would you believe?"—” Yes, there's going to be a by-election.”

“What?” Chamberlain sprang to his feet. The pen he was using clattered to the table, spraying the letter with wet slugs of ink. “What?” he demanded again. His entire face had now colored and his hand was clasping his temples. “How could you? You fools!”

“Steady on, Neville.” Both men turned momentarily to stone. Something had gone dramatically wrong, this wasn't the script they had brought with them. “What's the problem? She's turned her back on the peace, now she's turned her back on the party. She's done for.”

“But a by-election. Don't you see what that means?”

Wilson and Ball looked at each other in bewilderment.

“The voters will have to choose.”

“Some choice,” Ball snorted. “Between war and peace.”

“Between her—and me.” Chamberlain leaned for support on the white marble fireplace, both arms outstretched, gazing into the empty grate, as if faith itself were draining from him. “You've gone too far this time. Too wretchedly, damnably far!”

“No,” Wilson objected. “How?”

Chamberlain turned, his voice grown tight, enunciating every word with care. “But what if she wins?”

“She can't bloody win,” Ball insisted. “She doesn't have a friend who isn't a Bolshie or can't be made to look one.”

“You're almost as popular as God out there.” Wilson waved a hand in the general direction of the windows.

“The Lord giveth. And He taketh, Sir Horace.” Chamberlain was breathing heavily, struggling to control his mood. “Something's been going on—out there. I don't know what, perhaps all this nonsense with the Jews, but it's all wobbling.” He picked up a cardboard folder that had lain beside his blotter and threw it down the table. “Hitler's pogroms have made him look like a criminal. And us like conspirators and accomplices.”

“You can't possibly believe the stupid Duchess will win,” Ball protested.

“The
News Chronicle
has just got hold of an opinion poll that suggests she might.”

“Those polls?” Ball snorted. “It's a bit of a rebound, nothing more. Like the bride coming back from her honeymoon to find a pile of washing.” He chewed casually at a fingernail. “Anyway, I've already persuaded the
News Chronicle
to suppress most of it.”

Yet Chamberlain was in no way reassured. He began to stride impatiently around the long rectangular Cabinet table, leaning forward as though into a wind. “They don't believe Herr Hitler. They don't believe he has no more territorial ambitions. They don't believe in Munich any more.” He stopped, glaring at them, accusing. “Which means they don't believe in me.”

Ball thumped the table so hard the silver and crystal inkwell jumped in its place. “You're confusing the issue, Neville. We've never said they've got to like Hitler. I hate the bugger myself. Which makes what you've done with him all the more remarkable. You've extracted a more than reasonable deal from a totally unreasonable man. People understand that. You get the credit for it. And if he goes and tramples all over the agreement and half of bloody Europe, then everyone will know who's to blame. We're not dealing with issues of delicacy here, Neville, we're dealing with the dregs of Europe. With Jews, with jumped-up little Austrian upstarts, with the decadent French
who change their governments as often as they change their mistresses and with millions of bloody Bolshies who are sitting just across the border sharpening their knives and ready to slit the throats of everyone who's not looking their way. Europe's a mess. You can't clean it up all on your own, but you have given them the chance to do it for themselves.”