Winston’s War (25 page)

So the press had a good time, and said it was a triumph. And, of course, the Prime Minister himself said it was a triumph. Extraordinarily, however, he also seemed to
believe
what he was saying. Reporting back to his Cabinet colleagues, he spoke of the personal bond of friendship he felt he had been able to establish with Il Duce, although he admitted to some frustration in the
fact he had been unable to wean the Italian leader away from his unambiguous support for Herr Hitler. Musso and Adolf were still the closest chums. The Cabinet minutes reported Chamberlain as saying that “at the time he had been somewhat disappointed at this attitude, but on reflection he thought that it reflected credit in Signor Mussolini's character.” Of course, splendid man, just the sort you wanted to see your sister bring home.

Elsewhere it was business as usual. The day the British Prime Minister left for Rome on his high moral crusade was also the day Churchill was to answer the summons of his constituency executive committee. Ball had left nothing to chance. On that same day Churchill received a large envelope which contained no letter, no note, only a cartoon. It was unmistakably in the style of Guy Burgess.

It showed a diminutive and pinned-sleeve figure of Lord Halifax standing on a reviewing rostrum beside Neville Chamberlain. The Foreign Secretary wore a bowler hat and the Prime Minister a wing-collar and a worried smile. Past the rostrum were marching the goose-stepping and heavily armed hordes of the Italian dictator, whom Chamberlain saluted with a furled umbrella, on top of which perched a threadbare dove.

Beneath the picture ran the caption: “The One-Armed and the Completely Bloody 'Armless.'”

St. Valentine was the sort of person her dear and departed father would have called “an irritating old sod.” How she had frowned at the language, scolding him for his frequent departures from decency. But how much she would have given in the long and lonely years since to hear him cussing just one more time. Anyway, right now Sue Graham was inclined to agree with her dad. St. Valentine—or at least his representative here on earth—was intensely irritating. He had upset her entire day's system by leaving one red rose at the counter of the post office. At first she had tried to persuade herself that it had been
left by accident, that someone would be back in five minutes to reclaim it, but five minutes had dragged into half an hour, and anyway its stem had been woven into the counter's protective wire mesh in an act that was unmistakably deliberate. She couldn't think who it might be. She ransacked her mind for the names and faces of those who had been through her post office that morning, but they all turned out to be, in the words of the dear departed, “an unlikely bunch of buggers.”

Someone was making fun of her. Yet the impostor had succeeded in rousing her, not only with irritation but also with curiosity—just in case. She hadn't been out with one man on his own for—well, she couldn't remember—yes she could, Harry Coxall, that was it, and he'd only done it as a wager with his friends at the pub to see if he could get five new dates in a week. It wasn't that she was unattractive, but Bournemouth was a quiet community where people came to sleep, to rest, and eventually to die—not to mate. They went to London for that, and she hadn't been to London in five years. “Harwich for the Continent,” ran the line, “and Bournemouth for the Incontinent.” So she wasn't used to red roses. Must be another one of Harry Coxall's little jokes. She'd have to start feeding his newspapers to his dog, just like she'd done last time.

It was only ten minutes to closing. Last-minute rush to catch the post, some schoolchildren tussling over a bag of sweets, a man in a raincoat taking forever to decide which size of envelope to buy, a neighbor from down the road buying a savings certificate for her grandson. The shop was nearly empty when at last the man in the raincoat decided on his purchase. She knew him vaguely: tall, aquiline nose, flecks of gray, and a scar on his right cheek that lifted the lip and gave him a perpetual smile which, happily, was also reflected in his eyes. He'd been in several times before but had never mentioned his name.

A newcomer, perhaps, whom she remembered particularly because he'd bought a stamp for an envelope addressed to the
Right Honorable Winston S. Churchill, MP, everything spelled out formally and in a neat, strong copperplate. About forty, she reckoned. And he was standing awkwardly by the counter, his smile on the wobble.

“Think I ought to apologize, like,” he said in a distinctive Midlands accent, “fer wasting your time. I don't particularly want an envelope. Got dozens at home.”

“Then…”

“I left you a rose this morning. Hope you didn't mind, but—I'd noticed ye've been digging up your rose bed at back. Wondered whether you had black spot or something. Thought you might be in need of—reinforcements?”

“I thought it was a joke.”

“Should've brought you an entire bush, of course, to replace the ones that have gone. But roses are so hard to find—”

“On Valentine's Day.”

“Precisely.”

His smile was returning, she thought he might be mocking her. In return she offered him an expression which reminded him of his schoolmistress after he'd played truant and offered her a sick note which had the wrong date and misspelled “stomach ache” and “excuse.” In those days he'd spelt everything with a “k.”

“But you don't know me.”

“Well, I do, sort of. Know you're competent and organized—frighteningly so, if truth be told. Frightens the 'ell out of
me. I'm such a disaster area. My place looks like the trenches at Ypres.”

“Before or after the attack?”

“Didn't make much difference, those trenches were a mess from the moment we'd dug 'em. I was a sergeant. Staffordshire Regiment. Solicitor's clerk now. Jerry White's the name. Anyways, I know you're patient— I've seen you with the school-kids. I'd have murdered the little perishers while all you do is
scold 'em and give 'em an extra half ounce of bull's-eyes. You read newspapers—counts as an intellectual, that does, where I come from. And you love flowers—I'm sorry, got to ask. Why are you digging up those lovely roses?”

“I'm planting more sprouts. And some runner beans and potatoes. For the war.”

“Of course. How sensible.” She was sure now that he was mocking her. “Anyhow you looked—er, on your own, like. Is that the right term? Me too. Widower. Wanted to ask you out but I haven't the slightest idea where to start. Out of practice. Been in several times, bought more stamps than I'm likely to need in a month, and enough balls of string to get Theseus out of his maze a dozen times over. I've purchased newspapers I 've never read and even half a pound of sherbet lemons. But I
hate
them. Never found a chance to talk to you, you're always busy, so thought I'd leave a rose. But of course it's supposed to be anonymous. Bloody silly, if you ask me—how the heck am I supposed to ask you out if you don't even know who I am? Which is why I thought I'd come back, like. And make a fool of myself. Think I'm doing rather well in that regard.”

Perhaps after all he was mocking only himself. “You wanted to ask me out?”

“That's right.”

“Why?”

He gave her a look of utter disbelief. “Daftest question I've heard all day. And from a pretty girl like you.” So, he was blunt. Just like the dear departed. “Can I ask you a daft question in return?” he ventured.

“Go ahead. Two minutes left before closing. They're
all yours.”

“Any chance of you accepting the rest of 'em?” From beneath his mackintosh he pulled out a bunch of red roses. She knew there would be eleven. “Because walking around with these thorny little buggers under my coat is killing me.”

On Valentine's Day 1939, the Leader of the Thousand-Year Reich gave himself a present that was rather more substantial than flowers. He launched the
Bismarck
, the largest battleship ever to have been built in Germany. It had eight 15-inch and twelve 5.9-inch guns, triple propellers, and double rudders. It was to cause mayhem in the North Atlantic and would sink the pride of the British fleet, HMS
Hood
, with a single shell. But, in the course of things, it was to prove far less significant than twelve red and very English roses.

“There you are, Dickie. Snifter?”

“Don't mind if I do, Ian. Feeling a bit rattled, to tell you the truth.” He sank dolefully into the cracked leather of the Smoking Room.

“Yes. Heard you were near that IRA bomb in Leicester Square last night. Ears must still be ringing.”

“No, not that. It's Their Lordships. Our Noble Knob-Heads. You'll never guess what they've been debating.”

Ian looked miffed. He didn't care for puzzles.

“Bastardy,” Dickie continued.

“I beg your pardon?”

“They're debating a Bastardy Bill. Which'll insist on blood tests in the case of disputed paternity.”

“My God, Dickie…”

“Yes, can you imagine it? More pricks in us than the madam of a Nairobi knocking shop.”

“They start testing for bloodlines amongst their Lordships and there's no telling what they'd find. Know for a fact that old Buffy's from the wrong side of the potting shed. His ma was a notorious dick-switcher.”

“Not to mention the Royal Family.”

“Precisely. How is the Duchess?”

“Writhing in hell, I hope.”

“Always puzzled me, Dickie, why they insist on having the Home Secretary present at the birth of a royal heir. Supposed to guard against foul play. But you just think about it. Damn-all point being present at the birth. They really ought to be there at the conception.”
“From what I hear, old Sam Hoare's been present at too many conceptions for his own good.” “Which reminds me—where are those bloody drinks?” He waved once more for a steward.

“You think there will be war then, Ian?”

“Old Mother Chaos? She's come knocking on everyone else's door. Manchuria, Abyssinia, Spain, Czechoslovakia. Now the Arabs and Jews running all over Palestine taking pot-shots at each other. Makes me nervous at times, can't help admitting.”

“But Hitler's promised, given us firm undertakings.”

“His firm undertakings are a little like a work of modern art. Seem to shift every time you look at 'em.”

“Everything's so uncertain. Can't even take a walk through the center of bloody London without the IRA chucking a bomb at you.”

“What were you doing in Leicester Square anyway?”

A sniff of discomfort.

“Ah, don't tell me—shortcut to Soho?”

“What else's a chap supposed to do? Wife's on the warpath again. Caught me canvassing after hours and has cut off the conjugals. Asked me to spend a little less time with the family.”

“Never mind, Dickie. She'll get over it. Always has done before.”

“She goes on about loyalty as though she were the bloody Chief Whip.”

“You'd listen to the Chief Whip.”

“Have to. Don't fancy going the same way as old Kitty. Even Winston's in trouble in Epping, so I hear.”

“A little local difficulty. Actually, more than a little local difficulty—an entire manure heap of it. Epping has a distinctly farmyard smell about it nowadays.”

“Joe Ball turning the screw again?”

“Could teach the Gestapo a thing or two.”

They both contemplated their drinks for a few seconds.

“Should tell Bracken, maybe.”

“Tell him what?”

“About the Bill. Settle his parentage once and for all. He could run off and demand a blood sample from Winston.”

“Pure alcohol. He'd get nothing but pure alcohol.”

“Maybe it runs in the Churchill family, this dubious parentage. His mother was less than eight months married when Winston was born. Always ahead of himself, even then.”

“Married three times, wasn't she? A woman of
considerable
experience, I hear. Perhaps that's why Winston was so keen on supporting the bloody Duchess.”

“What—the Windsor woman? Saw a bit of his own mother in her?”

“He'll end up like his father, too, mark my words.”

“Silly bugger. An avalanche of fine words, yet not an ounce of common sense. Always trying to make up for his disasters in the last war by being first in line for the next.”

“Never knows when to quit.”

“You've got it, Dickie. The Never-Never Man. Just too old.”

Suddenly Ian became distracted, his nose was up, sniffing the air like a beagle. Smoke. Cuban. He swiveled to find the source, suddenly buried in apprehension. The smoke was billowing from behind the wings of a leather armchair whose back was towards them. The next moment a cigar appeared, and the head of Winston Churchill followed.

Ian flushed, then affected a brave face. Maybe the old man had been snoozing, hadn't overheard. “Ah, didn't see you there, Winston. Did we, Dickie?”

Dickie dove into his drink.

Churchill extracted the cigar from his mouth. “They tell me,” he spat, “that competitive examinations are an excellent means of weeding out idiots and imbeciles. It is a monumental pity,” he continued, his blue eyes carving through their defenses, “that elections don't appear to be so discriminating.”

It was a day when the winter rains seemed to have grown exhausted from their relentless efforts and were hovering just beyond the horizon, gathering their strength once more. For the moment it was dry, a good day to get out, even if only to the market. In truth it was something of an experiment, the first time Carol had brought Mac and her kids together. Yes, kids, plural. Not just Peter who read to her and was the anchor in her life but also little Linda, still in terry-toweling diapers. Linda had been a mistake. A silly working practice. An industrial accident. A mop-haired, blue-eyed wonder. There hadn't been any man in Carol's life for six years who measured loyalty in terms that stretched much beyond twenty minutes, yet to one of them, unknown and evidently unprotected, she owed half the happiness in her life. A cause for gratitude, never grief. But for all the joys they brought to her, the kids were a formidable mountain to climb for a potential partner with his mind on anything other than a quick one. Mac had potential, she thought. He'd already proved himself to be remarkable—he had the patience of a hibernating toad—and now she had to find out how good his climbing legs were.