Winston’s War (28 page)

And there would be more. Get the Whips busy amongst the back-benches. Most politicians were no better than a shoal
of sardines, chasing the current, open-mouthed, constantly shifting their position, their whole life torn between hunger and touches of transporting fear.

“Got him!” the Prime Minister cried, reeling in something slippery.

Yes, fear would do it. The fear that grips a politician when he regards a looming election. The fear that haunts an editor when he thinks he might be denied the knighthood he's been promised. The fear infecting bankers and businessmen that if Chamberlain fell they would be cut off from their points of influence. The fear of any decent Englishman that the hordes of Socialism might soon be kicking down their doors and carrying off their daughters. Fear—the motivator of the masses. Ball put away the whiskey. There was still all to play for—and much to do.

The Prime Minister was struggling with his catch. The fish was proving obstinate, and the old man's footing was still unsteady. Ball stretched a hand into the clear, chill water, and splashed his face.

“Leave it, Neville, we've got to go.”

“Leave? Leave? What the devil do you mean? Why do we have to leave?” the Prime Minister snapped in irritation.

“Sharks,” Ball replied.

Sue Graham was in her bedroom packing away her winter clothes, sprinkling them with moth powder before wrapping them in sheets of tissue paper, when she heard a gentle knock on the back door. She knew that knock—Jerry's.

“Gasping for a cuppa,” he shouted from downstairs. “Been helping Freddie repair his pigeon loft. Dust's gone right down the old tubes.” The announcement was followed by a clattering of the kettle upon the gas stove. Always doing something, was Jerry. Only the other day he'd loosened up every sash window in the house and cleaned the outsides, paintwork too—she
couldn't reach the outsides, not upstairs. He'd come into her bedroom, leather and bucket in hand, looked around him, and declared: “You'll have to get a bigger bed than that, girl. When you grow up.” Suddenly, at the age of thirty-three, she wanted to grow up very fast indeed.

She finished wrapping her sweaters and placed them inside cardboard boxes. These boxes she placed on the top of her wardrobe, alongside her old family bible. It was a huge thing, its spine almost five inches thick—and old, the gilt edging of its pages faded, the heavy leather cover scuffed by more than a hundred years of use. Her grandmother's great-grandmother had bought it from the same shop in London that supplied churches throughout the south of England and it had been passed down to the eldest child of every generation as a wedding gift. The flyleaf bore the signatures of each of its five owners—the last was her dad's—and he had wanted nothing more than to be around when her own was added. “You married and I can die a happy man,” he'd told her. But she wasn't, and he hadn't.

So the bible had come to her by default. Bit like Jerry, through the death of his first wife. And through his roses. How she had tended those roses, talking to them—singing to them at times, when no one could hear—taking care to place them out of draughts, giving them half an aspirin to coax every hour of life out of them. One by one they had faded and drooped until only a single bloom was left, and this she had placed between two sheets of clean blotting paper at the center of the bible. The Song of Solomon, chapter two, verse eleven. “The rain is over, it is gone: The flowers appear on the earth; The time of singing is come.”

“So what did you do with my roses?” he demanded when next he had come round and spotted the empty vase.

“Threw them out. On account of their being too old,” she had retorted. “Just like I plan to do with you.”

“That's right, girl, but not before I've had me cuppa.” He was always dying for a cup of tea, was Jerry.

By the time she came down to the kitchen the tea was brewing on the stove and he'd begun to make himself toast, the bread impaled on a toasting fork that he was holding to the glowing coke. He was seated in her dad's old smoking chair, staring into the flame, bent over his work, listening to the radio. A bowl of dripping from the weekend joint stood on the table. She'd only known him four weeks yet already it had become something of a ritual. He would wipe a thick smear of the fatty dripping on his toast, then scoop out the sweet dark brown jelly from the bottom of the dripping bowl to place on top. She'd always hated dripping, loathed the stuff, but now there were three bowls of it sitting at the back of her larder.

Yet today the dripping was untouched. A spiral of smoke began winding upwards from the stove—the toast was burning, practically screaming—yet still he didn't react, staring blindly into the fire. Not until she had shouted in alarm did he jump from the chair and flip the charred bread into the sink.

“It's the only sort of toast fit for dripping,” she muttered as the flames hissed and subsided in a cloud of bitter smoke.

“Buggered that up a bit, didn't I?”

“I think you express it well.”

“I'll make up for it. Cook you dinner, maybe?”

“Great. I'll call the fire brigade.”

“Sorry. Got distracted by the wireless.”

Only then did she focus on the radio burbling in the background. The voice of a news correspondent, fading in and out over the static in the manner of someone who was reporting from a distant land, a country that had woken up to find it no longer existed. A story of tanks rattling down the cobbled streets of historic towns, being resisted with nothing more than snowballs. Of presidential palaces surrounded by troops in strange gray uniforms. Of tiny Czech flags sprouting from
the buttonholes of suits. Of arrests. Of a place called Wenceslas Square being washed with tears. Of Mr. Chamberlain expressing his regrets. Of the death of a dream.

“It's happening all over again, Sue. Just like last time.”

“But Mr. Chamberlain promised…”

“So did Hitler. Said all he wanted back was his Germans. But these aren't Germans, they're Czechs. And it'll be only the start.”

She greeted the news without any show of emotion. The dear departed had always reminded her that she was English. “Emotion's all very well,” he would tell her, “but first you have to make sure you can cope.” So she picked up the pot of tea from the stove and began pouring; it was thick, dark, stewed, it didn't matter. She handed him a cup and sat beside him in front of the fire. “Your tea's almost as bad as your toast.”

“You haven't tried my custard.”

“What can we do?”

“About my custard?”

“You know what I mean, Jerry. If there's a war, it won't be like the last one.”

“How's that?”

“The boys fighting over there, the rest of us back here—it won't be like that. Not with the bombers. We'll all be involved. We'll all have something to do.”

“Maybe.”

“So what will you do?”

“I was thinking—while I was making toast, you see—thinking that I might join the Territorials. Become a part-time soldier again. Seems to me that if there's going to be another soddin' war, this time I want to be ready, pardon my French.”

“You'll need your French, Jerry, if there's fighting to be done.”

“Would you mind? You know, me joining up?”

“Does my opinion matter?”

“Very much. You should know that by now, girl.”

“Then I don't mind, seeing as you ask. We'll all have a role to play in the next one, the women included. We'll have to do more than make the tea.”

“Why, what are you thinking of?”

“I'm thinking of quite a lot, actually.” She paused for a moment, lost in her own thoughts about war, and invasion, and how close she was here in Bournemouth to any likely landing ground. And about what might follow from that. “But first things first.”

“So what is to be first?”

“Onions, Jerry. I'm thinking I shall have to plant a lot more vegetables, and particularly onions. Just in case the French run out.”

In the early part of the year Churchill had been confined to bed by a severe bout of influenza. In the darkest corners of his mind, the parts that he hid even from Clemmie, he hoped at times it might even turn to pneumonia and carry him off, such was his sense of desolation. Yet he proved to be made of sterner stuff. He survived, and now, as jackboots fell upon the cobbles of Prague like a blacksmith's hammer upon steel, Churchill was given back his cutting edge.

He summoned his constituency officers to a meeting, instructing that they be lashed in if necessary—all except Thornton-Kemsley who was distracted hundreds of miles to the north. Never mind, he would hear of it soon enough. Now they sat before him, shifting uneasily, like impoverished relatives waiting for the reading of a will from which they suspected they had been entirely excluded.

Churchill chomped at his cigar, bit it so hard he all but killed it, then saw that the doors at the rear of the hall had been closed. It was time to begin. He rose to his feet, stared at them, said nothing, then glowered at them some more until their shuffling had entirely ceased and you could hear a dead man cry.

“There are people in this constituency, active, influential people, many of whom are in this room tonight, who have gone about complaining that I should have remained silent. That I should not have warned against the present dangers as I did. Mr. Chairman, there is an entire nation lying in desolation tonight, crushed beneath the heel of tyranny, the brave and once independent nation of Czechoslovakia, which wishes that the voices of an entire continent had been raised in
tumultuous warning.”

There was absolute silence. His eyes roamed about the room, searching their souls, and many of them could not hold his gaze.

“But what could we have done? About
a quarrel in a faraway country between people of whom we know nothing?
“ Oh, how they flinched at the cruel echo of Chamberlain's words. “We could have spoken out. We could have displayed determination. We could have shown the resolution for which this land, the land of Nelson and Drake and Marlborough, is justifiably famous. Instead—we turned our backs. And in doing that, we turned the British spine, which has run long and straight and true throughout the centuries of our history, into a whipping post for the amusement of dictators.”

“Hear, hear!” a woman's voice cried from the hall. They weren't all creatures of conspiracy. As he looked upon them, his shoulders hunched like a boxer waiting to deliver a blow, he found resolute faces scattered amongst the restless eyes. In his dark hours it was easy to convince himself that he was utterly alone, that he had been deserted by the entire world, but it was never true. He always found friends, and usually when he was most in need. He recalled that just a few short weeks ago, lying in his bed, praying that the Black Dog might drag him away from all his mortal misery, he had received a letter: “
Dear Mr. Churchill, I hear you are unwell and in low spirits. I could send you flowers, but already you live in such an extraordinarily beautiful
place. I could send you wishes for a speedy recovery, but they would only be added to the mounting pile on your secretary's desk. Instead I will remind you of something you once said—something I have read in the book you gave me…”

His audience was waiting, uncomfortable but expectant. “A young friend recently reminded me of something I had once said. Something about the British people, something which, I admit, I myself had almost forgotten. Here are his words:

“
You said, Mr. Churchill, that historians have noticed all down the centuries one peculiarity of the British people which has cost them dear. After a victory, we always contrive to throw away the greater part of the advantages we gained in the struggle. Our biggest challenges come not from without, you said. They come from within. And they don't come from the cottages and hearths of the wage-earners, they come instead from a peculiar type of brainy people always found in our country, and from the mood of ridiculous self-abasement into which we have been cast by a powerful section of our own intellectuals. They come from the acceptance of defeatist doctrines by a large proportion of our politicians who sit round their dinner tables throwing away freedom as though it were an unwanted scrap, who insist on a course of inaction and subordination towards Europe on the grounds that their fate is inevitable…

“But as my young friend reminded me—as he has continued to remind me from the first moment we met—nothing is inevitable. Inevitable—it is an ugly word with hideous consequence. To argue that something is inevitable is to argue for the end of democracy. It is to discard our freedom of choice. It is to close down all our processes of free thought and to cast aside those liberties that have made this country a beacon of justice and fair play.”

Their chins were coming up now. Like fish about to take the bait—no! Not like fish. Like Englishmen awaiting the call. But whether perch or patriot, it was still time to play them a little, confuse them with a change of mood.

“Some have argued that I should not be returned as the Member of Parliament for this constituency at the next election. Some of you in this room tonight. To those with whom I have had genuine disagreements, let me apologize…”

Even those eyes that were still filled with suspicion showed an interest. The Old Man apologizing? Never been heard of before, not in Epping nor any other part of England.

“I confess I have been an irritant. A thorn in your rumps. An obstinate and belligerent old man who has his own mind and the disagreeable habit of sharing it with you. But what is the use of Parliament if it is not the place where true statements can be brought before the people? What on earth is the use of sending Members to Parliament to say what they are told to say by the Government Whips and to cheer loudly every Ministerial platitude? What value can we place on our parliamentary institutions if constituencies return only tame, docile, and subservient members who try to stamp on every form of independent judgment? For that is precisely what some have suggested. But let us put all that behind us. Let us not dwell in the dark pits of disaster. Let us move forward, to face the challenges which lie ahead—to face them together—and, if we shall prevail, onward! To the broad sunlit uplands that lie beyond.”