Winston's War

  “As I said, any fool…” Chamberlain hissed.

  “He's also pushing very hard for conscription. Whispering it in every ear, twisting every arm he can lay his hands on.”

  “Then warn them to count their change!” Chamberlain barked, and the collar stud flew away once more, diving under the wardrobe. It was Ball's turn to fall on his hands and chubby knees to retrieve it, accompanied by a series of grunts and wheezes which suggested it had been a long time since he'd bent any lower than an armchair. He handed the stud over once more, and sat down on the end of the bed to recover.

  “Won't be easy to rebuff him, Neville. He's even been heard muttering about resignation.”

  “Then perhaps the time has come to let him go wander amongst the tribes,” Chamberlain snorted in disdain. Up close, Wilson noticed how spent his eyes were, how fiercely he seemed to have to struggle in order to pry the lids apart. They were red, raw.

  “No, Neville, not now,” Wilson responded, his tone soothing but his manner determined. “Not a time to go making martyrs, not when they're all still so giddy after the Czech nonsense. Leslie has friends.”

  “So what am I supposed to do—give in? I'm surprised at you, Horace.”

  “Conscription is something we'll have to consider, Neville, like it or not. Perhaps this is one matter on which we should let Leslie have his head.”

  “And have him doing his little jig through every watering hole in Westminster claiming he's running the Government? Never—never that!”

  “You said yourself that standing still is no longer an option, not with every border post in central Europe having its door kicked in.”

  Ball watched from a safe distance, not prepared to get between them. He'd seen it all before, the Prime Minister and Wilson, his alter ego, knocking around the strengths of a policy or the flaws of a personality. And when they had settled the matter, together, in agreement, as they always did, he was never quite sure who had won. But as Wilson had told him once, “It doesn't matter who's won—only that Neville thinks he's won.”

  And so it was. “Very well, Horace. Time to take charge. If Leslie wants to dance, then we shall set the tune. If we must have conscription—”

  “I think we do.”

  “Then let it be done our way.”

  “What way is that?”

  Chamberlain turned on him, his expression mocking, the collar still dangling loose. “I would have thought better of you, Horace. Didn't you know I've always thought conscription might be necessary? I'll announce it to the Cabinet next week. Explain that the reason I've held my hand on the matter so long is…”—he glanced around the room as though in search of a lost sock—“why, because of my concern for the sensitivities of the trade unions.”

  “Trade unions?” Wilson repeated slowly, unable to hide his disbelief. From the end of the bed, Ball clapped his hands in appreciation.

  “Precisely. I want it all on the official record. Cabinet minutes. It's got to be clear. I want you to make sure there's no confusion—no suggestion we've been forced into backtracking. Call in Dawson and the others. Give them a briefing. Why, with any luck Attlee and those idiots in the Labour Party will oppose the whole damned thing and we can blame any confusion upon them.”

  “But what do we announce, Neville? What is this plan of ours?”

  “Good grief, Horace, what do I pay you for? You must have something locked away in your bottom drawer. Get it out. Dust it down. Just make sure it doesn't sound like Leslie's.”

  Wilson was still crouching beneath the prime-ministerial chin, his fingers aching from his exertions. It shouldn't have been such a struggle. Chamberlain had lost weight recently, everything seemed to hang on him a little loosely, even his politics. But at last the collar stud was pressed home and order restored.

  “We need something big, Neville,” Ball was saying, picking up the embroidered tail coat that was laid out beside him and preparing to slip it around Chamberlain's shoulders. “A grand idea that'll really grab them by their balls. We're under pressure.”

  “I think Joe's right,” Wilson added. “Hitler didn't just march into Prague, he stamped all over your parliamentary majority.”

  Chamberlain stood to attention in front of the mirror, examining every detail.

  “I've spent sleepless nights thinking the same thing. Something to restore our fortunes. Some dramatic gesture that will put the Czech nonsense behind us. Something that will make even Herr Hitler sit up and take notice. I resent what he did, you know, more bitterly than I can express. He gave me his word, said he had no more territorial claims in Europe. He promised me—promised me—that he had no further interest in Czechoslovakia. Then he made a fool of me. Can't let him get away with that again.” He was still staring into the mirror, picking off a stray golden thread and straightening his medals. At last he seemed satisfied. “You're right. Something dramatic. Demonstrate that he can go no further. Draw a line.”

  “Draw a line, Neville—but where?” Wilson inquired, still straightening his aching back.

  “Poland. That's what we're going to do. We're going to guarantee Poland.”

  Spring was revealing its usual feelings towards the grime-smeared and soul-scratched city of London. It was raining. Not a downpour, more a brisk shower, which Burgess relished. He stood for a while, counting the droplets as they landed on his thick hair and trickled down his face. It had been a long time since he felt so refreshed, almost clean. He loved water—he could swim like a fish as well as drink like one—yet it had been months since he'd found time to visit a pool—well, in truth, since the afternoon the caretaker at the Hackney Metropolitan had taken an active dislike to the amount of time he was spending in the changing rooms and had threatened to call the police. Ridiculous thing was, Burgess hadn't been taking liberties, only an after-lunch nap. It was warm, womb-like in there, a place to curl up and indulge in the make-believe that the world which waited to pounce on him at any moment had simply gone away. He had fantasies at times about the womb, and his mother, and his long-dead father, and the replacement husband who lay between his mother's legs—a place which was his space, the first place in this world he had ever known and which had now been taken from him. From the day he had passed puberty he had wondered what it would be like to have sex with his mother. He'd once told his housemaster at Eton, old F.W. Dobbs, about these thoughts, blurted them out over tea and buttered crumpets on a Sunday afternoon. They would pass, came the kindly reply. But they hadn't. He knew it was all a little twisted, but no more twisted than supposedly normal men blowing the entire fucking world apart.

  His digressions made him late. He was always late, Mac had got to know that, and the barber was a patient man. He had still only taken an inch off the top of his beer by the time Burgess rushed in, a good forty minutes after he had promised. He sat there dripping, gently steaming, as Mac began his tale about his most recent summons.

  “So they tell me to go to the rear entrance.”

  “Not the front?”

  “No, I said the rear. You think I can't tell the difference? I get my things together, walk down through Green Park and St. James's, and half an hour later I'm being taken up to his office.”

  “Whose office exactly?”

  “Halifax's.”

  “Lord Halifax?” Burgess responded, startled. “You're sure?”

  “'Course I'm sure. How many people do you know about a foot taller than yourself and with only one arm? And I wish you'd stop interrupting me. You want me to feel as though I'm back in bloody Russia?”

  “Sorry, Mac.” Burgess took a mouthful of whiskey and tried to swill it around for as long as he could, drowning his sudden impatience. Mac hadn't made it clear on the phone why he'd wanted to meet—couldn't have, of course, he'd been told to say nothing on the phone. But a house call on Halifax?

  “So I'm up in his office—huge place, like a palace, all sorts of chairs and bookcases right to the ceiling and marble busts and a table around which you could sit about t
wenty. There was a massive desk, too, beautifully carved, it was, with a grand leather top, the biggest I've ever seen. Very nice. Lots of papers, but all arranged in neat piles.”

  Burgess forgot about his vow of patience and tried to talk with his mouth still full of whiskey. Mac waited for him to finish coughing.

  “By the window there's a simple wooden chair, with newspaper spread all around to protect the carpet. Then in he comes, surrounded by lackeys, and it's all Your Lordship this and Your Mightiness that and Can I Bring You Tea or Kiss Your Rear End, My Lord. Don't they realize he whistles and farts the same as anyone? And he'd bleed the same as anyone, too, with a knife in his gut. Saw that in the camps. Blood isn't blue, it's red, even in the snow, same as everyone's. Anyway, he doesn't say anything above 'good-day' at first, sits down in the chair with a handful of papers, but soon he realizes he's getting them all covered in hair, so he throws them to one side and starts to relax.”

  “Did you see what the papers were about?”

  “Only the top one. It was titled 'Danzig.'”

  Burgess swallowed. Mac could see his throat bobbing up and down like a courting pigeon. “I don't suppose you managed…? No, 'course not. Pity, though…Danzig, you're sure? God's bollocks…”

  The curse brought a snort of abuse from behind his shoulder. “Shame! Shame on you, sir!” came a female voice. Burgess turned, startled, to find himself staring into the reproachful eyes of a woman in the uniform and claret-and-blue bonnet of the Salvation Army. She was carrying an armful of newspapers. The War Cry. “For he that profaneth in a public place shall surely feel the lash of the Lord,” she intoned ominously.

  “Leviticus?” he asked tentatively. “No, Beryl.” She dropped a copy of the newspaper down on the table in front of him. “That'll be at least a shilling.”

  Burgess smiled in defeat and gave her two. In return she offered a muttered “God bless” before turning on her way in search of other sinners.

  “Didn't realize you were religious, Mr. Burgess.”

  “I'm not. Just trying to keep my options open.”

  “Expensive business, options,” Mac murmured as he noticed that the copy of the War Cry Beryl had left behind was priced only a penny. But Burgess never seemed to be short of any amount of change.

  “You were telling me, Mac…”

  “Yes, Lord H. So he starts relaxing and talking to me. Like they all do. Asks me if I think war is likely. Me, as if he cares an onion about my opinion. I say it depends, but I could see he wasn't listening, just letting off a little steam. So even before I've finished he starts talking about Czechoslovakia, and what a dreadful pity it all was. Then says it mustn't happen again and that it's time to get Hitler to sit up and take a little notice. So they're going to offer a guarantee to Poland.”

  “I'm sorry to interrupt, Mac, truly I am, but please, please try to remember exactly what he said.”

  “He said they were going to offer a guarantee to Poland. Even asked me if I knew where Poland was.” Mac began muttering into his beer, and Burgess took the opportunity to order two more large Irish whiskeys, which he lined up in front of him like coal barges on the Thames.

  “So I said my mother had told me it was out Russia way, and he says—exactly. Stuck between Germany and Russia. And we're going to guarantee its independence. So I ask him what that means. Does it mean that if Germany wants part of Poland, we have to go to war?”

  The first of the refreshed drinks had already disappeared. Burgess was chewing his thumbnail, had jammed it right into his mouth like a baby in a desperate attempt to persuade himself not to interrupt and get in the way of Mac's story.

  “So he says”—Mac reached for his beer and took a long, slow draught. He was playing with Burgess, they both knew it, not unkindly, but teasing, reminding Burgess that their relationship had changed over the months and he was now in charge—“he says, not necessarily. That depends. So I tell him I don't understand. So he says it's a guarantee of Polish independence, but not necessarily Polish frontiers. They might be moved, by agreement, and that would be all right. He said it was the principle of the thing that mattered.”

  “Principle! What bloody principle?” Burgess spat, unable to contain himself any longer. “It's not any sort of guarantee if it's not a guarantee of the borders. They'll wriggle out of it again, just like they did with the Czechs. This lot'll have to be dragged by their balls behind a whole division of panzers before they think it's time to go to war.”

  “You want to go to war, Mr. Burgess?”

  “No, Mac, I don't. But I think Hitler will insist.”

  “I think so, too.” He noticed that Burgess had bitten his thumbnail down so deep into the quick that it was actually bleeding, and back in his mouth. “But Herr Halifax has got a different view. He said he didn't want to go to war—not that he could anyway, not with only one arm—and that he thought the guarantee of Poland might do the trick. Those were his exact words, that it might do the trick. Like a music-hall act. Then the door opened, another stuffed dummy came in, looked important, Halifax called him Rab—”

  “Rab Butler, the Number Two in the Foreign Office. The biggest appeaser of them all.”

  “So this chap says he wants to talk about the guarantee, says he's got his doubts about it, and that if it goes ahead, then it's got to be made more palatable—is that the right word?—to Herr Hitler.”

  “By God, you've got a memory.”

  “When you spend years in the camps with nothing to read apart from samizdat—and that only comes a page at a time, perhaps weeks apart—you try to remember every little bit.”

  “I'm sure you do.”

  “Anyway, I go on trimming, trying to make his haircut last as long as I can without leaving His Nibs completely bald, creeping around on the newspaper so as not to make a noise and remind them I was there—while he says to this Rab fellow that he's determined to make sure the guarantee does its job and delivers peace. He says he feels sure Hitler will understand. Then he said something else. You know me, Mr. Burgess, I'm a mild man, but what he said made me want to reach for my razor.”

  Burgess put down his glass. It was still half full. Mac had never seen him put down a glass that wasn't empty.

  “He says to this other chap, Butler, that his work wouldn't be complete until our differences with Germany were settled and he had seen the Führer driving down the Mall at the side of the King…”

  “Mother Mary,” Burgess whispered.

  “Went on to say that Hitler's birthday was coming up in a couple of weeks, and would Reichslieutenant Butler make sure that a suitable message of congratulation was prepared for the King to send.”

  There was a long and strained silence. Burgess desperately wanted more.

  “And that's it. I suggested I come back in three or four weeks and keep it tidy, then they kick me out into the typists' room while they get on with it.”

  “Did you get a look at the papers on his desk, by any chance?”

  Mac shook his head.

  “Bugger.”

  “Could be worse, Mr. Burgess. The typists were all on their lunch break, the room was empty, bit messy to tell the truth. So I thought I might do a bit of tidying-up.”

  He lifted his barber's case onto his lap and opened it. It was like a leather briefcase lined with pockets which on one side held razors and scissors and combs, while the other side held miniature bottles of lotions that gave off a sweet, perfumed smell. Mac loosened the fastenings that held the lining in place, lowering it just a fraction, allowing Burgess to see. Behind the lining the case was stuffed with thin sheets of paper, carbon copies mostly, the contents of a wastepaper basket, the castoffs from another busy morning of toil inside Halifax's Foreign Office.

  Everyone had an opinion of the Polish guarantee including, of course, Joe Kennedy. Problem was, he was insisting on letting everyone within earshot know about it, and by the time Brendan Bracken arrived at the Ambassador's residence to pick up Anna, Kennedy was well past the
halfway mark on a bottle of Tennessee mash. He encouraged Bracken to share the other half in his book-lined den while they waited for Anna.

  “So tell me, Bracken,” the Ambassador said, handing him a large crystal tumbler and settling himself back into an overstuffed armchair, “what the fuck do you Brits think you're doing? Guaranteeing Poland? Like trying to guarantee sun in one of your god-awful summers.” “I have to admit that Winston and I aren't overwhelming supporters of the Polish guarantee, but since Czechoslovakia turned turtle we decided that Poland was better than nothing.” Kennedy noted the “we,” the reliance on Churchill's name. That had always been his question about Bracken, whether the man could ever stand up on his own to be counted—although, in truth, Kennedy had a hundred other questions about this odd, flame-haired fantasist.

  “But Poland's even farther away than fucking Czechoslovakia. Czechoslovakia had its fortified borders and the best damned arms factories in Europe—till you gave them all away. But the Poles've got nothing except a few rusting cavalry sabers and their drinking songs.”

  “It's a dam against further German expansion.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and Chamberlain gave me the same bullshit about it being a line in the sand. But dams burst. And lines in the sand get blown clean away. Then what are you gonna do?”

  “We may have to fight.”

  “Fight? With what? And against who?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You've guaranteed Poland, old son. Know where that is? Stuck between Germany and Russia. Halfway between Hell and a hard place. Like guaranteeing a chicken in the jaws of an alligator. You're gonna end up fighting the entire fucking world on your own for a bunch of Polacks who can't even piss straight.”

  “But America has warned—”

  “Hey, let's all stand up and salute,” Kennedy mocked.

  “Democracies standing together.”

  “Like hookers on a street corner. Look, America has warned about nothing—it's Mr. Franklin Duckhead Roosevelt who's been throwing all the words about. And it's because America is a democracy that you can bet your last buck we Americans ain't gonna get tangled in another European war. We're done with bringing home coffins. Roosevelt can rattle away all he wants, but there's a presidential election next year. We don't want war, and we're not about to elect a President who wants war, mark my words.” Kennedy rolled his glass between the palms of his hands, gazing at it as though it were a window on all the secrets of tomorrow. “White House policy's nothing but one grand, over-hyped Jewish production nowadays. And if dear old Franklin insists, well, we might just have to dump him. Replace him with someone more in tune with the mood of the people.”