This woman's body reminded him of his mother. In truth, every woman's body did. And when he removed his shirt and she noticed a scratch mark upon his back, and mentioned it, the obsessive memories came flooding back. She offered an ointment to help it heal, and something that might help the spots on his back, she said, but Bracken hadn't known—didn't want to know—that he had spots on his back! He felt humiliated. He had always been anxious about his personal cleanliness, something of a hypochondriac, which made visits to a whorehouse all the more stressful, and to be told that he had spots made him realize what a terrible mistake this had been, how all women deep down were the same, all wicked, unclean, just like his mother.
So he hit her—punched her, with his fist. On the side of the face, which would leave her with a swollen and blackened eye and which broke the vulgar and utterly charmless blue-stone earring that dangled across her cheek. It cut her cheek, badly, and the blood began to trickle between her fingers, but Bracken noticed none of this as he ran down the stairs and once again tried to flee from the memory of his mother.
February–March 1940.
Dickie had suggested tea, for which Ian had expected little more than crumpets. Instead he got Welsh rarebit washed down with the finest bottle of Yquem he had ever tasted. Someone was certainly taking this war seriously.
“Thought we should relax from the rigors,”
Dickie insisted. “Always glad to help out.”
“Damned war's proving to be something of a struggle.”
“Pity about the poor Finns.”
“Got to help 'em, old boy, just like Neville said. Thought his statement yesterday was masterful. Absolutely masterful. The PM at his most perspicacious. Had the House in the palm of his hands. What were his words? 'Proceed immediately to send the Finns all available resources at our disposal.' A leader, indeed.”
“You haven't heard, then.”
“Heard what?”
“As I was coming in. Unfortunate timing.”
“What is?”
“The Finns. Capitulated. Bent the knee. Done a deal with the Russians. Given them what they wanted.”
“Oh…” Dickie considered this for a moment then muttered an exceptionally rude word. Then he turned his attention to his rarebit, picking up what was left in his fingers and swallowing it in one jaw-grinding mouthful. “Still, got to look on the bright side,” he suggested through a cascade of crumbs.
“Bright side?”
“Well, all those troops and equipment we were planning to send. Would've been a fiasco if they'd just arrived there and the bloody Finns caved in. Think of it. First shooting match of the war and we're on the losing side? No, better we were never there at all.” He brushed away the crumbs that had settled on his stomach. “In fact, I'll bet you a shit to a chateau that's what Neville's been up to. On the quiet. Delaying. Making sure.”
“The Finns have been fighting for fifteen weeks, Dickie.”
“Precisely my point. And we managed to keep clear of the whole mess. I think we'll look back on this as a minor triumph.”
“So we offer all assistance short of actual help?”
“Live to fight another day. Take a leaf out of Winston's book. If at first you don't succeed, dig another hole. Been the motto of his entire career.”
“As we never cease to be reminded.”
“So you got that little letter, too, did you? Can't imagine who sent it—but the point's perfectly well taken. He's swapped parties more often than I've swapped wives. Loyalty's never been his game. Never truly been a Tory, has Winston.”
“He's delivered the best news of the war.”
“No, there is no good news in this war, Ian.” Dickie, his plate now empty, sat back with a disappointed air. “Nothing but torment and troubles everywhere I look.”
“Troubles, Dickie?”
“As if I didn't have enough on my shoulders. You going to finish that rarebit?”
“No appetite.”
“Excellent,” Dickie announced, picking up his colleague's left-over toast and devouring it before returning to his theme. “Yes—troubles,” he sighed.
“What's her name?”
“Myra. My sister-in-law.”
“Bloody hell, Dickie, your sister-in-law? You go too far!”
“No! Not like that, you fool. But…"—he shook his head distractedly—"seems she got herself into a bit of a pickle the other night. Well, one does, what with the stresses of war 'n' all.”
“Pickle?”
“Well, sugar, if you want to be entirely accurate. She's overwrought. Was driving back home, bit unsteadily, so the boys in blue pull her over. Pure working-class malice, you know, simply because she's in the Rolls.”
“Drunk?”
“More done-in and distracted. Nothing that a good silk couldn't fix.”
“So what's the problem?”
“They ask to inspect the car. Open the trunk. And find a load of sugar.”
“That's not a crime.”
“Actually it is. Turns out the silly cow had gone and bought nearly three years' worth of ration on the black market and was taking it back home.” He sighed dejectedly. “Three hundred yards from her bloody front door. Damned bad luck.”
Slowly Ian pushed his wine away. He had lost all his appetites.
“Local press'll go wild if they catch on she's one of mine,” Dickie rattled on. “Smuggling three years of cakes and puddings in the back of her Rolls-Royce. They'll make her sound like Marie-Antoinette without the sense of humor. She's up before the magistrates next week, and wants my help. Wants to know if there are any strings I can pull. Can't think what to do.”
“I can,” Ian offered quietly.
“Can you, old boy?”
“Tell her to go to hell.”
Somewhere on the Moors.
My Daring and Darling Sue,
Miss you. Bournemouth is so far away. Here everything seems endless—the moors, the weather, the training. The north wind doesn't stop and we still have great floods of snow. Do you? Temperatures below freezing at night but we get sent out on exercise all the same. We get back to our billet in the local village hall and the boiler's no better than Beelzebub. Now you know why I really want to marry you—just to keep warm!
Thought we were being trained for Finland, but that's now gone. So where? Never much fancied fighting Russians, too many of them. We're still training hard in the snow. The tracks on the moors are sheer ice and I slip all over the place on my BSA. Came off twice yesterday. Still, the bike's better than Shanks's pony which is all the others have got. At last we've got our radios to work—they were fitted with the wrong valves. Food indescribable, but local beer and natives friendly. We haven't drunk them out of house and home yet, but we're trying. All rather spartan.
Some of the wives have turned up in lodgings in the town, and the rest of us are pretty jealous. If only…But there's a sense of something about to happen. More weapons and equipment have been arriving, and yesterday we got a new 2nd Lieutenant who's an interpreter. Name of Petch—foreigner. Anyway, we plan to take him down to the town tonight and get him thoroughly drunk so we can find out where he comes from. Chances are, that's where we're going.
The Yorkies are tough, but that's good. If we ever get down to fighting anything other than boredom and chilblains, I want their sort around me. I think we'll be able to give a good account of ourselves, wherever it's going to be.
How are the changing rooms progressing? Miss you terribly. Hell—transport for the pub run's just arrived—must dash. I'll write when I can. Promise.
Love you always. Can't wait.
Jerry.
It was a soldier's letter from the more relaxed, uncensored times than would follow later. It was a letter she would cherish for the rest of her life.
The bathroom was filled with dense clouds of steam.
“That you, Burgess? Come in, come in!” Churchill lay back in the soapy water, a cigar clamped defiantly between his lips. “Don't mind me in m
y bath. So little time for anything nowadays, have to double up. Come, sit down on the guest chair.” Precariously, and somewhat diffidently, Burgess perched where he was instructed while Churchill continued to splash in the vast enamel tub of his Admiralty apartments. Moisture ran from the walls and the mirrors.
“Strange note you sent, asking to see me. Scribbled on the back of a cartoon. Why?”
“I'd written a couple of other notes suggesting we meet, sir. Hadn't got a reply. Thought perhaps there was a hiccup in the system—that maybe you didn't have the time. Can't loiter outside your door any more now that you've moved into the Admiralty so—thought I'd give it one last go. Try something a little more eye-catching than a letter.”
“Almost didn't see the damned note, I was laughing so much about the drawing. You're good, very good.” The cartoon had consisted of a destroyer named HMS Britannia which had been transformed into the unmistakable features of Churchill, cigar thrust forward like a blazing muzzle, straining to be unleashed upon the open seas while a sheet anchor consisting of several other members of the War Cabinet—and most notably the Prime Minister himself—was clinging to the rear, holding him back and threatening to capsize him from behind. On its reverse Burgess had scrawled a cryptic note—“May we meet?”
“You say you'd written before? Hadn't seen 'em.”
“A hiccup in the system,” Burgess repeated.
“Hah! Brendan, you mean. Handles a lot of my diary. Doesn't like you, I suspect.”
“The feeling may be mutual.”
“Not his fault. He feels very protective about me. Doesn't care for people who just wander off the street and into my parlor—or my bathroom. Sees you as something of a threat.”
“A threat?”
“To his position. He's rather proprietorial. Even Clemmie thinks so. Says he arrived with the furniture and never left. Tiresome at times, but he is totally loyal, serves no other master than me.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Think about it. Who else would have him?” Burgess had several thoughts on the matter, but shared none of them, while Churchill searched around the farther reaches of the bath for the soap.
“So, young man, you wanted a word. You seem to have a habit of wanting words with me at particularly confused and troubled times. Take care not to become an expert in such matters, otherwise Mr. Bracken will like you even less.”
“Confusion brings opportunity—eh, Mr. Churchill?”
“Yes, but confusion for whom?”
Burgess leant forward, his elbows on his knees, growing increasingly damp amidst the steam. He wasn't a great poker player, had trouble controlling his features, humor and contempt came too easily to him, and he was about to take a considerable gamble. He wanted to feel entirely comfortable, yet didn't. “As a journalist I have all sorts of contacts. Some unorthodox and some indiscreet. The nature of the job.”
“You still haven't answered my question. Confusion for whom?”
“For Mr. Chamberlain, I suspect, and his cause.”
“Which is my cause.”
“No it's not!"—said with too much emotion. “You contradict me?”
“He's a nut and bolt manufacturer to the roots of his soul. Doesn't understand men, only machines. Has no idea in which direction to march and is surrounded by those who don't want to march anywhere. Who'll buy peace at almost any price. His heart isn't in it, never has been.”
“Mere tittle-tattle.”
“We can never win the war with Mr. Chamberlain. And he's sick. That's what I've been told, on very good authority.” Well, on the authority of the folders he'd found in Mac's briefcase. “He's got a bad ulcer, perhaps worse.”
“The war is a strain on us all—”
“He's seventy-one tomorrow. An old man in a hurry.”
“Some might suggest that would also prove an excellent description of myself.”
“But he's a sick old man, can't sleep, can't eat. And he's facing the biggest threat this country has ever confronted. Cause for concern, I'd say.” Churchill lowered himself beneath the waters, like a hippo on a hot day. “You said you had this on good authority. Whose authority?” Burgess shook his head. “Journalistic sources, Mr. Churchill, you know I can't share them. But it doesn't matter where I got it from, what matters is whether it's true. You see Mr. Chamberlain practically every day, you can make your mind up for yourself.” Churchill brooded, playing distractedly with the soap. “Suppose it is true—what would you have me do with this information?”
“Use it. This country can't afford to have a sick man as Prime Minister.”
“I cannot use it.” Churchill shook his head heavily. “Why not?”
Churchill's blue eyes scolded the guest. “Precisely because he is the Prime Minister.”
“But you must!”
“Cause chaos and give Hitler the opportunity he's been waiting for? To catch us off our guard, destabilized and leaderless?”
“Which may be precisely what occurs if Chamberlain staggers on.”
“You would have me be the assassin in the Senate?”
“Certainly.”
“And then what?”
“You replace him.”
“And what example would that be, pray, for other assassins when it came to my turn? No, Burgess, Mr. Chamberlain has asked for my loyalty and I have given him my word.”
“You place value on promises? Even when his lackeys distribute poisonous letters about you? Undermine you at every turn? You know they're only waiting for the right moment, just like they did with Hore-Belisha.”
“Nevertheless!” Churchill held up his hand to stay the onslaught. His instincts were at war inside himself, loyalty charging full tilt against ambition, and he couldn't hope to resolve this in the bath. He needed time to consider what he had just heard.
“There's something else.”
“You ration your blows like a ship's master-at-arms.”
“Daladier, the French Prime Minister.”
“Our prime ally.”
“Practically your only ally.”
“You argue savagely.”
“I'll remind you these are savage times, sir. I have a friend, he's the chef de Cabinet.”
“Ah, the estimable Monsieur Pfeiffer.”
Burgess blanched; in the heat of the moment he'd given too much. “It's his belief that the Daladier Government will fall at any moment. He has failed to deliver, just as Chamberlain has, and his enemies are gathering. There could be chaos in France.”
“And perhaps renewal. A stronger leader in his place.”
“Which is what should happen here!” The logic was unimpeachable, but it was getting lost in the swirl of raw emotion.
“No, no, no!” Churchill sat in his bath, scraping the thin hair away from his eyes. “I will not have mutiny.”
“It's not mutiny, it's simply charting a different course. Or would you prefer to spend your time rearranging deck chairs?” Oh, dear God, he'd gone too far… “Bloody insolence!” Churchill stormed, but Burgess held his eye without flinching. This was a determined if hot-headed young man, just like Churchill himself had once been, and rather wished he were once more. Suddenly the fire waned. Churchill shook himself. “Be so kind as to bring me my towel,” he instructed Burgess.
Burgess did as he was told. There was an enormous parting of the waves, like some miracle at the Red Sea, and Churchill stood naked, very pink, a huge dripping Nautilus surrounded by steam and slopping water.
“Tell me, Burgess, are you a sheep-shagger?”
“What?” Burgess almost choked.
“You know what I mean—a Jennie Wren, a queer. Do you deal from the bottom of the deck? I don't care what you call it, but I require an answer.” Burgess stood mummified. It was some sort of test; what the hell was he to say? He decided on the truth, for no better reason than that it would at least be novel.
“Put it this way, Mr. Churchill, I wouldn't suggest you consider me material for an ideal son-in-law.”
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“You'll have to forgive the impertinence, Burgess,” Churchill continued, wrapping himself in the folds of the towel, “but I've heard of Monsieur Pfeiffer's proclivities and your sharing them would explain a lot about your connections. I have to make a judgment, you see.”
“About whether you like my type?”
“About whether I can trust you.”
“Whether you can trust a homosexual?”
“Good God, man, don't be an idiot, I went to Harrow. I merely want to ascertain whether I can trust your honesty—and your information. You are, after all, a man who deals in information. That makes you potentially dangerous.”
“You're beginning to sound like Bracken.”
“Ah, but there's the difference.” Churchill was now sliding into underwear of pure silk and splashing cologne generously over himself. All this he managed to do without once removing the cigar from his mouth. “I've learned in my life to value men of information—during my years in the wilderness, such men saved me more than once. But also to suspect them, for information is power and men of information are often manipulators. This town is crawling with such people.” He was looking directly at Burgess, frowning. “I need to make a judgment about you, about whether you are being honest with me.”
“And?”
“I suspect you may also have contacts with the intelligence services.” It was another test. Damn, this was a man who knew too much about—well, knowing too much. Burgess felt sick. He'd overplayed his hand.
“Informal contacts,” Burgess replied. It was about as close to the truth as ever he could get—and seemed sufficient to cover the larceny of an MI5 briefcase.