Winston's War

  “Sorry, sir. Cabinet's already started. Five minutes ago. No one's allowed in.”

  “Heavens, man, I'm Mr. Churchill's Parliamentary Private Secretary.”

  “I know full well who you are, Mr. Bracken. But you are not a member of the Cabinet and no matter how loud you shout at me and wave your arms about, I can't let you in.” The Downing Street doorman stood firm, doggedly obstructing their path down the corridor to the Cabinet Room.

  “I—we—have to get a message to Mr. Churchill,” Burgess interrupted, his tone deliberately more conciliatory but the effect disrupted by a split and freshly swelling lip. “The message is vital to what they are discussing. Surely you can—”

  “You'll forgive me, sir,” the doorman replied, looking askance at the disheveled and panting stranger with a rip in the leg of his trousers, “but I doubt that very much. I happen to know there's only one item on the agenda for this meeting, and that's by way of being a personal matter. Anyhow, I'm still not allowed to pass in papers.”

  “But that's…” Impossible. Disastrous. An end to it all. Burgess turned away in despair, only to be confronted by another exasperated figure shuffling across the threshold. It was Kingsley Wood.

  “Can't stop, can't stop, late for Cabinet,” he insisted as Bracken tried to wave him to a halt, but Burgess stood resolutely in his path and was clearly not intending to let him past.

  “You must, please, give this to Mr. Churchill,” Burgess insisted. From out of his bulging jacket pocket he produced a book.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “It's one of Mr. Churchill's own, some of his old speeches,” Burgess responded, flashing the cover. “It has words in here which he thought might be very important for your meeting. He left it behind, asked if we could fetch it for him…”

  “If ever you should need me, send me this book and I shall remember our conversation…”

  It had been intended merely to get Burgess past the porter's lodge at the club and to summon Churchill from his lunch table, yet now it might serve another purpose. Bewildered, Wood shook his head in impatience, offended at being asked to be bloody Winston's messenger boy. Yet, on an instant's reflection, it was perhaps a better fate than being Neville's sacrificial lamb. He grabbed the book and bustled towards the door.

  Chamberlain sits down in his chair—the only one around the Cabinet table with arms—and begins his meticulous preparations. Moves the silver inkwell that once was Gladstone's no more than half an inch, straightens the folder in front of him, runs the damp palms of his hands across the baize tablecloth. One last inspection of the room, one lingering glance. Everything is ready, even if he is not and could never be. He nods to the Cabinet Secretary standing by the door.

  They file in, subdued, none of the normal pleasantries, glancing at him, scurrying to find their seats. Winston is sitting second on his left—strict order of seniority should place him immediately by his side, but Chamberlain could never endure him so close and from the start has contrived some constitutional excuse to have at least one man's body between himself and the First Lord. One other seat is still empty—Kingsley Wood hasn't arrived, damn him, no doubt detained by the blasts of war coming from across the Channel. The others assemble in silence, waiting for Chamberlain's cue. On the mantel behind him, the clock strikes half past the hour.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for attending. My apologies if I have disturbed…”—he is going to say lunch, he knows that Winston has been at lunch, can see it in those watery eyes—“your duties. But it is my duties, those as Prime Minister, which I'm afraid this afternoon must come first.”

  Shuffles of discomfort around the table.

  He starts again, but suddenly the door bursts open and in rushes Kingsley Wood distributing apologies. “Your pardon, Prime Minister. I am so sorry. Unavoidable duties…

  ”Chamberlain nods in condescension and Wood takes his place. He is carrying something in his hand—a book—which he slides down the brown baize tablecloth to Churchill. The First Lord sits up sharply, as though woken from slumber, but says nothing.

  “Gentlemen!” Chamberlain once again calls them to order, irritated by the interruption. “As soon as this meeting of the Cabinet finishes, I shall be going to the Palace to tender my resignation to His Majesty the King.”

  Ritual murmurs of regret, but no surprise. They all know what's been going on. Churchill, meanwhile, has opened the book. Damn his eyes! What the hell does he think he's doing?

  “You all know that this is not what I would have wanted,” Chamberlain continues, “but events dictate that the present uncertainties about the future direction of Government must be brought to an end. My energies, my enthusiasm for the tasks of being His Majesty's First Minister remain undiminished…”—(or will be, after a little rest, a chance to deal with this damned ulcer that's been bothering me so)—“and I would like to think that my service to the country has not yet come to an end…”—(why, give you gentlemen a little time, a few months to mess things up without me, and I might yet be back sitting in this chair)—“But I have a responsibility to you, and through you, to the country at large. I have been Prime Minister for very nearly three years, and during that time we have been through many trials and tribulations. The responsibilities of this office are awesome, as you all know—”

  But Churchill is no longer listening. He cannot fathom why a book, one of his own, has been thrust at him during this Cabinet of all Cabinets, and he's not in the mood for mysteries. He tries not to be distracted by it, but he flips the cover and discovers the inscription he himself has written. To Burgess. Why, oh why, has he resurfaced here? Now? To what purpose? Damn him.

  Chamberlain is intoning that he cannot leave office without taking the opportunity to thank them all personally for what they have done for him. Some of those present imagine that his gratitude is a little ironic, almost spiteful. Churchill isn't one of those, for he is no longer listening. Tucked inside the pages of the book he has found two sheets of paper, folded down the middle. In the circumstances, they are irresistible.

  Chamberlain is talking about the one responsibility that still lies ahead of him, that of advising the King whom he should appoint as successor. A ripple of anticipation washes around the table, but the expression on the face of Halifax is set in stone, his head bowed, as though in expectation of laurels. Churchill reads on.

  “I have done my best,” Chamberlain is saying, “and my duty is to ensure that I pass on the mighty burdens of this office to someone who, I know, is more than capable and worthy of bearing them…”

  “Prime Minister!”

  A voice is raised; a collective breath of outrage is drawn. It is monstrous that Chamberlain should be interrupted during his valediction. They stare accusingly. It is Churchill.

  “It is an unpardonable offense, I know, to intervene at such a moment, but I fear that you might end this meeting in your characteristic humble and modest manner without allowing any of us to express what we all so fervently wish to express to you. Which is our thanks.”

  Churchill has stood up. No one stands up to speak at Cabinet, but Winston has always been outrageously theatrical and this is not, after all, like any other Cabinet meeting. If he insists on making a tribute—and who better?—let him be seen.

  And as he stands, he slips across the two sheets of paper towards Chamberlain.

  “I have had the honor of serving many Prime Ministers,” Churchill recalls, “both in war and during times of peace. Yet you, sir, have been unique, both in the breadth of your vision and the determination with which you have pursued your objectives. And your greatest objective, of course, has been peace.” He has prepared nothing, is speaking entirely off the cuff, but it's what is expected at such moments when assassins gather round the body to praise their victim's virtue.

  Chamberlain is reading. No one notices, all other eyes are on Churchill, who is extolling the integrity of their fallen leader. “Never has a nation gone into battle with such reluctance, ha
ving done so much to secure the peace, and having established in the eyes of the entire world its credentials as being blameless. Never has so much been owed by so many in our community of nations to just one man.” An awkward phrase, Churchill concludes, but one which might bear a little polishing.

  And now Chamberlain's eyes are up, levered from the paper like limpets from a rock. He knows.

  From the first sheet of paper he knows that a small British concern named Chiltern Investments has active shareholdings in foreign companies. These companies include several of the most significant German steel and arms manufacturers—Blohm und Voss, Daimler-Benz, Junkers, Krupp and Messerschmitt. Individually these holdings are not huge, but collectively they amount to a tempting portfolio. With grim irony, one of those companies in which Chiltern Investments figures as a shareholder is the Mauser Works at Oberndorf, the manufacturers of the rifles Churchill has attempted to acquire.

  The other page that has been taken from Burgess's book is of slightly thicker paper. It is a photo-stat. Of the Certificate of Incorporation of the company known as Chiltern Investments. Joint proprietors: H. Wilson and J. Ball.

  Who have become Chamberlain's hangmen.

  His eyes overflow with betrayal and memories of how Wilson and Ball argued so fiercely against the profits tax on British arms manufacturers. He had told them to find an alternative. Evidently they have.

  He feels numb, except for that part of his stomach where the pain cuts through him like a ragged sword. Only slowly does he begin to hear the words that come pouring forth from Churchill.

  “…those who have served with you know of your courage. They know of your dedication. Above all, they know of your sense of public duty, passed down from father to sons, which has long illuminated the great name of Chamberlain and which will continue to do so, so long as I have any part to play in matters.”

  What? What is he saying? My family's good name—in his hands?

  “A reputation is a fragile thing. In our modern and pitiless world, a reputation such as that of the Chamberlain family carries with it the envy of lesser men—men who always seem ready to cast stones and to bring the mighty low.”

  Is he praising me—or trying to intimidate me?

  “But you, Prime Minister, can leave office today, not only with our gratitude and—if I may use such terms—our love, but safe in the knowledge that your place in the annals of our country will be fixed this very day not only by your own merit but by the merits of those who you have carried with you on your great journey.”

  Now Chamberlain knows. To others it sounds no more than an outpouring of emotion perhaps bred and brought forth by a good lunch, but Chamberlain knows better. These are no idle words being used by Churchill. They are a warning, and a terrible threat.

  “I pray the indulgence of our colleagues a moment longer if I finish on an entirely personal note. No man's life is lived in isolation. It is carried out in the company of others…” That point again, so loudly beaten that no one but the meanest of fools could miss it.

  “Great Caesar travels with many troops and I, for one, give boundless thanks to be here with you today so that I may express the hope that what you have given to us will be repaid a hundred-fold, and to ensure that the tributes which will be raised to you will do nothing but honor to the great name of Chamberlain.”

  To most of those present in the room it seems a rhetorical gesture almost too far, yet eulogies are built not on morsels of emotion but on vast buckets of the stuff, and if the room is awash with it, then no one will complain. As Churchill resumes his seat they beat their hands upon the table in approbation until their palms begin to sting. Yet to Chamberlain, the noise sounds like the beating of drums on his path to his place of execution.

  “Is there nothing to be done, Mr. Chamberlain?” the King demanded in his clipped tones, clearly vexed.

  “I'm afraid not, sir.”

  “I was rather hoping…”

  “Edward. Yes, a fine man. But not a man for this war. It is a wretched and terrible conflict which I fear will cover Europe in much blood. It needs to be fought by a man who understands such things.”

  “I take your point.”

  “So does Edward.” The King rose, there was no point in prolonging the audience. Chamberlain gazed out through the long windows at the palace forecourt and railings beyond, where only twenty months before a crowd of tens of thousands had stretched as far as the eye could see in order to acclaim him as their savior. Now there was no one, nothing but sandbags and khaki.

  “I think you have been most cruelly treated by those around you,” the King concluded.

  “Perhaps,” Chamberlain acknowledged. “But it seems that it is by the merits of those around a man that, in the end, he is judged.”

  The telephone rang. It was the King's private secretary. Churchill was instructed to be at the palace at six. Not until the moment he replaced the telephone was he certain that he had won.

  Clemmie had returned earlier that day from the deathbed of her brother-in-law and was there to wave him off. The drive from the Admiralty to Buckingham Palace would take no more than two minutes and Churchill, too, noted that there were no crowds. There was, however, considerable resentment in many corners of Whitehall. Later he would hear that in the Foreign Office they had broken out champagne to toast not the new Prime Minister but the old. The King across the water, as they dubbed Chamberlain.

  But Churchill did not worry about such things. Indeed, he felt nothing but relief. The crisis which now lay before him—before them all—was the challenge for which he had thirsted all his adult life and which would sweep aside the petty posturings. He was walking with destiny, and others would follow as they might.

  His detective, Inspector Thompson, held the car for a few moments. “Want to make sure Mr. Chamberlain has got away, sir. Wouldn't be proper to pass him, you on your way in before he's even properly out.”

  “No. These things must be done properly, Thompson.” Churchill sat silently in the back of the car, waiting, thinking of Chamberlain. The man who had fought so hard, with such intensity and passion, yet who had finally been felled. As they were mostly all felled, these Prime Ministers, hacked, stabbed, scratched, kicked, dragged from office. As he, too, in all probability would be. The only question was its timing.

  Tears brimmed in his eye. He would never know another moment like this, not unless somehow he could conjure victory out of the tragedy that was taking place beyond the Channel and would soon sweep across it. A moment to relish, to stir around the palette and splash upon life's extraordinary canvas, even if at its end it meant he was to be put up against a wall and shot. At least he would have something to tell his father, when they next met.

  It was time. Thompson was climbing into the car beside him.

  “Just like to offer my congratulations, sir,” the inspector said as the car began moving off across the gravel of Horse Guards Parade.

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “You've deserved it.”

  “No, Thompson, I fear I have not. But I hope by the time this awful ordeal has been met, that I shall have deserved it.”

  Ball was not a fool. His time was at an end, but he might still decide the manner of his going. He knew that if the file he had left in Downing Street marked for the attention of the Prime Minister came into Churchill's hands, the manner of his departure would be as violent as the old man could devise. Better to go quietly and in one piece.

  It had not been a day for processing paperwork in Downing Street. The file remained unopened. Before Churchill had returned from the palace, Ball had ensured that it was removed and destroyed: No one would know he had been prying into the new Prime Minister's private diaries.

  The Secret Intelligence Service faced a similar dilemma. After all, there was no absolute proof that Churchill's money had come from Moscow, and even if it had, it wasn't necessarily illegal. And digging around in his bank account was scarcely going to be the best way to im
press an incoming Prime Minister, particularly one with a notoriously sharp temper. So the file with the yellow flag disappeared, too.

  Only the file concerning the personal medical records of Neville Chamberlain remained on Wilson's desk. Eventually it found its way, as instructed, to the Prime Minister. Churchill read it several nights later as he was catching up on paperwork. So, the news that Burgess had brought to him about Chamberlain's medical condition had found its way to Moscow…

  “Brendan, what do you really think of Burgess?”

  Bracken turned from pouring drinks.

  “Strange man. Not as bad as I first thought, perhaps. But there's something about him which makes me—uncertain. Arm's length, I think. And a very long arm at that.”

  “I agree,” said the old man, initialing the note and tossing it back onto the pile.

  Mac limped up to the front door in Chigwell. He was carrying a small bunch of flowers.

  Carol showed only a moment of surprise. “Hello, stranger. What you doing here?”

  “Mr. Burgess sent me.”

  Her face scarcely fell. “What does he want? Can't give him any more papers, I can't. Don't do cleaning any more.”

  “No, I don't mean it like that. It's…well, he was in my chair yesterday and we were talking. He was very upset about things.”

  It was raining very gently, forming a sheen of dew on his hair, but she made no move to invite him in.

  “He was crying. Real tears. So I asked him why he cared so much about everything. He said he doesn't care about everything, that the only thing he loved was his country. He has no family, you see, says he never will, and he misses that. So his country is all he has.”

  “Sounds a nice man, that Mr. Burgess. Compassionate. I'd like to have met him.”

  “It's just…I don't have a country, not like Mr. Burgess has. It got me to thinking what I do care about—or have ever cared about. And there's only ever been one thing. You. That's why I got so upset to think of you with the other men. Because I have changed, I can truly care about something at last—your fault, that. So…”